a f t e r g l o w


II.
CHILDREN OF FATE

She wants to sleep. She wants to be embraced by oblivion, surrounded by poppies, and to never see anything anymore.

Only she can't.

She's somewhere behind this person, someone, a cursed woman, a sorceress, watching and shouting desperate screeches as shrill as bells lamenting deaths of fearless warriors.

But of course the sorceress doesn't hear anything. She never does, and Rinoa, despite her hard and serious training of mind control in the past three years, knows this is a futile attempt. And so she just watches as the sorceress hovers in the air, wings glinting silver, feathers fair and white falling and trailing behind the woman like spring dews and winter frosts and autumn leaves and summer clouds all at once.

Only Rinoa doesn't actually watch. She's the sorceress (but she isn't), and the formidable woman is forcing her to see things she doesn't want to see.

I'm a selfish person. I want to have my eyes closed as the sorceress does the killing.

The first man to expel his last breath is no more than thirty, she judges with watery eyes; he tumbles onto the ground, his machine gun following not long after, his blood sputtering above him, a vigorous and quixotic fountain. His other comrades share the same fate. Together they plummet, an orchestra of lifeless marionettes all twisted and drenched in crimson liquor.

Inside the sorceress, Rinoa cries silently. And then louder and louder and louder although she knows the sorceress will remain oblivious and continue her heavenly judgment on celestial wings.

Much later, much, much later, Rinoa finds herself standing in the middle of piled bodies. Her eyes are as red as them, and as she sings her dirge with silent tears, the previously immaculate pale feathers fall all around her.

But they're scarlet now, a thousand ruby arrows finding their destination.


There's blood on his gunblade. That, and more. He gives his sword a shake, a careless attempt to wave the dead's remnants off the steel. The sight before him doesn't nauseate him, all the misshapen parts of nameless bodies, all glazed with deep red paint – he wonders if he should be glad for that, thankful for being able to deadpan through a gruesome massacre.

I must be cursed.

His boots scuttle against the reeking ground, squelching as he trudges through the corpse playground, icy blue eyes oddly calm. At the other side of the area, a woman awaits. My sorceress.

She's as blue as a daybreak sky, maroon wine licking the tip of her clothes (must be the enemies' blood, he mulls), but otherwise she's unharmed. Once they're close enough, he welcomes her into his arms, the warmth of her body pleasant.

"We must not tarry here." He rasps out, appalled by his husky voice.

"I know," she detaches herself from him reluctantly. Her eyes find his but they quickly turn away and fly to his sword, then to the dark splotches on his jacket and shirt. "You're hurt."

"They caught me off guard, is all. I'm fine."

She isn't listening. He stifles a groan as she chants under her breath, and soon his torso is wrapped in sedate light. The spell works its charm and he can feel his torn flesh being knitted to the way it was. All that remains is the murky red, the coalesced blood.

The glow is gone then, but he can perceive its trails lingering on his skin, half warm, half cold. But most of all he can taste it… watery, salty. Like tears.

Squall flicks his gaze forward to the only way out. He then junctions Bahamut, all the while wishing the GF would be able to make him put this day behind somehow, and trying to decide which one is the worst of all, which one to forget first: the distorted bodies, the white eyes, or the blood.

...


a/n: I almost forgot how much I love this game and pairing. So this is the second installment, and I promise you there's a lot more to follow. I am lacking... "fluff" ideas though, so I'll gladly welcome some prompts if you happen to have any.

Please tell me what you think; reviews are greatly appreciated.

- Ryfee