Disclaimer: Yup, Squaresoft still owns 'em.
Running with Dragons
Another day.
Another day that I look in the mirror and tell myself I am not lonely. I am not empty inside. Another day that I turn out the light, and remind myself that whatever dreams may come, I will see him again someday.
To the world I am a stronger woman now than before. I walk these halls that have been my home for so many years. I greet new faces and old friends alike with a smile on my lips. I laugh and carouse with them, train and fight with them. Everyone thinks I am okay. I am strong. I have known love and lived the better for it.
It is all a lie.
How can I be better? I found my soul only to watch it walk away, swallowed by a gateway of light that would lead only into darkness. When the night is deep and I am alone, I am no longer so certain I will see him again. What if I won't? The fear creeps in and takes hold of me, keeping me still while sending me spiraling into nightmares. What if he has been irrevocably swallowed by that dark place that is not a normal part of this world?
What if he is gone forever?
Sometimes I catch a glimpse of a shadow just beyond my conscious vision. When I look, it disappears. Sometimes I think I hear his voice, whispering to me on the wind. When I strain to hear it, it is gone. Sometimes he visits me in my dreams. And I ask him, is he real, or just my lonely hopes running rampant in my slumber.
He never answers me.
This story is not finished. It can't be. I won't live my life like this, an empty, walking ghost, simply wiling away the days until I die and can join him.
If he is really dead.
That is what I fear most. That he is not dead, but instead trapped, prisoner in that terrible place where nightmares are given form and voice.
There has to be more. I have to know. If he is dead, then I can move on in peace, because I will see him again. But if he is trapped, I have to free him.
Sometimes, at dawn, I can smell the roses…
The only sound to be heard in the small, dark dorm room was the incessant tapping of keys as Quistis Trepe typed away at her desk. It was long past curfew, and most of the Garden lay slumbering, escaping the demons inherent to their existence as mercenaries for yet another evening.
Quistis's demons were not so easily deterred.
She paused for a moment to lean back, stretching out her arms and stifling a yawn. The muscles in her neck and shoulders screamed in protest, begging for a nice hot shower and a good night's sleep.
One hand lazily wiped blue eyes heavily laden with sleep. I suppose I ought to quit for the night. A few clicks and she shut down her terminal, pushing away from the desk to look around her small room. She could have commandeered better quarters; since the Ultimecia "incident," she and the others were the highest paid SeeDs to ever walk Garden's hallways. She had never cared for opulence, however, and had chosen to keep her small quarters where she had lived for the last five years. They were the closest to home as she could get in the cold academy. Although, I hear Ms. Tilmitt's new quarters are quite splendid.
She looked at her humble desk, adorned with only her computer terminal and a few photographs. One was of her and Irvine at the SeeD ball that had followed the successful destruction of Ultimecia. She ran her fingers gently over the second; a black and white photograph of a six year old boy standing in a garden.
Turning away from the poignant memories the photo stirred, her eyes roved over the tiny living area, the kitchen corner with the mini fridge and four cabinets, the table, the coat rack by the door, the letter on the floor in front of the door.
Quistis blinked. Letter?
She stood, cramped muscles crying in relief at the final release from hours of sitting. Walking to the door, she stooped down to lift the plain white envelope from the floor. Nothing was written on it, and it was unsealed. Carefully she reached in and pulled out a folded slip of paper.
Ms. Trepe,
There is something which might interest you at the Almasy Memorial.
A Friend.
Quistis's eyes narrowed as she studied the plain, type-written note. How did it even get in here? And who could've done it? Why?
You'll just have to go to the Memorial and find out.
Quistis scowled as that internal voice piped up. "Forget it," she whispered aloud. "Probably just a prank. Some cadets playing truth or dare. Or maybe a Trepie. I'm just going to throw it away and forget about it." And with that, the letter found its way into the trashcan.
Running.
Hyne, she'd been running forever.
The dark hall stretched before and behind her, seemingly endless. She knew there was an end, though. She just had to run fast enough…
Her legs ached and her lungs screamed, her heart pounding away in her ears as waves of red spread rhythmically through her vision. Still she ran, pouring every last shred of energy she possessed into the simple movement of her legs. Forward, forward. A sense of immediacy crushed down on her, spurring her on.
She had to reach him.
She had to get there before it was too late.
Finally, ahead she saw something break the monotony of the long corridor. A widening, lights…she saw a room. She came up on it, skidding to a stop that nearly hurled her from her feet. As she gasped for breath, she looked around. The wall she had entered from was lined with bookshelves, filled with dusty old tomes that whispered of ancient power. The walls to her left and right held counters and shelves, full of vials and glass contraptions where liquids boiled and bubbled, running through tubes and turning gears. The fourth wall, in front of her, was a thick layer of clear glass. A faintly blue liquid filled the space beyond, as if it were a large fish tank.
Floating in the liquid was a man.
Long ebony hair floated freely like a black cloud around his face. His eyes were closed, as if he were dead, but the bubbles that occasionally emitted from his nostrils indicated that he was, in fact, breathing. As she approached, horror scrawled across her face, he moved.
Those amethyst eyes bore through glass as they fluttered open. For a moment he was disorientated, confusion apparent on his angelic features. Then he saw her. His eyes widened, and he moved towards the glass, putting his hand against it.
She reached up and laid her hand against the glass where his was, tears slipping hot trails down her face. His mouth moved, but there was no sound and she couldn't understand what he was saying. She began to look around frantically, searching for some way to get him out of the tank.
She heard pounding, and looked back up at him. His eyes were wide with fear, and this time she understood what he was trying to say.
Run…
Quistis sat up abruptly, drenched in a cold sweat. Her breath came in short, shaky gasps as she blinked furiously, trying to orient herself. The room finally stopped spinning, as she realized she was in her room. She was safe.
He was gone.
A sob racked her body briefly before she contained it, swallowing the sorrow that welled up from her aching heart. "Just a dream, Trepe," she whispered to the dark room. She had been having many dreams since she'd returned to Garden. But none had been like this. None held this kind of intensity. None had been so real, driving at the very heart of her fears.
The moon light streaming through the window illuminated the photograph sitting on her desk. It seemed to nearly glow with a light of its own. Beneath it, she noticed the letter peaking out over the top of the trash can.
"Alright, already," she said. "I'll go in the morning. If Hyne decides to let me sleep!"
The clicking of Quistis's heels echoed loudly through the recently constructed hanger as she walked briskly across the newly laid floor, the scent of fresh paint still heavy in the air. Light streamed through windows placed high on the walls, bathing the glorious draconic ship that was housed there in a cheery, early morning glow.
Shortly after the Ultimecia "incident," Garden had officially purchased the Ragnarok from Esthar, a sale made much easier by Laguna's influence. Now, they had finally gotten around to building a hanger for it. Word was that Garden was planning on purchasing more of the space-worthy airships, but these were as yet unconfirmed rumors. Honestly, Quistis cared little one way or the other. She paused a moment, scanning the area until she located…
Yes. There they were. She could just make out a flash of spikey blonde hair high on the side of the Ragnarok as she heard Zell's voice calling for a wrench. Zell and Selphie had adopted the Estharian ship and made it their project. Currently they were instructing other cadets and SeeDs to pilot it. Quistis herself had so far managed to avoid being caught in the class. She hadn't minded learning the weapons systems, but piloting was not really her cup of tea.
"Quisty!" Selphie squealed, catching sight of her as the blonde woman approached. She jumped down from the scaffolding she'd been perched on, bouncing over to where Quistis stood. "What's up? You in our class?"
"No," Quistis breathed thankfully, ignoring the hopeful gleam in Selphie's eye. She glanced at the open panel on the side of the crimson ship. "Is there something wrong with the Ragnarok?"
"Nah," Selphie replied. "Zell's just changing a divar tube. Why?"
"Well, I was hoping I could get someone to fly me out to the Almasy Memorial."
Selphie blinked. "The Memorial? What for?"
Quistis had expected Selphie would ask, so she'd prepared an excuse. She hated telling tales to her friend, but she felt compelled to not tell anyone about the mysterious letter.
Or the dreams.
"An old classmate of mine…died in action last week. His name should be there now…I would like to see it."
"Oh," Selphie said softly. "I'm sorry, Quisty. Today the kids can work on schematics. Soon as Zell's done, I'll fly you out there."
Selphie set the Ragnarok down just a bit south of the Almasy Memorial. She had offered to go in with Quistis, but Quistis had declined. This was something she had to do alone.
She paused a moment on the steps to look up and admire the beauty of the building she was approaching. Seven stories of carefully fitted black granite rose from the earth, the morning sun glinting off rows and rows of windows. The building was hexagonal in shape, and while the wide stone steps came off of one side, carefully tended gardens branched out from the other five sides. Topping the massive building was a dome of frosted glass that acted to reflect the sunlight in a sort of beacon that allowed the Memorial to be seen for miles around.
Cid and Edea Kramer had first proposed the idea of a memorial building to commemorate the SeeDs who had given their lives in the line of duty. Much to everyone's surprise, it was Commander Squall Leonhart who had proposed the site be named after their former classmate. With a few changes made to the original design, construction had begun on the Almasy Memorial.
No one knew if Seifer Almasy was dead or alive. He had been sighted in Fisherman's Horizon, but that had been nearly two years ago and no one had seen him since. As far as many of them were concerned, Seifer was dead to them, the matter of his drawing breath irrelevant. Quistis suspected Squall had wanted the memorial named after his rival in some way to combat his own fear of being forgotten, but the quiet commander had chosen to never comment.
Quistis's thoughts dwelled on her errant student now as she walked through the double doors that slid open silently at her approach. Sometimes she wished she could see him just once more, to ask him why, hoping that the answer he could give would somehow redeem him and lift the responsibility of destruction from his—and indirectly, her—shoulders. She wanted the wipe away that last memory of him at the battle on the Lunatic Pandora, of staring at empty jade eyes as the blue magic tingled through her veins, pouring her anger and pain into a rippling wave of power that stole away the pride which had kept his head high.
She thought of that moment now as she looked up at the pillar that rose up the center of the building. Carved of black marble, the names of every SeeD who had ever died in the course of duty were engraved in its smooth surface. A black wrought iron staircase wound its way up and around the pillar, which went nearly as high as the building itself, so that visitors could look at the names higher up. Thankfully, at the moment the names only went about twenty five feet up. Quistis prayed she never saw the day when the pillar was full.
The first thing a visitor saw when entering the Memorial, however, was the image of the Fire Cross that had once been emblazoned of Seifer's trenchcoat, inlaid with white marble on the front of the pillar.
Beneath the Cross were the words of dedication, chiseled into the marble and filled with diamond dust. Quistis ran her fingers over the words solemnly.
"In Memory of Our Fallen Knight,
Seifer Almasy.
For all that you were to us
And all that you might have been."
Quistis sighed softly, stepping back. No, she was fine never seeing Seifer again. The memorial was enough of him.
She was startled as the sound of steps clanged loudly in the quiet building, a figure descending from the wrought iron steps.
"Hello?" she called out, laying a hand on Save the Queen.
"Oh, hello," a kind voice said as the figure came into view. He was an older man, probably in his mid-fifties, with gentle wrinkles lining his eyes. A gray apron covered his clothing, and he carried a small tool that resembled a drill in his hands.
"Just been putting on a few new additions," he said, noticing her glance at the tool. "Didn't mean to startle you."
"Oh," Quistis replied, relieved. Well, what did you expect, Trepe? A ghost?
New additions?
She watched as the man shuffled away, before turning to the staircase. She took a tentative step on the iron construction, then another, and soon found herself climbing, up and up, until she reached the top of the names. She touched the grooves that formed words, representations of lives lost.
"So many young ones," she whispered sorrowfully. "When will our names find their way here?" Then she noticed the names the caretaker must have been talking about. Freshly carved, their edges still sharp, these names stood out from the others. Sierra Nigel, Tomas Garomet…
And then her eyes widened with shock and disbelief as she read the last name.
Gabriel Andovar.
Author's Note: Well, guys, here it is, the sequel to Rain of Roses. I wasn't sure if it was ready, but decided to post it anyway. Anxiously awaiting your feedback, hope you enjoy!