Notes: This story contains mentions or scenes that might be upsetting or triggering to some readers. There will be heavily implied sexual assault, scenes of psychological and emotional torture, starvation, child abuse, suicide, violence, blood and gore. If any of these things are topics you find disturbing or triggering, please consider not reading.

Please remember that you are responsible for the content you consume online. This site does not have a comprehensive tagging system so I've done my best to warn you ahead of time. If you choose to read anyway and are upset by certain plot points, I don't want to hear about it. I don't mean to be insensitive, but I've received some very angry reviews and messages for this story in particular from people in spite of the warnings. So please use caution. If it's not for you, do yourself a favor and move on instead of subjecting yourself to something that could potentially upset you.

Parts of this story come from a very personal place. I'm not going to say what parts, only that writing it was both exhausting and cathartic. Of all the things I've written, this is one of my favorites and the one I'm most proud of.

ONE

A sliver of orange phosphorescence bled beneath the crack under the door of his cell, the only illumination in the windowless space. The tang of frost hung sharp and heavy in the air. They provided him water but nothing else. No food. No protection from the cold but the clothes on his back. All he had were his fraying wits and his will to stay alive.

Times had changed. He was not the nihilistic young man who did not care if he lived or died. He had reasons to stay alive. Good ones.

His boots were wherever his jacket had gone. Without that barrier between his skin and the chill, he would succumb to the elements sooner rather than later. His thin, blood-stained t-shirt and battered, torn cargo pants did nothing to warm his flesh nor his bones. He couldn't feel his toes. His hands flexed sluggishly and his fingertips were numb. Violent shivers passed through his body as it struggled in vain to stay warm.

He would die here in this cell. Soon, if no one came to provide him with a meal and a blanket and a handful of potions to heal his extensive injuries. The cold would creep up on him, chill him to the bone and drain the life out of him. If not the cold, then starvation. He estimated it had been at least three days since he'd last eaten, but maybe longer.

Both were lousy ways to go. Between the two, he preferred cold to starvation. The cold sapped his energy, but hunger was worse. Hunger was already becoming an excruciating, gnawing ache in his gut. The thought of food made him want to scream, plead, beg for something, just the smallest morsel to stave off the misery.

Screaming wouldn't help. No one could hear him down in this hell anyway, and he had no strength to give volume to his protests. As desperate as he was for food and warmth, asking them for anything meant giving in.

Giving in to what, he didn't know. He didn't know what they wanted with him. Even if he had answers, he couldn't give them.

Maybe, he would die of infection. The wound on his leg was inflamed and starting to smell. When he moved it the wrong way, it would split open and bleed anew and soak through his foul, blood-stained cargo pants. If it went unhealed for much longer, it would fester and he would begin to burn from the inside out.

A t least if fever took him, he wouldn't be cold.

It was frustrating to be left without the tools he needed to survive. Out in the open, out there in the frigid mountains of Trabia, he could find a means to survive the punishing cold. He could have found shelter and insulation, built a fire for warmth, hunted something to eat. He knew of a hundred different ways to survive the harsh conditions in the wild. Out there, he had a chance. Here in this cell, he had nothing but a half-frozen jug of water.

Up in the corner, a large, spindly-legged spider wove an intricate web. The damn thing was lucky. There was no shortage of sustenance. It didn't feel the cold. All it had to do was wait and its meal would eventually find itself hapless and tangled in the silken strands of the spider's trap. He envied the spider, but he swore, if it came near him, he would eat the fucking thing.

So, like the spider, he waited. Waited for someone to come. Waited for death. Waited for something to happen.

Every so often, he took a sip from the plastic jug of water, when the pain of hunger became too sharp. Sometimes, he slept to pass away the hours until something happened, but he'd been abandoned. He'd been taken hostage and forgotten. Left here to die slowly.

He didn't know how long he'd been there. Days for sure, but how many? He slept fitfully, but he was also unsure of whether it was only for minutes or hours upon end. There was no daylight and no clock for reference. Just the silence and the spider in the corner and his own thoughts of death and escape and the wife and daughter waiting for him at home. Did they miss him? Was she worried?

He thought about tearing apart the water jug once it was empty, to use as a means of ending this torment. There was no guarantee the plastic would be sharp enough, and the idea of sawing through skin and connective tissue seemed more painful and more trouble than it was worth.

But he wanted to go on his own terms. Not from the cold or starvation or infection. He would go down fighting. A blade in his hand. Swinging until his heart stopped beating. No other death would suffice. Not for him.

Hostage.

That was a word no wife ever wanted to hear. Not the wife of a sailor and not the wife of a SeeD. There was something so terrifying about it, maybe even more terrifying than dead because at least death was final.

"Squall has been taken hostage," Quistis said.

Across from her, Cid was speaking but not a word of it reached her ears. She stopped listening the second Quistis said he was missing in action, a possible prisoner of war.

Rinoa had always known this was something she might someday have to face, especially in the early days when Squall was gone six months of the year on missions, but as time went by, those missions were fewer and fewer until the fear all but died. For more than a year, the only missions Squall participated in were those of a diplomatic nature and to oversee the occasional field exam. He was home most nights by six and off almost every weekend.

This was supposed to be a short, two day training exercise in Trabia. That was it. There was no threat, no real risk and nothing to worry about.

Rinoa hadn't worried. She hadn't even thought about it. Not until she looked at the clock and realized Squall was late. It was just an hour, but he normally called when he was running a few minutes behind.

Only an hour, but that hour that turned into two and then four and then a whole day while she waited for word that didn't come.

They'd been delayed. That was all they would say and now they were telling her Squall was a POW.

What war? She didn't understand. There was no war.

Galbadia still had its issues, and Esthar too, but this was a time of peace as far as she knew.

Then again, she wasn't allowed to know what was going on at Garden unless it affected her directly. That angered her in the beginning, but she made her peace with it a long time ago. Not knowing still kept her up at night, but she no longer felt left out. Until now.

Her whole body trembled at the thought of her husband held captive. Her mind went to the darkest places, imagining torture and pain and mistreatment at the hands of his captors. People hurting him. Making him scream. She squeezed her eyes shut at the thought of what they might do. What they could do.

What Seifer had done to him once upon a time.

Squall fought his way out of D-District like a champ. He'd been put through hell and never uttered a word of complaint. He'd been an exhausted, nauseous, half broken mess afterwards, but he fought through it with shaking limbs and a cold sweat on his brow without so much as a whimper.

Afterwards, once they were safe, he vomited twice and then passed out in the back seat of the vehicle with his head in her lap. But he survived. He lived through it.

Cid was being coy with the details. He talked around the subject and repeated himself. Rinoa wanted answers and nothing Cid was saying gave her those answers.

"Who? Who has him?"

"We don't know," Cid said.

"You don't know? How can you not know?"

Her voice sounded hysterical to her own ears. They all looked at her with pity, like they knew Squall was already a lost cause and she hadn't caught onto that fact. A steady beat began in her ears and her eyes burned with angry tears.

"No one has made any demands for ransom," Quistis said . "No one has claimed responsibility. We won't know until they speak up."

"Yeah, all's they sent was that video," Zell said. " Like, they beat the crap out of him, Rin. It was pretty hard to watch."

"Zell!" Quistis cried. "I told you not to say anything."

Zell shrugged one shoulder and glared at Quistis.

"I didn't agree to keep quiet about it."

"That's insubordination, Zell."

"Think I care?" Zell asked. His cheeks burned hot pink. "Y'all sent us on a suicide mission. At this point, I don't give a chocobo's ass if you fire me or not. The rest of us were lucky to make it back alive."

A freshly healed scar sliced across Zell's forehead, from hairline to temple. Something had cut him deep, leaving behind a permanent reminder of whatever it was they'd endured.

It must have been bad. Zell had a temper, but it was seldom directed at his friends unless they truly deserved it. For him to lose his temper with Quistis said a lot more than anything else.

"I want to see it," Rinoa said. "I want to see it right now."

"That's not a good idea, Rinoa," Quistis said.

"I don't care. I want to see it."

"Rinoa, it's not in your best interest -"

"You don't get to decide what's in my best interest," Rinoa said. "I can handle it and I need to see it."

Zell slid down down the couch to Rinoa's side. The polished leather squeaked against the fabric of his jeans. His hand was warm and welcome in hers.

Quistis loaded a disk into the player and switched on the screen. Rinoa shivered and held Zell's hand tight. She didn't want to see it. Not really, but she needed to. Being left in the dark to imagine the worst was probably worse than not seeing it with her own two eyes.

"Before you watch this," Zell said, "just remember Squall's tough. He can take it."

Rinoa looked at her friend carefully. Zell's eyes misted over and the emotion in his voice tugged at her heart. It was worse than she imagined. She could tell that much just by looking at him.

"But you're tough, too," Zell said and squeezed her hand. "You can handle it."

She wanted to say thanks, but could only give him a weak smile in return.

A grainy and out of focus image filled the screen. All she could make out was a slumped figure on their knees, arms strung up toward the ceiling by chains.

Her heart beat faster and the throb of suppressed magic heated her blood. She didn't need to see his face to know it was him.

The focus sharpened and the captive was bathed in the glow of a flashlight beam. His swollen eyes squeezed shut and he flinched like he'd been struck. His bare arms were dirty and covered in bruises, his filthy white shirt spattered with brown and rust. Blood flowed freely from one nostril, down over his lips, and dripped from his chin.

Rinoa covered her mouth to suppress a cry. He could barely hold his head up.

"...I'm not telling you shit."

His voice was weak and unsteady. His lower lip and jaw trembled.

"Tell us where she is and this will all be over."

"...she can't help you."

"Where is she?"

"Go fuck yourself."

Flickers of electricity raced down the chains and into Squall's arms. He shook violently and uncontrollably, his eyes rolling back into his head as his body thrashed for nearly a minute. Saliva and tears mingled with blood and spilled down his neck.

Rinoa screamed behind clenched teeth, her hands clamped over her mouth. The Odine Bangle on her wrist burned against her skin, furious magic itching to avenge her Knight.

Zell's arm slipped around her shoulder and Rinoa leaned into his side. She wanted to bury her face against him, to turn away from the horror of seeing Squall in pain, but she couldn't look away. She had to see this. She needed to know everything, no matter how horrible or heartbreaking.

Squall lifted his head to look directly at the camera. Dark strands of dirty, stringy, and matted hair dangled in front of his blue eyes. Those blue eyes had looked at her with wonder and anger and affection and frustration, but never with hatred or disgust.

That was what she saw in them now as he glared at the camera and it chilled her to the bone. He looked like a man who had lost his soul, a man without a heart, without remorse, and she wondered who was on the other side of that camera.

Beads of sweat rolled down Squall's face, and in the beam of the flashlight, they glistened gold, amber, and vermilion where they mingled with blood. He blinked and shook his hair out of his eyes. Hatred melted to sorrow and then to a look he gave her only when they were alone.

"Broccoli pie," Squall said.

His lip quivered, his voice was broken, but the faintest smile crossed his lips and Rinoa's heart slipped a beat. She wiped her eyes, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. It was a message.

Not long after they'd moved in together, Rinoa attempted to make a pot pie for dinner. It was cold outside and it seemed like the kind of hearty comfort food they would both enjoy at the end of a long, chilly day. She'd made the crust perfectly, but had gotten distracted by a long-winded phone call from a sobbing Selphie and forgot to put any other ingredients in the pie shell besides the broccoli.

The result was inedible. Squall found it so funny, he laughed quietly to himself for hours afterward. Rinoa, annoyed by his amusement at her expense, smashed the offensive pastry over his head, which only made him laugh harder.

Since then, Broccoli Pie was their code for an epic screw-up. Sometimes, they would say it to make the other laugh in the middle of an argument. Sometimes it was a signal that something had gone too far.

Was Squall telling her he screwed up? Or was he saying that he was okay, not to worry?

Hard to tell, but it gave her some small measure of hope that he would survive this. He'd known she would see the video, and this message was for her alone.

A club of some sorts smashed into the top of Squall's head and Rinoa screamed. Blood poured down his face, his eyes went unfocused and misty, and this time, she was forced to look away. She pressed her face into Zell's shoulder and something inside her broke when his other arm came up to hold her tighter.

"That's all there is," Zell said. "There's no more."

Rinoa tried to get a hold of herself. She tried to stop shaking but between her growing fury and her fear for Squall's life, she couldn't. Zell stroked her back and whispered things she didn't hear to calm her, but panic pushed her to a state of near-hysteria.

"Tell me you're trying to find him," she said.

"We don't know where to look," Quistis said.

"You don't know where to look, so you're not going to bother?" Rinoa said. "He's spent his whole life serving Garden and SeeD. You owe him."

Quistis turned her head away, stricken by the accusation. Cid stared at the blotter on his desk, a man who yet again had nothing to offer in a time of crisis.

She would not be put off or take no for an answer. She wouldn't allow him to be abandoned or left behind. Whatever the cost, she would find a way, and if they left her with no other options, she would find him herself.

"We sent a search party to Squall's last known location," Cid promised. "They haven't reported anything substantial back yet."

Quistis took a seat next to Rinoa and clasped the hand Zell was not holding.

"We're doing what we can," Quistis said. "Until they make their agenda known or tell us who they are and what they want, we don't have much to go on."

"That's not good enough," Rinoa said.

The only thing that would be good enough for her was for Squall to be home safe and alive. He had a daughter at home anxiously awaiting his return. A daughter who adored him. A daughter he loved more than anything else in the world. Not to mention a wife that missed his warmth and his touch and the smile he reserved only for her.

"We want him home, too," Quistis swore.

"What happened?" Rinoa demanded. "How did this happen? It was just supposed to be some routine training thing, right?"

"It was supposed to be," Zell said. "Except someone forgot to warn us about the radical insurgents or whatever the hell they were."

"We don't know what they were," Quistis said. "All we know is they attacked without provocation and Squall was taken. He might have been the reason for the attack, for all we know."

"Put me on the Ragnarok, drop me off wherever they are, and I'll make sure none of them ever see a sunrise again," Rinoa swore.

"I know you're upset, but you have to think of Ella," Quistis said. "It won't do her any good to have both of you gone right now."

"I can't just sit here!"

She had to do something besides sit and wait.

"She's right," Zell said. "But I promise you, we'll bring him home, one way or another."

Dead or alive.

That's what Zell really meant. He didn't say it and he didn't need to. The words started spinning around in Rinoa's head like leaves on the wind. The words got louder and louder and there was nothing she could do to block them out.

Dead or alive. Dead or alive. Dead or alive.

They sounded like an unbalanced load of laundry in the washing machine, getting louder and louder as the misplaced clothing spun the machine further and further off balance until the whole house seemed to shake. It had a cadence to it, a drum beat, a bleat of machine gun fire.

She put her hands to her head to block it out.

On her wrist, the Odine Bangle she wore to protect the world from her magic shattered into a thousand pieces, glittering like faerie dust in the lamplight.