paths diverging, paths converging
by Denna
She stands on the balcony, staring out at
the night.
Wondering, wandering, where has
my heart gone?
Staring out at the stars, a millions lights above. She knows
she has lost him, knows she has gained him, her golden knight gone to
the golden sorceress. They will shine together, gold to gold, bright to bright.
She evens out some of his faults; he evens out hers.
Perhaps in a millions days,
perhaps in a million years...
Pale fingers grasp at the smooth metal of the railing, as if to
grab at the present, hold it in place. But time, like sand, slips through her
fingers, and she is left with nothing but memories, distant recollections of a
thing that had been, tha tonce was, and nothing more to remember it by.
Time is already slipping away; in one week--one week!--the one she lost
will be gone forever, joined to the other golden one. What will the joining
forge, she wonders. A golden child? Perhaps.
My heart will forget, but then
She knows she cannot stay; knows
that she cannot watch them live together, love together, without going mad. She
will leave, she knows that. Perhaps a transfer to Trabia, or one of the more
outlying regions... or something.
What would love mean, if not
remembered
But first, she must attend the wedding. Watch, as the one that
she lost through her own stupidity is taken by another. Her friends will both
be happy; one, because he will marry his loved one; the other, because his
friend will be happy. And she? She will be the same as always, quiet and
congratulating, while inside the crying at his leaving and the quiet joy at the
fact that he will finally be happy coexist within the shell of her body.
What would love be, if not
unforgettable
Oh, to be older or younger--older, that she would know how to
deal with this; younger, that she wouldn't care so much about it.
So leave, and so will I
No--that was a lie. Even when she was a child, she had been
drawn to him. It drove her to overcome her usual shyness to ask his name, to be
his acquaintance, friend, underling. All through it she has strived to keep to
her aloof state. She does not treat him as a man; he does not treat her
like a (mere) woman. Perhaps that is why: he doesn't think of her as
female.
Leave to heal my wounds
She looks up. It doesn't matter. Not ever; not now.
Leave to seal my heart...
High above, the impersonal stars gaze down on an elegant face
framed by hair glowing silver in the moonlight. They watch her as they have
done mankind for thousands of years, and they leave her to her grief.
* * * *
It was entirely possible that the
workers perched on the slowly regenerating skeleton of Trabia Garden, thousands
of miles away, almost lost their footing when the Balamb Garden loudspeaker
system rattled the notes of the Fourth Balamb Wedding March off the elegant
structure of the Garden and stunned every single wedding guest in attendance.
It had to be grand, of course. The
wedding of the (great) Squall Leonhart and Rinoa Heartilly had to be
grand. Thye saved the world, after all. And for that one big day, the Rinoa
supporters got out in full force, and left a trail of tied and gagged
anti-sorceress activists all through Balamb Town and Garden.
The ceremony was held in the Balamb
Garden Quad. Selphie Tilmitt, head of the Garden Festival Committee and also
elected head (by unanimous vote) of the "Squall and Rinoa's Wedding Committee"
almost busted an artery planning the whole thing. She did noticeably
fray some nerves, notably those belonging to a certain Irvine Kinneas, who, as
her boyfriend had to stay by her the whole time. Selphie Tilmitt did not
work well (or at least quietly) under pressure.
Such was the ruckus that nobody
noticed when, that morning, the bride, bridegroom, four friends, three not-quite
friends, a couple of semi-adopted parents, and one elated Galbadian girl
vanished for about an hour. The amount of messages on Selphie's handphone
almost hit the hundred-mark, though.
So the wedding proceeded. The bride
was all aglow; the bridegroom fidgeted somewhat, but managed to hold his
excitement in--not that there was a lot of it. Squall Leonhart was neither an
easily excited nor nervous man. The vows were exchanged, the kiss got underway
in a quad full of cheering people, and the couple (and close to a thousand
guests) headed for the food.
All in all, it was a fairly
successful wedding. Oh, Irvine flirted a little too much, and got slapped by
Selphie, and Zell got drunk and embarrassed himself, but the bridegroom and
bride (now husband and wife) showed up the next morning happy (in Rinoa's case,
anyway; who knows what Squall thinks anyway?) and a little pink-faced,
especially when Irvine innocently asked about 'last night', everyone know that
it'd be all right. The wedding party could be a disaster, the food could stink,
but as long as Squall and Rinoa were all right... then it was a success.
And even Seifer would agree.
* * * *
A gil for your thoughts.
The moonlight shines through the
windows and full on her beautiful face, illuminating the high cheekbones and
quiet blue eyes. Blue, like a pond--a still pond to quench the flames in his
eyes.
What?
There is quite a possessive look in
his eyes, glimmering faintly there behind smoldering gray-green fire, she
thinks.
Your. Thoughts.
He watches her covertly while pretending to think, admiring her
elegant beauty.
I was thinking about you.
Oh?
She knows there is something else glimmering behind those eyes,
something she recognizes. Regret? Grief? Longing?
Yes of course. What do you think
I was thinking about?
About her.
They have spoken about this before, and he has once requested
that she not do so. The subject is touchy, she knows, but she had to broach it.
No I wasn't...
The words lack fire; lack certainty.
Yes you were. Regretting?
No!
Violent protest. Also lacking fire. She nods.
Just a little, then.
He scowls, handsome face contorting.
Rather deep thoughts for a bride
on her wedding night. Aren't there things that we're supposed to do?
We've already done them. You want to
do it again, is that is?
The gentle reminder and question makes him blush. He looks so
cute when he blushes, she thinks. Arrogant and abrasive he may be, but
sometimes he can be downright gentle.
Are you worried that I don't
approve?
She presses gently, pushing him.
Do you?
She laughs, silvery bright.
I'm not jealous of her, if that's
what you mean.
Even when you know I love her more
than I do you?
Even when.
She sighs.
You know, you could still go to
he... it's never too late.
And leaven you alone?
He sounds faintly melancholy.
No. It's... too late for that.
I've got you. And whatever there is--was--between us, it's one-sided. I know
it.
She does not think so, but she keeps that to herself.
* * * *
There were many things said about
Squall Leonahrt's decision that fatal day, both good and bad. Granted it
nullified the Galbadian threat and stopped the Galbadian army headed for Balamb
Town dead in their tracks, but it also held a risk of sacrificing one of the best
SeeDs in Garden. Commander Leonhart thought it was an acceptable loss. Quistis
Trepe did not.
So it was that the aforementioned
SeeD-at-risk went to undertake a grueling mission of climbing up the back wall
of a building to assassinate the Galbadian president, and so it was that
Instructor Trepe followed him as backup--without anyone's knowledge. Seifer was
an accomplished climber, but a significant amount of luck was also involved in
his safely traversing the maze of windows without being seen.
Quistis had no such luck.
So when she was spotted on the 23rd
floor, the young woman tried to fight her way free, but fighting is hard when
you're dangling from a windowsill by one hand. There was nothing below her but
22 floors of empty air. Nobody bothered to look where she fell, because by then
the president was already dead by Seifer's hand, and word was spreading
quickly. Nobody wanted to be in the way of the Estharian forces when they
barged in.
Quistis was buried in a small,
private ceremony near the lighthouse on the cliff where Edea's orphanage was
situated. The memorial service was just as grand as Squall and Rinoa's wedding,
so many years ago. Again, the quad was thronged with people. Again, the
deceased's good friends vanished beforehand, this time to hold a private little
memorial session. Squall gave a speech, and when he was finished, there wasn't
a dry eye in the crowd. It was such a rarity to see Squall Leonhart showing
much emotions--life with Rinoa had mellowed him out a little, but not that
much--that whenever it happened, you couldn't help but feel affected.
Seifer didn't attend the funeral. He
was later spotted in a Deling bar, proposing toasts to the memory of Quistis
Trepe, saying that 'she wouldn't have wanted us all to be unhappy'.
Well, different people have
different ways of dealing with grief.
* * * *
He meets her again the day after the
funeral. The hangover is pounding in his brain; the grief is clawing at it.
Wandering down the beach in the soft evening light, wreathed in a haze of loss
and pain. He doesn't notice her until he is almost on her.
She is sitting on a rock, staring
out at the sea. The sea was always Quistis' element, as wind is hers, as fire
is his. The rock is unofficially "Quistis' Rock". The blond instructor was
often spotted here, watching the sunrise, watching the sunset.
And now she is gone.
He comes weaving down the path, eyes
half-shut, to lean against the rock. Many times has he come to join his beloved
here, to stand with her and watch the sunrise, watch the sunset. And now she is
gone. Another stands on the rock, another, hair picking up golden highlights in
the light of the setting sun, pale skin given life by the same. He recognizes
her, of course, knows the face engraved in the darkness behind his eyes every
time he shuts them.
What are you doing here?
Harsh, perhaps, but he is in no mood for comfort or kindness.
Deal with her grief anyway she might, but the rock was Quistis', Quistis' and
his. Nobody can have it!
She turns, looking at him. She knows
he is there, has known since his form first showed itself at the beginning of
the path. He knows she knew he was there. Hands clasped behind her back, she
looks at him, and speaks.
Watching the sea...
Where did she learn to speak? He thinks harshly, and feels a
twinge of guilt. Whatever, as Squall would say. He doesn't care. He doesn't
care.
Get off her rock.
Perhaps recognizing the tone in her voice, the pain behind
that, and the reason behind that, she stands, and steps off. He remains,
panting as if he had just run a race.
You're not the only one grieving,
you know...
Perhaps she hopes to offer reassurance. Perhaps she wants to
help. But he isn't in a mood to be helped.
Oh, no, you grieve too, right?
Come on, admit it! You were always jealous of her, weren't you?
It isn't true, of course. None of it is, and something inside
him knows that. Yet something else needs to lash out, and she has become the
unwitting victim.
She takes a step back, and another,
until her back is against Quistis' rock. He pins her to it, hand on the
sunwarmed rock beside her face, body angled to block her way out. Trapping her.
Isn't it? Oh, I know, I've seen
the way you look at her. You hate her, don't you? She's perfect, the way you'll
never be, and she's got everything you never had, and she's good, and she's
kind, and she... and... she's...
...Dead. Isn't that what he wants to say?
He lets himself sink to the ground,
sobbing into his cupped hands. The anger has run out, leaving despair and pain
in its wake. Eyes shut; he does not see her raise a hand to her face. Does not
see her blink rapidly, mouth opening as if to say something, then shutting as
she thinks better of it. Does not see her turn, leave.
Does not see the tears in her eyes.
* * * *
When SeeD number 15136, listed in
the records as one Kazeno, Fujin went AWOL the day after Quistis Trepe's
funeral, nobody noticed much. They were all busy with their assorted ways of
dealing with grief. Although just an instructor, Quistis had touched many
hearts in her dozen or so years of serving with SeeD.
It was only when she failed to
report back at Trabia Garden following the five-day holiday she'd been granted
that her commander realized something was wrong. Five days after Fujin vanished,
the message went around to the other Gardens that a SeeD had gone AWOL, and
that they should watch out for her. Other than that, nothing was done. SeeDs
going AWOL weren't that rare, after all.
* * * *
...Perhaps in a
million days, perhaps in a million years
My heart will
forget, but then
What would love
mean, if not remembered?
What would love
be, if not unforgettable?
So leave, and so
will I
Leave to heal my
wounds
Leave to seal my
heart...
* * * *
She stares into the window of a shop
in Esthar, and her reflection stares back. How long has it been since she has
left, she does not know. A day? Two? A week? Time holds no meaning for her
anymore. She has traveled from Blaamb, taking the trains to Fisherman's
Horizon, then trekking across the railway bridge to Esthar, where she entered
the city and vanished among the local population.
Now, she walks back out, feeling a
need to stand in the wind, to let it blow over her slender form, cooling,
soothing. She needs it to help her forget, as she thought she did years ago,
but his words have ripped her shields asunder, and she needs to rebuild them.
From a hill to the north of Esthar,
she looks out over the city, looking but not seeing. The view means nothing to
her. She has come her for the wind, and now it swirls around her, toying with
her hair, her clothing. It is night, and the stars watch her as usual. Silence
surrounds her like a shroud, deadening all sound as she tries to forget.
Down below, the wind winds itself
around another figure standing there, waiting. Waiting, for courage to return.
Waiting, for a sign. Waiting, for something, something that even he does
not know. And now it has come. The wind approves, he feels. The wind tugs at
his bangs, at his coat, at his pants. Tugs him towards her. It approves, he
knows.
He waits a moment for the words to
rise to the front of his mind, words that he needs to say. He steps forward.
Above the hill, the stars smile down
kindly.
* * * *
...And hope that
we shall meet again
For hope is all
I have.
Paths diverging,
paths converging
Into wholeness again blending
Where they meet
do hearts collide
And forge anew
in dusk's blue light.
I'm back! Hah! After a prolonged episode of writer's
block, I finally wrote this little piece at school. Took me a week. That's how
slowly I write. This could be read as a sort-of protest against the Quifer
invasion, I guess. shrug I just thought it would be fun to write
something like this, and I did it. I wrote the poem myself. It shows. (that is
to say, it sucks) Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go back to playing FF6 and
wondering just who Gogo is.
-kazeno
