Disclaimer: I make no claim whatsoever to the characters or world of Final Fantasy VIII, which is the property of Squaresoft/Square Enix.

Chapter XI

"The coast's in sight, m'lord. Care to take a look?"

Without answering, Squall took the brass spyglass from Zell's hands and placed it to his own eye. Land, yes. A bluff of jagged gray rocks, with a building nestled among them. The old Cape lighthouse, marked with a long dash on his father's nautical chart. But Squall was searching for something else: a pillar of light in the sky. He blinked and adjusted the lens. There, at the steps to the house that stood perched on the rocks. A cleft in the air that stretched up to the heavens.

He handed the spyglass back to Zell and turned his back on the heaving sea. Zell, as the son of a Balamb fisherman, was as nimble as a pine marten on the ship's rigging, and so playfully at ease in the water that Squall wondered if he had been born at sea. The journey had been far less pleasant for Squall, whose stomach did not take well to the rock and swell of the waves. Food stubbornly refused to settle, and he could summon no appetite to force it down. As a result, he had barely eaten since setting forth from the Esthar days before. After Rinoa and the witch of the North had vanished before his eyes, he had ridden his men back to the castle half-frozen, exhausted to the bone and furious at his failure, only to be told that a witch's Deathscar had appeared in the skies to the southwest.

"The location appears to match the home of the Centran witch," Kiros said, his neck craned over the dog-eared atlas of the West from Laguna's library. "We should assume that the light was caused by her passing. I have heard that her age is greatly advanced. Even a Sorceress may reach the end of her life naturally."

If she is one of the fortunate ones, signed Ward with his hands, directing a glance at Kiros that Squall took to be an unsaid reference to Adel, and her fate.

"The Northern witch vanished, and a day later a scar of death is seen. It cannot be coincidence," Squall argued. "We do not know their ways. She could have traveled there in an instant, taking Rinoa with her."

"You are anxious to find her, no doubt. But Squall, you must understand that Rinoa may no longer be alive."

"I have considered that. I will only accept the evidence of my eyes. Grant me a ship, and a crew. Let me find the truth of it."

"Your father-"

"If he refuses, I will commandeer a fishing boat from the docks and sail there myself."

It had been a foolish threat—Squall was no sailor, as he was now painfully aware—but Laguna had acquiesced. And so Squall's stubbornness had carried him this far, from the wastes of the North to the distant South in a matter of weeks. His body had been protesting all the while, against the bitter cold, the hunger, the nausea of the swaying ship, but his mind brushed it all away with only one word: Rinoa. She had reached out for him, crying his name. She needed him. And he would not leave a stone unturned until he found her.

Now, at last, he was sure he was close. The pillar of light was weak in daylight now, having faded each day and night they sailed, but it was there. The calculations of Esthar's chief astronomer, Odine, had proved correct; this was the place, and no mistake. Squall had barely listened to the explanation Odine provided, unasked, with so much enthusiasm.

It is the method of triangles, my young lord. We observe the light from two different locations, using the distance between them to make our calculations. The curvature of the earth complicates the matter, however. To account for that, we must...

No, he could not remember any further than that. Squall harbored an instinctive dislike of Odine, and made a point of avoiding the man as far as possible. Still, he had shown himself to be useful on this occasion. The Deathscar lay ahead, and the question of whether it led to Rinoa was soon to be answered.

"M'lord." Zell had the spyglass again, pressing it into Squall's hands. "Seems we're not the first."

They had rounded the Cape now, and the shore on the far side of the lighthouse had come into sight. A huge Dolletian frigate was moored at the northern shore, the distant dots of assembled troops forming a neat rectangle on the beach. They numbered double the men Squall had brought, at least, and the frigate dwarfed the Esthari vessel, built only for traversing coastal waters. They had clung to the Eastern continent's southern tip the entire way; no Esthari craft could withstand the open seas as the beast of a Dolletian ship could.

Zell stood at his side, hands on hips, squinting at the frigate. "Dolletians are all mouth and no breeches, m'lord," he confided. "They might outnumber us, but they'd never outwit us, not in a month of Sundays."

Squall grunted in response, and made his way to his quarters to sharpen his blade.

He steadied himself as his boots hit the wet sand, his body finding immense relief at a ground that did not sway. Six of Squall's crew had disembarked ahead of him, hauling on ropes to pull the ship up onto the beach. Squall walked between the ropes, his eyes on the mass of Dolletian soldiers gathered on the far side of the shore.

"Shall I lead the rest of the men out, m'lord?" Zell called from the deck.

Squall nodded. "Keep them by the ship."

He turned his head from the Dolletians, and surveyed the cliffside. The stone house he had seen from the sea—the witch's house, if Kiros was right—was now hidden from view by the rocks. He could make out the Deathscar streaming upwards from the top of a flight of stone steps, a seam in the sky, like a piece of cloth that had been cut and restitched.

"Zell," he called, and Zell's head appeared over the taffrail. Squall motioned to him, and Zell vaulted from the deck, his feet plopping neatly into the sand next to where Squall stood.

"I will cross the beach to speak with them. Stay here."

"Until you give the signal to charge?"

"No. Until I return. We did not come here to declare war on Dollet."

He nodded to Zell to reinforce his point, then strode across the sands.

Squall climbed over the spit of land that held the lighthouse and rounded the curve of the coast onto the northern shore, bringing the scene taking place on the beach into full sight. His chest constricted the moment he saw Rinoa, dressed in a black gown with her hair loose, swaying from side to side. Wild-eyed, and deathly pale. An older woman clothed in an identical gown was standing at her side, speaking to the tall, blond, broad-shouldered man whose back was turned to Squall.

The blond man stepped forward, holding out a hand to Rinoa. A beast-like shriek rang out across the sands, and a sky-blue flame lit her skin. She was ablaze with it, and Squall's legs were pounding over the beach to reach her, to help her, surely she would die-

He stopped, startled. The blue fire had flickered out, and Rinoa's face was as pale as before, her hair unburned. He thought for a moment—a split-second that clutched at his heart and squeezed it—that she was looking straight at him. Her eyes closed, and she slid to the sand, her body folding under her like a piece of fallen silk.

The blond man hunched over Rinoa. He was watched by two commanders, standing several paces away, at the front of the assembled Dolletian troops. Squall made a quick assessment of the pair. One was a woman with cropped silver hair, one eye covered by a frayed black eyepatch, the other burning bright with a fierce intelligence. She wore a blue-gray leather breastplate and cloak. Squall could not see any evidence of a weapon on her body. The other commander was a huge, hulking man, his hands wrapped around a battle-staff that was even longer than he was tall. A Centran, Squall supposed; the man had the same dark skin as Kiros, though he shared little of the latter's slender grace. He was pure muscle. It may take a few Esthari swordsmen to fell him, Squall noted. The woman, meanwhile, was an unknown quality. She was slight, barely taller than Rinoa, but the alertness of her pose was suggestive of a wildcat ready to spring into action. If it came to battle, she could the one to be wary of.

But it had not come to battle, not yet at least. How much could he stake on the assumption that they would not swarm upon a lone man, his sword undrawn, traversing the beach? Squall had no choice now but to put that notion to the test.

He renewed his pace and walked past the assembled troops, aware of their eyes following him as he passed, eyes that flicked uncertainly to their commanders, waiting for orders. Each soldier held a rifle pointed aloft, every one of them tipped with a long, fine blade attached to the barrel. A memory flitted through Squall's mind. Kiros had told him of these. A Dolletian invention. Bayonets. That was it. He could see fingers gripping tightly at the stocks and barrels, itching to be told to slay this interloper. But no command was forthcoming, and Squall made his way past the troops, past the commanders, and to the spot where Rinoa lay on the sand.

Ignoring the blond man, he knelt and spoke to the older woman, whose arms were laid protectively around Rinoa's shoulders.

"What has happened to Rinoa?"

"She has Succeeded another's powers. She is in pain."

She stroked Rinoa's hair away from her face, and the tenderness of her touch did not escape Squall's notice. A coil of the tension in his chest loosened. It was clear that the witch of the South was no threat to Rinoa; then she was not his enemy, either.

"Will she recover?" he asked.

"I cannot say. Her burden is great."

A hand pulled roughly at the back of his robes, tugging him upwards.

"You. Eastern monkey. Are you the reason she will not come with me?" demanded the blond man.

Squall reluctantly turned around. "Are you addressing me?"

The blond man had a half-hand of height over Squall, and a thickness to his neck that suggested a good deal more muscle than Squall's own lean frame. His short hair was a brassier gold than Zell's, and his face was tanned and weathered, but young—perhaps as young as Squall. The man's pale eyes narrowed as soon as they settled upon the lion motif on Squall's robes.

"You're the Lord's boy, aren't you?" He took a step back, his frame all the more imposing from a distance.

"I am no boy," Squall replied. The bile in the man's voice had sent his fingers to rest on the hilt of his sword.

"Answer the question. Are you heir to the East, or not?"

"That, I am."

"Then you are the reason. And you will suffer for it." He drew the great broadsword from the sheath on his back, and waved it Squall's direction using only one hand. "Draw your blade, boy. Or is that puny spike of yours just for show?"

Squall knew this type of man well enough. He had arrested enough of them in the lower town of Esthar. The sneering arrogance, the hair-trigger temper. Perhaps vainglorious fools were simply the same the whole world over. He cast a critical eye over this new adversary. Taller and heavier than Squall, yes, maybe even stronger. But his gold-edged cloak was made for vanity, not battle, and a sword of such ridiculous weight would be slow and cumbersome against Esthari steel. Squall was quite sure he could run rings around this man. He drew himself up to his full height, and bowed his head in a mockery of politeness.

"Before you strike, perhaps you might tell me what your grievance is?"

The man snarled, jabbing his sword for effect. "Do not think you Easterners can hide your barbaric ways under a pretense of manners! After Lady Rinoa went missing, we searched for her, far and wide. We received word that she was stolen by Esthar, held captive, and raped by the Lord's son." He slashed his broadsword through the space between them, a diagonal line from shoulder to knee. "You took her as yours. You had no right. She was promised to me. She is mine."

So this oafish brute is Almasy, Squall realized. He understood now why Rinoa had so loathed the suggestion of returning to the West.

"What a thoroughly bizarre retelling of the facts," he said, and did not bother to hide his disdain.

"Oh? Then what do you claim happened?"

"Wait until she awakes, then ask her yourself. I have no desire to explain myself to you." Squall made to turn away, to tend to Rinoa, but Almasy's sword flashed in front of him a second time.

"You disgust me. The thought of your grubby Eastern hands on the body of my woman-"

Squall knew that he was rapidly losing patience with this fool. "You truly do have a vivid imagination. Does it excite you to picture me like that? I, for one, would prefer not to be the leading man in your fantasies."

Almasy's mouth tautened into a thin line. "You will regret mocking me."

"I doubt it," Squall said carelessly. How tiresome he is, he thought. No wonder she fled from him.

Almasy's sword came swinging before him, so fast that he barely jumped back in time. He looked down to see that the point of the blade had nicked the cloth of his robes, cutting a strip free. Half an inch closer, and it would have torn into Squall's flesh.

Squall gritted his teeth. The speed of Almasy's jab had taken him by surprise. He would not make that mistake again. He slid Lion Heart from its scabbard and held it out in front. Almasy raised an eyebrow, his insinuation obvious. The two blades were incomparable in size. The broadsword was six or more times the width of an Esthari blade, and twice as long. But, Squall told himself with certainty, it could never be as sharp.

He slashed upward, and found that Almasy's blade met his with ease. He pushed hard, but the broadsword would not give. Squall let his blade fall, and slashed again, to be parried a second time.

Almasy let loose a laugh, and began to circle Squall as he fought back. Squall was locked into the defensive role, unable to find an opening in Almasy's assault to snatch the upper hand. He had misjudged his advantage, and badly. Almasy, in spite of all his bulk and adornments, was fast, lithe, and highly skilled. Whether more skilled than Squall, he could not say, but at the least, they were evenly matched.

Without warning, Almasy darted to the left, and Squall followed, realizing all too late that it was a feint. As he fought to regain his stance, the broadsword's tip swept in a clean arc that caught on his face, slicing a stinging line of pain across his brow, ending at the side of his nose. Almasy stood back, his free hand resting on his hip, his expression one of deep satisfaction.

Squall touched his finger to his forehead, and saw the dark red smear on the black hide. He could feel it dripping down his face, seeping over his eyebrows.

He clenched his hand into a fist, and wiped the blood away, the rough leather of the gloves harsh against the open wound. He looked up at the gloating Almasy in disgust.

"Is this how swordsmen fight in the West? With deceit and trickery?"

"We fight to win. Something the East has yet to learn. But you should already know, boy, with a devious, dirty-fighting Galbadian knave for a father."

Almasy swept his arm back, inviting his commanders and troops to listen. "Care to regale us with the tale of how the lowly Laguna Loire felled the witch of the East? We're all ears."

The silver-haired woman's thin lips had curled into a contemptuous smile, and the hulking Centran gave a belly laugh that rippled out across the beach, spreading chuckles and snickers among the Dolletian troops.

Squall found himself breaking his own foremost rule. He was losing his temper.

He had met plenty of people he disliked, despised even. But never before had he viscerally hated anyone on sight as he did this man. This gold-bedecked, supercilious brute, with his uncanny ability to pinpoint another's source of shame and exploit it ruthlessly, his smirking face, his proprietary manner towards Rinoa, every last facet of him.

The rage that pumped through his body now was not Squall's usual cold, controlled anger: it was a hot, urgent desire to spill this man's blood. He let it carry his arms as he slashed and parried, hurling his hatred at Almasy's body.

It was Almasy who was on the defensive this time, moving and twisting to counter Squall's strikes. With streaks of blood thickening across his vision, Squall could not see how it happened, but Lion Heart's edge somehow made contact. It cut across Almasy's brow, in an arc of angry red that mirrored the fresh wound on Squall's own face. Droplets trickled down Almasy's cheeks. Now they were both branded alike; marked as equals.

Almasy dragged his sleeve against his forehead, the blood bright against the white of his cloak. Where Squall had expected to see fury, there was only a grim smile, and eyes that were hungry with anticipation. Squall knew without a doubt that this was now a fight to the death. He gripped Lion Heart's hilt, and readied himself for the next strike.

But it did not come. Almasy's open-mouthed gawp was directed behind Squall, and he let his sword arm fall to his side. Squall turned his head to see Rinoa, awake and standing, staggering towards them with an odd swaying motion. She stopped mid-lurch, and a hazy red mist gathered around her form. The vibrancy of the red grew stronger, until it was glowing, crackling with unrestrained energy.

Her irises, too, were blood-red now. The warm brown eyes that Squall had so longed to see all these months were gone, stolen away. He cursed under his breath. What had become of her? Had sorcery warped her heart so quickly?

The red aura around Rinoa faded to a dim glow as soon as her eyes locked with Squall's, and her irises softened to dark brown once more. He saw within them contortions of pain, confusion, and the tiniest, distant spark of recognition.

Yes, Squall intoned silently as he returned her gaze. It's me, Rinoa. Hold fast. Find your way out.

Almasy strode forward, his hand outstretched to touch her. "Lady Rinoa-"

A roar hit Squall's ears, the deep roar of a furious woman, a voice that could not have been Rinoa's. His vision was filled with red, a world of scarlet. Squall's breath was slammed from his body as he was knocked to the sand, his blade thrown across the beach, clattering against a faraway rock.

He had no idea how long he lay there, or whether he had lost consciousness. When the colors of the beach returned, chasing the veil of red away, he found himself able to lift his head. Rinoa was limp on the sand, collapsed once more, with the Southern witch cradling her shoulders. Squall pulled himself to his feet, and saw that the beach was empty. Almasy, his commanders, the soldiers, even the great frigate at the water's edge: they had all vanished.

Squall whirled around to face the southern shore, to find that there was no trace, either, of the Esthari vessel. He fought a sudden dryness in the roof of his mouth as his eyes fixed on the distant patch of sand where Zell had stood, awaiting Squall's return. He stumbled backwards, sinking heavily to his knees beside Rinoa and the witch.

"She... she killed them all?" His voice emerged as a hoarse whisper.

The witch looked at him impassively. "No."

"Then what befell them?"

"She sent them away from this land." The witch's eyes became unfocused, and a gold sheen obscured her pupils. She blinked, and the gold cleared away. "Your army is in Southern Shalmal, standing on white sands, with your vessel at their rear. They are unharmed."

"How can you know that?"

"I am blessed with the Farsight. It is part of my gift." Her eyes glowed golden a second time. "Count Almasy and his troops are in the Northern lands now. Rinoa has returned them to Dollet. Such power is far beyond my command. She has been struggling to contain it. I believe she is losing."

He moved to kneel over Rinoa, to look upon her properly at last. She was paler and thinner than she had been in Esthar, almost gaunt. The angles of her cheekbones gave an strange tightness to her sleeping face. Her hair, unbound and longer than before, was soft and cleanly washed; either she had been awake enough to wash, or this woman had tended to her.

Squall wiped his brow in an effort to stem the steady trickle of blood into his eyes from the still-fresh, stinging cut above. A drop fell onto Rinoa's cheek, forming a round red stain on her pallid skin, and he quickly wiped it away with a muttered apology.

"Can you save her?" he asked the witch.

"There is little I can do. But you, maybe."

"Me?"

"I know nothing of what has passed between you. But she kept you here; you alone. She chose to do so for a reason. And your manner tells me that you care for her."

Something about the witch's solemn face impelled Squall to answer with the truth, words he had admitted to no other.

"I do."

"Then you may be able to bring balance and calm to her mind."

"How?"

"If you pledge yourself to her. As a Sorceress' Knight."

Rinoa stirred, then gave a violent shudder that rocked her body against the Southern witch's arms. The witch tightened her hold in an attempt to quell the spasm. Squall fought the urge to push her away, to take Rinoa in his own arms, to hold her close until her shaking subsided.

"Tell me how to do it," he said with force.

"Take her hand, and give yourself to her."

Squall frowned impatiently. "Give myse-"

"You will know. You will feel it."

Very well, he thought. He removed his gloves and laid them on the sand, and reached out his fingertips to stroke the sleeping girl's face. Her skin was burning with heat that was more than that of the baking sun overhead, more than any fever. The unnatural heat of magic in turmoil, he realized.

"Rinoa. Will you accept me?" he said.

"She will not hear you," said the witch.

"But it must be her choice," Squall replied. He tapped Rinoa's cheek, his fingers gentle, and her eyes fluttered weakly open. "Will you accept me?" he asked once more.

There was fear and unspeakable pain written in her face, and he wondered how to comfort her, but he kept his gaze firm. She moved her head in the smallest of nods, and closed her eyes again.

He wrapped his fingers around hers, and it was as the other Sorceress had said: he knew exactly what to do. He offered himself to Rinoa without words, and felt her wavering, afraid, then he squeezed her hand and pledged that she would be safe. That he would protect her.

And then she flooded his senses, and he was no longer one man living one life.