Three:
Symphony of Loneliness
Marche left Mewt standing in his room, some sort of dumfounded look on his face. He didn't want to leave things on such a sour note, but he had another person to talk to and, sorry Mewt, wanted to get things done. His dream was still fresh, re-playing over and over; something Marche didn't want, but reluctantly had to let happen. He learned early on in life that his mind often wandered to things he didn't want to see.
When Doned was born, their mother had to undergo a serious operation after the birth. Marche's grandparents were out of town that week and it was raining so hard that night that no one could come and watch over him as he sat alone in the hospital, staring worried at the big glass doors that led to the Operating Room. Above the doors was a lit sign, signifying that someone was under the knife, and that this someone was Marche's mother. Every day he would see that sign, just as bright, even in memory. His dream efficiently suppressed those images, much to Marche's dismay. Seeing that hospital sign was much more comforting: at least it was a real memory, not something fabricated.
He puzzled over what it all meant. The cliffs, the fires and Ritz as a Judge. The lack of sound, his death. He creased his nose as he thought, trying to remember what she said. It was a real itch, as he remembered clearly what he had said to her. He had asked her why, a single noise in the vacuum. After that was a blank. He could see her lips moving, her green eyes dance in anger and her cherry hair blowing in the wind, but he couldn't remember her words. He could remember getting stabbed and falling, he could easily recall the smells on the air but he could not, for the life of him, remember what Ritz said.
Marche rubbed his chest with the heel of his palm, up and down where he'd be run through. Of course, there was no wound, but the replaying dream reminded him where it had been. As he rounded the next corner, he looked up from his thoughts. A few cars rolled down the road and the group of kids talked to each other as they walked the opposite sidewalk. St. Ivalice, real Ivalice, was such a nice place. It had great people, plenty of things to do and a good school. Sure, it snowed a lot, but the hospital was close and his Mother's job was closer still. The city itself emanated warmth, like a hearth on Christmas Eve.
He stopped at a crosswalk and waited for the light to turn. He watched the people around him. He saw a pair of teenage girls laughing and chatting as they sat on a bench outside a local coffeehouse, a elderly man walking and laughing with his grandson and a mother cooing playful at her baby in the carriage she was pushing. He saw some men in boiler suits unloading a food truck. Somebody somewhere had music playing.
Marche smiled, despite himself. He was happy to be in St. Ivalice. He loved this town. Compared to anywhere else he might live, it was a paradise, of sorts. He had friends close, family closer. He had a community alive and his needs met.
"You had no right to steal this from me."
Marche remembered suddenly, sending chills throughout and standing the hair on his arms. His eyes widened. He looked down at his feet as he thought. He started to cross the street, stepping off the curb. He was pulled back before his foot fell and the passing breeze of a speeding truck blew over him, carrying the deep bellows of its horn. He fell onto the sidewalk, catching himself on his hands. He leaned his head back, looking up at his savior.
"Marche, what are you doing? Are you ok?"
It was Ritz, standing with her arms out and her expression tight. Her hair was in a tail across her shoulders, white as the snow drifted onto it. A red ribbon hung at the base of her neck. Her eyes were a mix of aggravation and concern. She reached to offer a hand.
"Ritz." Marche said, voice shaky.
"You shouldn't be spacing out while crossing the street, Marche. You're lucky I was here to save you."
Marche pulled to his feet, grabbing her hands and pushing himself up with the other. Through his glove and through her mitten he felt her grip. Once he made eye contact. The frustration lingered, though her half-cocked grin gave way to friendliness.
"Anyway…" She continued, "I was just heading over to your house. Doned said he wanted to talk to me. What are you up to?"
For a blink, Ritz's hair turned to its former color. Marche swallowed and lifted a hand to her shoulder. She looked to it.
"Marche?" She said.
"Ritz, I'm sorry." Marche said, "I think I understand what I did to you and…I'm sorry."
"What are you talking about?" Ritz shook her head.
A beat of silence, Marche moved his hand, "Tell Doned that I'll be home later."
He smiled broadly at Ritz and turned, looking up and down the street before running across. The answer was clear now and rattled around with the dream in his head. It wouldn't be easy and he was sure there would be sacrifice but as he ran, as the wind turned bitter against his skin, he realized more and more that that was okay. That he would accept whatever he had to give. It also occurred to him that Ritz had said she was going to his house. That was okay…her and Doned had gotten friendlier since coming back. He often saw them together, talking about this and that in his living room. He wondered if they ever talked about him. If they ever sat around and tried to analyze him. He hoped not, especially since he had just most likely spooked Ritz with his half-sentences and running off.
He would have to explain later, should he have the chance.
