Disclaimer: Standard applies.

A/N: I have no clue how long this is going to be. Thanks to everyone who told me about Orcs.

Warnings: Subtle spoiler alert, especially in this chapter, hopefully not too much OOC-ness.

The Cadence

Fermata – Prolongation

He was – that had been the sole statement that he lived by. He existed for the sole reason of living, and lived for the sake of existence. There was not, and had never been, anything more complicated than that. He could have wasted time trying to put his thinking into philosophical jargon, but most of the time he had always been too hungry, too tired, too busy, too alone.

Then, he had been pulled willy-nilly into a group of three until it became a group of four.

He never realized exactly how it had happened. One moment, he had rolled into a baggage compartment of a rushing train and the other he was snagged in deadly triangle. A gun was at his throat, and his Airgetlahm stared levelly into the throat of a stranger. [1] Three safety clicks sounded off, drowned out as the locomotive wheels beat furiously on the tracks.

Four heads turned. Four strings were pulled deftly by aged fingers into one silken thread.

That which controlled fates, too whimsical and capricious to undo its own handiwork, pulled and pulled with all its might to ensure the combining of the strings. One time, a rebel tugged out meekly, but it was gripped and forced into the pattern again. Yet, it was always that string, that naughty little string, which wished to break free.

I was thinking, perhaps, that we could work together.

He should've been the one to protest, when the first "team" had been uttered. Yet, it was suddenly all so different in this group of four, so closely knit that it had become almost a unit of one. The sense of self pacified, settled in the back of his darkest thoughts. He would have fallen under the illusion that he had been happy, if he were not the rebel string.

He had thrived for freedom, for tangle-less paths and uncrossing roads. He had breathed and ate and drunk into oblivion for it. This need and lust for the self, and only the self, never released its shackles. Eventually, he succumbed and drifted away, until the day for his leaving came before the passing of dawn, but by then he was so far gone that the night after that day hardly seemed different at all.

For him, at least.

He didn't know what they thought, for he was gone, for he was the rebel string.

"Uh…" he groaned, and a sudden ripe flood of raw pain gripped his senses. Something in his stomach had curled and knotted. He arched his back slightly against the sheets, dug his head deeper into the musty pillow.

"So you finally decide on coming to, huh, kid?"

He stilled and tensed immediately, and was afraid to open his eyes because he was scared of what he would see. It took a moment for him to remember this feeling of utter terror. He let out a short breath and muttered, "Gallows."

"The one and only," answered the man brightly.

Jet lifted his eyelids slowly; growing accustomed to the dimmed afternoon sun. Bluntly, he asked, "Are you going to punch me?"

Gallows laughed, obviously seeing something highly amusing in the situation. Porcelain beads tied to the end of painted feathers clicked against each other as he shook his head, accompanied by the small shuffle of cloth. "No, punk. She told me not to, so consider yourself lucky. But don't let down your guard. I'll get you back somehow, don't you worry. Caradines live up to their promises."

Jet stared at the ceiling and its yellow, peeling paint. If he calculated correctly, he had been past the boundaries of awareness for at least six hours. Damn, he had missed his train at a quarter past one. "Really..." He said blandly. "Oh."

Gallows grunted in disapproval. "Almost three years and all you say is 'oh'? Well, for your information, it's nice to see you again, Jet." He paused, and then his deep and powerful voice struck up again, followed by a few spurts of sonorous but hardly mirthful laughter. There was a strain his voice when he spoke. "Well…'nice' isn't exactly the word I'd use. 'Pain in the ass' is more like it, for my case."

"It's a pain in the ass to see you again too."

Gallows grinned when the other pulled the covers over his shoulders and abandoned his tension. Of course, they had not progressed very far from their fiery encounter in the morning, but at least Jet was sure that he wouldn't be attacked this time around. Perhaps there was still some hope for the lot of them yet, he thought optimistically. "Well, I didn't expect a much different sort of reply from you." He joked.

"It'll be nice to leave you again too." The other added callously.

Or perhaps not.

Gallows frowned, not even bothering to sigh. Exasperation was wasted on the bed-ridden drifter. It would reflect off that permanent scowl and rebound off the walls. The man willed himself not to anger himself because he had promised his travelling companion. He had to, actually, or otherwise the girl would have never agreed to leave the room and get a decent amount of sleep that a dresser chair couldn't provide.

The door opened.

Jet heard the delicate clicking of boots, and the telltale tinkling that chains and guns made. He cursed under his breath and bid his eyes to shut.

The stranger laughed and stopped at the edge of the bed to stand beside Gallows. With an audible thump, he set his gun down on the floor and leaned on its support casually. "Still not the morning person, I see." The not quite stranger said. The voice had not changed at all. It was still learned and accented with sophistication. It was a little softer, perhaps, with its wear and the passing of time. "I know you're awake."

Stubborn eyes remained closed. "Well, what the hell do you know, I'm overjoyed." He snapped cynically. There was no humor in his dry and cracking, tired and hurt voice. It was merely weary and irritated. "This is just turning into one grand old reunion party. The next thing you know, we'll just all slap 'teamwork' stickers on our foreheads and head out again to find righteousness or some crap like that."

"Look here, you little…" Gallows growled angrily.

Clive held the younger man back with a calm hand on his shoulder and that was all it took to quiet him. Something in Jet's chest began to writhe – they knew each other so well now. He was just an outsider with a familiar face. "For your information," said the older none-too-kindly, though the voice was still as reserved, "We don't and didn't need your assistance for that. We defeated the prophets a couple months after you decided that cooperation was too much for you to handle."

Jet pushed himself on to his elbows angrily as the words struck true to their quivering target. "You…you don't know what you're talking about."

Clive lowered his eyes to the young man's face and with that glance sent a shrill coldness that was one thing not familiar. Jet almost shrank back into his covers. "Is that so? I don't, do I? If you say so, then I suppose that must be true. After all, it is you who would know yourself best, isn't it? Care to tell us a little more about yourself?"

Clive was mocking him – mocking him for the fact that he knew nothing.

This, even dense Gallows could pick up. He looked down and smiled victoriously. If there were a lower degree of helplessness to feel at the moment, Jet would have doubted it. He was resorted to glaring up at his former teammates and noticed with much dismay that his arms were trembling. Seething and headache smarting, he hissed, "What do you want, then? Don't tell me this is some charity project you three are launching off at now."

Clive smiled humorlessly. "Actually, we're on our way back to Humphrey's Peak. We happened to meet you completely by chance."

Gallows laughed. "The old geezer's achin' for the home life again."

Aforementioned geezer cleared his throat and hit Gallows soundly in the shins with the butt of his gun. The younger man let out a low howl of pain. Jet almost had the powerful urge to smile. "Actually," said the scholar, "that is true, to some extent. I believe I'm getting much too old for this travelling business. Or at least I'm much too tired. I might be able to travel again someday, but for now, I am content to return home and spend time with my family."

There was this great blissful glaze that covered Clive's eyes when he spoke of his family that Jet could see even from behind the small glasses. This look sparked little tendrils of envy curling up Jet's train of thoughts. It was the look that said, 'I have a family, a home. I have somewhere to go to when I'm tired and hungry. I have someone to turn to when I'm lonely and hurt. And this makes me happy.'

And that made him jealous.

"That's…nice." He managed to say.

Clive let out a loud laugh. "That's the first positive thing he's said since he woke up!"

Gallows was going to give him some clever answer, but there came a knocking at the door. It opened slightly, a muffled voice stating, "This is the maid, sirs. I've brought the medicine you asked for and I'm going to place it on the dresser." The wooden door opened just a crack, and a fine and delicate set of hands, followed by slim and pale wrists placed a silver tray inside the room before it disappeared again.

Gallows' drool pooled on the floor and he was gone in a flash.

Jet scoffed. "Well, he isn't much for changing with time."

Clive nodded softly, and took the seat Gallows had been occupying. There were a few gray hairs hear his ears that clustered enough to be visible. The dim light reflected off his glasses at such an angle that his eyes were hidden in their sheen. Jet noticed that the man looked much, much older and much more tired. He wondered, for a moment, if the past three years had been hard on him, and if it were hard on Clive – who was no doubt the strongest of their group – then what it must have done to the others.

There was no guilt, only wonder.

"You're old." The young drifter said flatly.

Clive chuckled. "Still as frank, I suppose. You aren't much for change yourself."

Jet shrugged and rolled around under the blanket. He noticed then, that his clothes were at the dresser beside the bed still. He had fainted before he could put them on, after all. Slowly, he adjusted the pillow and rolled back around, sitting upright before leaning back. "I don't really care. Change isn't always a good thing, anyway."

"Change has its own merits, but it doesn't mean one must be in a rush to change right away. It comes with time, and at the right moment. I believe that you will be changing also, except you haven't acknowledged your time to do so yet." Idly, the man pushed the frame of his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "We all change. There is nothing that can stop it, ignore it or withstand it. It is as great a force as time."

Jet huffed. "You're beginning to talk like an old man too."

Clive laughed, a laugh free of restrictions. He decided to tread on subjects less delicate, one with which he didn't have to walk on cracking ice. "The prophets were actually demons and were trying to build an empire on Filgaia for the demon race. A strange lot, they were. Janearth too, started working for them, and turned into a demon himself. It was a horrible thing to see, his haunted eyes, begging for the end. And then the end came, and the prophets failed, and that was that."

"A demon." He murmured, with shock lacing his voice. A human who became a demon, who had thought of that? Holy people who turned out to be devils, who had thought of that? It was a lot to comprehend, and he pushed it off until later. Later would come in a few minutes, months or years, perhaps, if it came at all. It wasn't his business anyway, was it? He hadn't any part in that wild goose and golden egg chase. "Gallows' brother?"

"Has become a full-fledged priest, I believe. Better than Gallows could become by far. And he's not annoyed one bit. In fact, he's been boasting everywhere he's gone about his younger brother and his priesthood and all that. In a way, Shane becoming a priest finally gives him the full freedom to wander as he pleases. I bet the poor boy's already acquired a healthy fanclub without knowing it."

"Maxwell?"

"Which one?"

"The one that isn't a total klutz."

"She is a good leader and she had changed too. She is hardly the klutz you remember."

Jet shrugged at Clive's smile. "Whatever. What happened to Werner?"

"Is not with us anymore, I'm sorry to say." Clive paused to let the words sink in. Their party of three had met the man a few battles into the war with the prophets, and the truth about him still rocked them in their shoes. All the details he would tell the boy later. It would not be a wise thing to tell him everything at once, for the man had been a father figure to more than just his daughter many years back. "He was never quite with us, but he is gone now." [2]

Jet smiled ruefully. "So the old man kicked the bucket…well I guess he could watch over his family now, then, couldn't he? I guess he won't be rambling any more complaints about that."

Clive said, "He was an honorable man." He didn't care to say that Maxwell had been watching over his family after his death longer than Jet could have guessed.

"Your wife? Kaitlin?"

"Fine. Kaitlin is doing well in her studies." He said, with the pride of a father.

"Your professor?"

Clive smiled. "You remember much more about us than I though you would."

Jet scoffed half-heartedly. There was this eerie sort of sorrow in his eyes that was not quite there. Whatever reaction the boy had to the truckload of news that was bombarded on his head, he was hiding it well. Then again, Jet had always hidden things especially well. "Whatever. It's not like I try to remember or anything, so don't get the wrong idea. I just happened to think of it."

"If you say so."

Jet scowled. "I say so."

The smile did not fade, but grew dimmer in its demeanor. Clive and the other two were very good at hiding also. For a moment, he thought back to a place in the middle of nowhere and wondered how long this respite would last. For the name of the place itself was a taboo, and it could and probably would break everything Jet believed in.

'Deus Ex Machina' was the god that solved the plot for the protagonist – the god that could send a boy's world shattering to the ground. [3

"He would have been glad to know that Filgaia is now no longer dying. The demon race is beginning to die out. You must have noticed, being that you travel in the wilderness all the time. Strangely enough, the elimination of the prophet's headquarters caused a chain reaction when their advanced ancient technology exploded. The climates are becoming moist, do you notice that? The demons can't survive with so much hydrogen in the air. It burns their organs from the inside, so they are all dying out. Within a year, I'm sure, they'll all be gone."

"Gone? You mean…they'll just be wiped off the face of this planet?"

Clive nodded solemnly.

Jet contemplated for a moment, but Clive already heard the words in his ears before a voice spoke it out loud. "And then," he whispered, looking at the floor, "There will be no more drifters, will there?"

"For a while afterwards, perhaps. People will still be afraid. But after that, probably not. There will be travelers, many more than there are drifters, and that term will simply fall into disuse." Clive looked to his left and found a forlorn expression on Jet's face.

It was the expression that came with the misery when one realized that their identity would be lost to an unstoppable torrent.

Jet felt his heart plummet to the depths of the earth. If drifters were to fall into nonexistence, what was left of him then, but a homeless, landless, soulless boy? Using his ARM – the only thing he had ever been any good at – would have no practical use. There would merely be his weapon, himself, the desert, and death. He should have been overjoyed, perhaps, that there would be no scourge plaguing Filgaia, but something held him back from doing so. Instead of joy, there came an almost unbearable sense of loss.

"Oh."

"Oh?" said Clive softly. "Is that all?"

Jet answered dully, "Oh."

The door opened again.

"Eh, I didn't know you two were talking!" said the girl from the bar – the one with the chestnut braid. Both men looked up and their eyes met her quickly flushing face. She tried to smooth down her skirts with no avail and instead used her eyes to dart from one aspect of the room to the other – the mirror, the curtains, the tiles, anywhere but on the bed. "If I'm interrupting anything, I can just go down to the…"

Clive suddenly stood up and stretched his neck conspicuously. He yawned as if he had seemingly spent hours in the room. Jet looked up and noticed that the minute hand of the clock had only gone from three to six. The scholar bent and picked up his bulky gun from the floor and leaned it against himself. With extremely mock surprise, he exclaimed, "My, look at the time! I've been here for hours."

"No, you…" Jet began, but was silenced with one of those shut-your-mouth-or-you'll-be-leaking-water-the-next-time-you-drink looks that he still remembered Clive was so good at giving, even with that utterly creepy smile on the man's face.

"As I said, I'm so tired! Well, Jet," he turned and faced the boy with fake flourish. When his back was turned to the girl, Clive's face became dark, a warning to the younger man that if anything were to happen to the chestnut-haired maid, a certain silver-haired boy's neck would be the one to pay. "I'll have to leave you now, rather than bore you with my long speeches." He laughed merrily. "I'll be going now to check on lazy Gallows! Rest well!"

He exited the room humming like a child, leaving Jet screaming 'Bloody murder, you're a rotten traitor, Clive!' in his mind, and a flustered young lady in the doorway.

"Hi." She said, after what must have been at least ten minutes.

"Yo." He answered.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, while she took a few tentative steps towards him. He said nothing about it but watched her intently, for he had the feeling that if he were to open his mouth, she would run away. It wasn't as if he wanted her company, of course, but she had saved him from the bar thieves at least, and he owed her some credit, after all. Amazingly, she was able to get to the foot of his bed without her tail between her legs.

"Fine." He answered curtly. "Thanks, you know, for…the room, and for letting me stay here and all, I guess. It probably isn't that inconvenient for you. And…uh…" He reassured himself that he was, indeed, not stuttering. "…Thanks for not getting mad for…that stuff I said this morning about what I thought…you know?"

He was definitely not stuttering or thanking anyone within a ten-mile radius. Oh dammit, he definitely was, and felt all the more stupid for acting like a child.

She smiled sweetly and he was sure he would be the one to blow up this time around. He almost warned her to grab a blanket to cover herself when that happened, but noticed that the only blanket in the room was covering his half-bare body. For modesty's sake, he kept quiet about that.

"You're welcome." She answered. "Very welcome."

He shrugged and the clock ticked and tocked.

"It's nice to see you again." She said suddenly. Bravely, all remnants of that shy girl at the door were lost and there stood a strong and headstrong young woman standing at his bed – a relatively attractive young woman with a very familiar face. There was no fear in her eyes, or blame or regret. There was simply the gladness of being reacquainted with an old friend.

Jet felt his ribs grab at his heart at the blatant emotion – or lack of one particular emotion specifically, in her face. She told him without words that there was no blame to be placed on anyone's shoulder. She said with that look that there was no anger between them, or anything that could be identified as similar to fury at all. Like a true friend, she continued to smile that sunny grin and Jet said nothing, but only because there was nothing needed to be said.

Feeling the silence in the air, however, he muttered, "It's nice to see you too."

"It's been a while."

Jet looked at her incredulously. "Virginia," he began, and noticed this was the first time he had said her name in gods-know-how-long. It was a familiar sound and sent a rush of warmth to his ears. "I would think that you'd come up with a better answer than that."

She laughed. "Well, it's hard to talk to someone who doesn't talk back."

"I'm talking right now, aren't I?"

"Well, I suppose. But you're still not much for conversation."

"You said that already. Last night."

She nodded. "I didn't think you would remember that, with a hangover and everything. I didn't even think you were listening. I thought you were too drunk by then."

He looked at the floor. "I listen when you don't think I am. I don't think it's just a hangover. I've had hangovers before, and I was never out this long. It's something else."

Her eyes grew worried. "What? Are you sick, injured?" He looked at her calmly, and sent her gaze fleeing to the floor. She knew immediately that Jet suffered from no physical ailment. "Oh." She whispered almost mutely. "Well, if you don't feel so well, I can get you something to drink, or leave you alone to rest for a while, if you'd like. It really isn't a bother, and I shouldn't have kept you up talking so long yesterday."

"Whatever." He said tiredly. "I'm fine. I'll have to get up anyway."

"What for?" she asked.

Jet gave her a flat look. "As if you don't know."

She stared at him with a strange gleam in her eyes that had not been there before. As he began to shuffle out of the bed covers and walk towards the dresser for his clothes, she spoke. "But you can't." she mumbled, but even though it was a mumble it had the force of twenty voices. "You can't, not after all the trouble we went through to look for you."

"Clive said you were just passing by."

She shook her head. "Clive is a shameless liar. You can't just abandon us and leave us hanging. Not now, and not again."

That last fragment petrified his legs until they were granite and stone. Without facing her, he could see the reflection of her back in the dirty mirror. It was unwavering. "I can't?" he said, although the dull voice it was delivered with made it more a statement, perhaps, than a question. "Who says I can't?"

"I say so."

He was silent.

"And you know so."

[1] – Anastasia's "Argetlahm" of WA2 was changed to "Airgetlahm" for Jet.

[2] – Spoilers for Virginia's father, who is actually dead (I think) throughout the game.

[3] – Spoilers for the area near the end. Alcahest tells Jet his past in this dungeon, supposedly.