Part 3
Squall sat contemplatively on his throne, searching for a train of thought. The red velvet was crumpled slightly as he shifted, resting his chin on his hand. Out of one of the many arches that surrounded him appeared a messenger who approached Squall cautiously. The messenger used his fullest discipline to keep from focusing on the sheathed blade beside Squall, ready to disembowel him if need be. He whispered something to him before bowing low and making the appearance of a calm stride away. Another servant had talked with death and survived.
Squall had never been particularly magnanimous after the incident at the original Balamb. Ever since he had fallen from the railing of the Garden, things had been different. Or perhaps even before that. Truthfully, Squall had never been the same since the encounter with Ultimecia. Nightmares plagued him, as did the images of that vast desert where he had partially lost his mind.
The question was, had he been saved in time? Despite Rinoa's heroic effort to save Squall from his giant prison, the effect of being trapped in solitude had never worn off. There was always something a little wrong with Squall, and then after the incident in Balamb, things became seriously wrong.
Perhaps that was why he had joined the religious sect against Sorceresses. He was only trying to escape the horrible visions of the wasteland which Ultimecia, a sorceress herself, had instilled in him.
He could feel the presence of Diablos pressing beneath his skin, desperate to get out and ravage a few more servants. He had a deep bond with his Guardian Force because of the way the winged beast had saved him from his tremendous fall off of Balamb, but he did not have time today to let the beast run rampant among his servants.
Balamb Garden, once the training ground of the SeeDs had gone through a transformation into something horrible, warped from the once boarding/military school atmosphere into a castle fit for an insane emperor. The whitewashed walls and mellow lighting had been removed, giving the giant fortress the look of one of the castles from the gothic age. The once-playful promenade had been transformed into the dank torture chamber; the dormitories, into the barracks. And within a labyrinth of catacombs and dead-ends lay the main chamber of Squall.
The giant room was a dome naturally lit through its tinted glass ceiling. A row of columns lined the edge of the room in a circle of pillars and arches. Behind them lie darkness and a countless number of servants no doubt. And in the center lay the massive throne of Squall Leonhart. Its back was easily twice the height of a tall person, and the 3 steps up to the chair made it possible for Squall to be the tallest person in the chamber, even when sitting.
I tiny gap in the wall opened and closed from behind the columns.
Squall rubbed his brow, thinking of how to make a good example of a certain commander. So she had escaped, he thought, no problem. Catching her was a matter of time. But she did have something important to him. Problem: whatever that document was, and he had a pretty good idea, it had been obtained and could be used against him. Problem:: the only way to obtain the document was if there was a spy in the midst of his servants. Problem: the Resistance's strength was growing with every advantage they earned. Solution: kill the spy.
His train of thought wandered amongst the names of engineers. No, they were far too low in rank and too spineless to organize for those documents to be copied. His mind searched higher, looking for the weak link: the shady character, or the nervous quiet type, or, most dangerous of all, the ally. His mind stopped on a name, leading him to his conclusion and on to the solution.
/Oh Doctor, Doctor, what shall I do with you? Must I kill you to get what I want?/
No, he thought, I'll save that for another day.
And so the Lionheart would not be used for the third time today. The blue blade of horror, justice, and everything he stood for, had shed enough blood for one day. And so it remained in its sheath, hovering by his side, ready to be drawn. He looked up, planning again, but with a purpose.
He made a simple nod and instantly a servant appeared.
"Summon the Doctor for me," he said with a smile. "Tell him … tell him something important has happened, and that only he can help."
* * *
Irvine wandered along the dusty corridors deep underground. His mind was for once hard at work. He brushed the brown locks out of his child-like face. He was in his uniform, the dark brown coat and hat, with Exeter in tow, and he resembled a modern day cowboy, if only slightly. That hat always stayed on his head, and perhaps was the only thing left that kept him grounded. Where has all the innocence gone, my friends, he asked himself.
/Quistis, Selphie, Rinoa… where are you when I need you?/
He was for the first time in his life trying to contemplate loss. The Tomb of the Unknown King had taken a surprisingly frightening atmosphere after the Resistance's renovations to it. Now an underground military complex, he was in the "under-construction" tier, and it was badly lit and much bigger than the others.
He felt the blame and disgust and guilt. He had cried for one of the only times in his life, when laying her crumpled form to rest at a monument in Winhill dedicated to dead Resistance soldiers. But he had no idea that at this very moment Quistis would be visiting that very site that he both longed for and loathed.
Irvine found himself empty at the thought of his beloved, the once-cheerful girl who had died in his arms.
He remembered the day Selphie died.
* * *
Squall sat contemplatively on his throne, searching for a train of thought. The red velvet was crumpled slightly as he shifted, resting his chin on his hand. Out of one of the many arches that surrounded him appeared a messenger who approached Squall cautiously. The messenger used his fullest discipline to keep from focusing on the sheathed blade beside Squall, ready to disembowel him if need be. He whispered something to him before bowing low and making the appearance of a calm stride away. Another servant had talked with death and survived.
Squall had never been particularly magnanimous after the incident at the original Balamb. Ever since he had fallen from the railing of the Garden, things had been different. Or perhaps even before that. Truthfully, Squall had never been the same since the encounter with Ultimecia. Nightmares plagued him, as did the images of that vast desert where he had partially lost his mind.
The question was, had he been saved in time? Despite Rinoa's heroic effort to save Squall from his giant prison, the effect of being trapped in solitude had never worn off. There was always something a little wrong with Squall, and then after the incident in Balamb, things became seriously wrong.
Perhaps that was why he had joined the religious sect against Sorceresses. He was only trying to escape the horrible visions of the wasteland which Ultimecia, a sorceress herself, had instilled in him.
He could feel the presence of Diablos pressing beneath his skin, desperate to get out and ravage a few more servants. He had a deep bond with his Guardian Force because of the way the winged beast had saved him from his tremendous fall off of Balamb, but he did not have time today to let the beast run rampant among his servants.
Balamb Garden, once the training ground of the SeeDs had gone through a transformation into something horrible, warped from the once boarding/military school atmosphere into a castle fit for an insane emperor. The whitewashed walls and mellow lighting had been removed, giving the giant fortress the look of one of the castles from the gothic age. The once-playful promenade had been transformed into the dank torture chamber; the dormitories, into the barracks. And within a labyrinth of catacombs and dead-ends lay the main chamber of Squall.
The giant room was a dome naturally lit through its tinted glass ceiling. A row of columns lined the edge of the room in a circle of pillars and arches. Behind them lie darkness and a countless number of servants no doubt. And in the center lay the massive throne of Squall Leonhart. Its back was easily twice the height of a tall person, and the 3 steps up to the chair made it possible for Squall to be the tallest person in the chamber, even when sitting.
I tiny gap in the wall opened and closed from behind the columns.
Squall rubbed his brow, thinking of how to make a good example of a certain commander. So she had escaped, he thought, no problem. Catching her was a matter of time. But she did have something important to him. Problem: whatever that document was, and he had a pretty good idea, it had been obtained and could be used against him. Problem:: the only way to obtain the document was if there was a spy in the midst of his servants. Problem: the Resistance's strength was growing with every advantage they earned. Solution: kill the spy.
His train of thought wandered amongst the names of engineers. No, they were far too low in rank and too spineless to organize for those documents to be copied. His mind searched higher, looking for the weak link: the shady character, or the nervous quiet type, or, most dangerous of all, the ally. His mind stopped on a name, leading him to his conclusion and on to the solution.
/Oh Doctor, Doctor, what shall I do with you? Must I kill you to get what I want?/
No, he thought, I'll save that for another day.
And so the Lionheart would not be used for the third time today. The blue blade of horror, justice, and everything he stood for, had shed enough blood for one day. And so it remained in its sheath, hovering by his side, ready to be drawn. He looked up, planning again, but with a purpose.
He made a simple nod and instantly a servant appeared.
"Summon the Doctor for me," he said with a smile. "Tell him … tell him something important has happened, and that only he can help."
* * *
Irvine wandered along the dusty corridors deep underground. His mind was for once hard at work. He brushed the brown locks out of his child-like face. He was in his uniform, the dark brown coat and hat, with Exeter in tow, and he resembled a modern day cowboy, if only slightly. That hat always stayed on his head, and perhaps was the only thing left that kept him grounded. Where has all the innocence gone, my friends, he asked himself.
/Quistis, Selphie, Rinoa… where are you when I need you?/
He was for the first time in his life trying to contemplate loss. The Tomb of the Unknown King had taken a surprisingly frightening atmosphere after the Resistance's renovations to it. Now an underground military complex, he was in the "under-construction" tier, and it was badly lit and much bigger than the others.
He felt the blame and disgust and guilt. He had cried for one of the only times in his life, when laying her crumpled form to rest at a monument in Winhill dedicated to dead Resistance soldiers. But he had no idea that at this very moment Quistis would be visiting that very site that he both longed for and loathed.
Irvine found himself empty at the thought of his beloved, the once-cheerful girl who had died in his arms.
He remembered the day Selphie died.
* * *