nied
"I got your note."
It was the weakest opening Zidane had ever begun with, but he was momentarily startled with the appearance of Amarant melting out of the forest. He looked one with the shadows in the dusk, and Zidane had to look hard to see where the forest began and the big man ended; he stayed perfectly still, head slightly bowed, and where his vision lay only he could tell.
"Obviously," the rumble came, acid-bitten with sarcasm. "That little piece of white fluff's got to be half-competent, or he'll end up in my cooking fire."
Zidane ignored that. "Speaking of cooking, do you and Freya have enough to eat?"
The long, rangy jaw grew set, offended. "Hmph. You think I'd bring her out into nowhere to starve?"
Both stood on the outskirts of the forest of 'Dalina', a forest that, quite obviously, supplied Dali with her lumber. (The simple countryfolk weren't exactly noted for their wild creativity.)
He raised his hands in protest. "I didn't say that, man. It's just that food can be scarce up at this time of year, and I can get you supplies."
"We don't need food." The utterance was final.
"Freya's probably running out of tea, though."
That brought an amused chuckle from Amarant, who folded his arms and leant against a tree. "… yes, tea. She's taken to drinking hot boiled water and it's just pissing me off. I'll reimburse you. And maybe another tunic - if her old one gets any more ragged I'll have to move away just to give her some privacy."
Zidane tried to hide a smile. "Anything else?"
"Chocolate. She talks about it incessantly and I just want to shut her up."
"Nothing for yourself?"
He grunted. "I don't need it."
"I'll get it in Dali and bring it back to you. Ah, speaking of which, let's get down to business…" Zidane nochalantly copied Amarant's pose, bracing his back against a tree. "How is Freya? You didn't bring her."
"She's fine. Annoying, but fine. I want her out of my hair. Haven't you found that bedamned murderer yet?"
"It would help if we could actually talk to Freya for a description. The only stuff we have is just guesswork. Hell, I don't even know what happened that night."
"…" The redhaired man looked away for a moment, then began to recite from memory. "Freya was attacked in the middle of the street. He disarmed her, then he used his own weapon to kill some people around them. Then she killed him. End of story."
"Did she say anything about the man?"
"Yeah - he wore all black."
"Yes!" Zidane exulted. "That's perfect!" Pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were slotting in. That man Nodune had been sent to kill her. Now it was just a question of why he'd been sent and who had sent him. That blue-haired man - what part did he play in this tableau?
"What else is there?"
Right to the point. Zidane pulled through his memory what was happening; the Tantalus gang still in Treno, his love and Fratley in Alexandria Castle -
"Dagger sends both of you her love - " Amarant snorted " - and… um…" Zidane pulled a piece of paper out of his sleeve. "Fratley has this note for Freya."
The blonde watched him uneasily, tail twitching, as Amarant looked at the paper like it was poison. Finally, he tucked it into his vest.
"Anything else?" he asked again, and his voice was like lead now.
"Just look after yourself. I'm pretty sure you're safe - you and Freya are so well-protected nobody could track you here - but just don't take risks, okay? I'm gonna nail this bastard."
Amarant trudged back off into the forest before stopping and looking over his shoulder, night falling all around him. "I get first dibs."
"I'll give you your supplies tomorrow."
He disappeared into the encroaching dark, and for the longest time, Zidane stayed in his place to watch the trees in darkness.
"Drahken-den, ueber den g'unen klie loebn - "
Tradition sustained him, supported the muscles and the bones that had only one will to live. If it had not been for the pact he would have rotted away long ago from sheer unrivalled misery. He took a peculiar joy in being the last to praise the drahkenden.
" - Ise leigt iem bloet - "
Maybe years ago he would have questioned, but when there was nothing left but prayers, he turned gladly to them.
"- die basrii geftzahn... "
Too much time was being wasted, and time was not a thing that could be easily retrieved. He heard screams from every rock and every blade of grass that he passed by, calling for blood, and he would not linger when he could give it to them.
"…avenghu du drahken. "
He'd spent countless times on that piece of flimsy, writing the message over and over until the little basket that kept rubbish was teeming over with paper beginning, 'Freya - '. Fratley had agonized, angered, pored deeply over the message that he had sent with Zidane, and when the tailed blonde had come back with tidings of his lost love, he had felt like weeping with relief.
Fratley had felt an innumerable sense of guilt over the whole business - what had driven Freya away? Did he not love her enough? Did he love her too much? Was he so appalling now that he could not remember his mother's face? Small flashes sometimes came back to him, vague and frustrating - tearing his old yellow coat into a thin ribbonlike strip, for example, if he concentrated he could still feel the texture between his claws; yet he could not remember anything useful, such as meeting Freya for the first time, or even meeting her to go on his quest.
He knew her, though. Something drew him inexplicably to her, like sunset drawing into night; an invisible tie that bound him to her. Fratley could not quite classify it as love, but there was something deeper there that could not be named. For her sake he would delve all his life to try and illustrate that feeling.
Freya was owed that much… so much. More than he could give. Years and years' worth of blood and tears - how could he repay her that?
"My lady Garnet."
She turned around, the petite, exquisite figure bathed in the sunlight from the window she had been pondering. Dagger blushed, embarrassed that she had been caught daydreaming and not working. "Sir Fratley?"
The Burmecian dragoon bowed stiffly, spear bound once more to the strap on his back. "Milady… your hospitality has warmed me to the core, but with the news of Lady Freya that your Zidane sent back, I can wait no longer."
Garnet nodded softly. "You miss her. I can understand that much." A wan smile passed over her lips. "I'm jealous; if I could leave my crown and go running after Zidane I would, but you at least have the freedom to take to the road. Are you going to track her and Amarant?"
"As best I can. I'm no master tracker, but at the moment, I feel I could find Freya even if she were ten million leagues away. I would not in any good faith be a detriment to her safety, but at the moment I fear for her life."
She laughed ruefully. "I wish you luck, then. Meet up with Zidane on the way and tell him your intentions; I'll contact Puck to tell him where you are. And keep yourself safe."
"Do not worry about me, lady Garnet. I can take care of myself."
"Now you sound like Zidane. Only more cultured. Just watch yourself! Freya would never forgive me if I let you walk off into a trap."
Fratley had to bite back a mournful 'I wonder', and merely nodded. "Yes. Fare thee well, Garnet."
"Goodbye, Fratley."
She watched him walk off into the dusk and then sat down, once again, to write a letter. Dagger sighed. So many letters! The moogles must be getting aggravated. I know my wrist is.
He crept up on her just mainly because he'd never seen her look surprised, or managed to creep up really on her before. He walked more silent than silence itself, feet making all the noise of a cat's footfall -
"Hello, Amarant," she said wryly, turning around, but there was a big smile on her face. Apparently her self-imposed silence after what he had privately called That Damned Water Incident had ebbed, and she was old Freya again, sardonic with a smile. "If your feet stamped any louder they would hear you over in Lindblum."
The redhead pushed the leather sack he had slung over his shoulder heavily to the ground, and she sat down next to it curiously, laying down her spear.
"I bagged some stuff from Zidane," he grunted in explanation, secretly pleased she wasn't pretending to be an ice princess any more. "Got some crap for you, if you're interested."
"With that cultured, polite invitation, how could I resist?"
"…" He rolled his eyes and undid the neck of the bag. "An extra blanket - didn't ask for that. You have it. And… here's some other stuff," Amarant said smoothly, casually, dumping it into her lap and waiting for the reaction.
She didn't disappoint. "Oh! Tea! How did you know to ask for tea, Amarant?"
"It was a hunch. That and the bitching."
"Would you be a dear and come over here so I can hit you? Oh! A tunic!"
"Your old one's looking sort of… ragged," Amarant said politely. Ragged was an understatement. If it got any more holes and bits ripped off, she'd be walking around in her bindings, and even they were starting to look a bit worse for wear.
"And what's this?" She carefully took out a wrapped package, peeked inside, then opened her eyes wide and began to laugh. "Chocolate. I'm living in the lap of luxury! You're psychic, I swear, my friend." In a display of affection she flung her arms around his neck in a simple hug.
He blushed, torn between disentangling her and letting it rest, then he finally realized he was blushing and gruffly set her down to hide it. "Damnit, woman. Stop being so clingy."
The Burmecian woman just smiled, able to translate by now. "Thanks, Amarant. This means a lot to me."
"Wouldn't give a damn if it didn't. Oh…" Amarant pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Zidane gave this for you." His rough voice quietened. "It's from assh - Fratley."
Freya grabbed the paper crisply and stood up, abruptly walking a way a few paces, clutching the piece of flimsy in her hands and staring at it. Amarant waited patiently, pulling up a long piece of reedgrass and chewing on it idly, waiting for her to finish. She suddenly bared her teeth in a great display of ferocity and balled the paper up, flinging it as hard as she could to melt in the water of the lake, breathing harshly and wringing her hands. When her irrational rage was over, she fished the piece of now very soggy paper out the water and left it quietly on the bank.
"I want to spar."
He raised an eyebrow at her patiently.
"Now. Hand-to-hand." She was stripping out of her clothes as she talked, the ragged tunic landing in a heap near the tree, leather breeches being pushed down those supple legs. "Get undressed."
"Yes, ma'am," he said mockingly, moving the leather bag out of the way on the grassy bank, clearing the space for them and pushing off his vest. "Just promise you won't take advantage of me."
She flashed him a dark look, but found nothing exceptionally mocking in his eyes. Amarant wouldn't stoop that low. "No," she said slowly, a lopsided smile gracing her mouth. "Apparently I like my men smaller - and amnesiacs."
He stared at her then, and she couldn't see his eyes through his thick ropy curtain of flaming hair, but it was piercing all the same. "I'm not going to fight with you if you're half-hysterical."
"I'm not half-hysterical."
"You're trembling."
"Just fight me, damnit! Fight me now or I'm just going to run out of this valley and scream, 'Take me now' and murderer be damned!"
"Freya." He stood in front of her, stripped down for sparring, and his voice had dropped to a note so low it almost reverberated in the earth. "You're being irrational."
"I don't care. Oh, Gods, I don't care any more. I'm sick of caring." Something burned in her eyes hot enough to melt metal and he almost took a step back. She wasn't irrational at all; she was a seasoned warrior, and she could focus her anger into her fighting and still keep her mind impassionate. Damn! One moment mellow, now - this! "If you have any compassion, spar."
He opened his palms, washing his hands of any responsibility, and nodded.
Immediately she came at him, so quickly and moving with such fluid grace that he almost didn't know what to do - almost. In the last moment he smoothly flung her up into the air behind him, over his shoulder, wanting her to land heavy on the grass; however, she had other ideas. Amarant had given her a leg-up, and she somersaulted up in the air and kicked him in the back of the head with one of her powerful legs before he'd even known what hit him.
He fell forward, but rolled out of the way before she could latch onto him, and was up on his feet and moving back in a second. Freya moved at him blocked his barrage of blows; the only one that could connect was a rather hefty blow to her cheek, but she seemed to ignore the pain and aim painful jabs with her claws at his unprotected chest. Both jumped back at the same time, but she circled around him, strong legs tensing up. Amarant stayed rooted to the spot, knowing he could fend off an attack better if he had a fortified stance.
No attack came, and he looked around blankly. The Burmecian woman was nowhere to be seen.
Damn! The little rat had jumped! She'd never done that before - never even tried it - and Amarant had no idea how on earth she was going to use it to her advantage. That was bad.
Then Amarant made his fatal mistake; he kept his head up, looking at the sky. All the breath was knocked out of him when she came at his back, the claws that she had on her toes slamming and penetrating painfully, making him hit the turf - hard. He immediately tried to slam her backwards and they wrestled on the ground, rolling all over the place.
Finally Freya gave the upper hand, decisively straddled him, and gave him a mighty smack in the cheek. He could have handled it had she not dug in painfully with her claws, and Amarant gasped out his pain, flinching; she took the advantage of spreading out over his body, slamming his wrists down into the grass, panting with the effort of keeping him down. After an immense final power struggle from him, he fell limply to the ground, absolutely stunned.
"Yala, den, rin," he muttered, bloodied and battered from the extremely short-lived, mean fight. "Mercy."
All the fight seemed to go out of her after that, and she stared down at her claws. Blood stained them; Amarant's.
"Gods, Amarant," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I beserked. I wanted to win so badly I hurt you."
"Why did you want to win?" He didn't feel like moving yet.
"Because… because… I don't know. I just… I didn't want to lose." She seemed at a loss for words, and pushed her hair back self-consciously, rolling off his prone body painfully. Red stained the pristine silver; she'd suffered a minor wound at her hairline.
"Good enough excuse for me. You won. Fair fight."
Freya rolled over and pulled her old tunic finally to pieces, limping slightly over to the water and dampening it. She collapsed on her knees next to him and began dabbing at the cuts.
"Ow. Ow. Shit. I know I have a potion around here somewhere…"
"Just let me get all the blood off first." Her hands were ruthlessly gentle, mopping away the dust and the pain, but her voice shook slightly. "You can tell me your history as I mop you up. I won that much."
His blood ran cold as he remembered his promise, made on a rainy night. "… damnit, Freya… you don't want to know. Tell me you don't want to know."
"I want to know, Amarant."
"Never breathe a word of this to another living soul. Or a dead one either." He sat up with the intensity of it, and looked straight up into her face for the first time; the hair fell away from his eyes, and she stared. They were earthy brown, piercing, warm and cold and a million other different contrasting things all in once glance. Amarant eyes.
She nodded, her throat closed up, and the water dripping over her wrists.
Finally, he slumped back, closed his earthbrown eyes and sighed, both of them sitting on the shore close to the shifting water and the wind that graced the Aless lake. "Listen once and listen well, Crescent, 'cause I'm not gonna tell you again."
She listened.
I was born somewhere on a mountain, don't ask me where, because I sure as hell don't know. I lived there with my mother and my father and my family and all the other families that lived on the mountain because there were a lot of us, we were a clan - a tribe! I still can't remember how many of us there were but there were a lot. I guess we were the only ones of our kind up there because I'm damned if I've ever seen another outside of that mountain.
Amarant Coral isn't my real name. Well, it is, but it isn't - you wouldn't be able to pronounce it if I told you. No, don't even try, woman. You haven't got the throat for it. S'alamant. S'alamant aut Koralle. No, put some more K into it… yeah, that's close enough, I suppose. See? You sound like you're trying to hack something up. I told you you wouldn't get it… what? It means… well, it's a type of lizard, but it's also a type of plant… anyway, it doesn't matter. I made it easier to say later on.
I was really young when we started dying. I don't even remember my father. He was one of the first to go… not like I care if I can't even remember. We were getting killed off, picked off… we were a strong people but they were stronger.
Basrii. They were called basrii. Shh.
My mother told me they were demons; they just murdered us freely and when there were no warriors left they invaded where we lived. I never saw one in my life, but I'd probably know one if I saw one… not that I ever want to. They're killers, worse than murderers. Probably ate our damned babies, that's how low they were.
My mother and I were the only ones to survive. She took me away from there and we travelled, travelled forever, I think we might have even gone over a sea but I barely remember any of it. Too young, I guess.
… her name was Damheano. Dah-mhy-e'ano. Look, Freya, don't even try. You sound like a moogle being goddamned ill.
She was a warrior and she was a tracker and when she saw this place we settled here. It wasn't supposed to be for so long, but Aless was so beautiful and so peaceful after what had happened we just sat here in the end.
Yeah… it means heaven. Don't ask, it's just stupid anyway…
I grew up… she taught me how to fight and we lived here together about six years. After that… well, she'd always meant to go back but she never made it. The winters here are bitter and her blood was used to the warmth of that mountain. She's buried somewhere over by the left side of the wall.
… don't be sorry. I'm not. After a while she was just so goddamned sick she couldn't handle breathing any more. It snows here in winter… got into her lungs. Got into mine too but I was young and I could take it.
I stayed here for another bunch of years, and then I couldn't stand it any more either and got up and left. I searched for another couple of years for the mountain I'd grown up on - just to see whether there was anyone left - but I never could find it.
I was… hell, I don't know. A couple of years younger than Zidane used to be? I hung around in some villages, doing odd jobs, picking up the odd bit of gil, getting by. I usually got kicked out for brawling; I picked fights because I wanted to smash people's faces in before they laughed at me for what I was. Then I just travelled to another village…
… lonely? Maybe…
Anyway, that continued 'till I was a bit older… then I got a job as a guard for the auction house and you know what happened there…
Then I met Lani. We took on bounty-hunting jobs together and we worked pretty well as a team - made quite a bit of money, too, and we were the best in a few damn years. And we got ordered to go after Zidane and stuff by the Queen and it was worth a lot of money and hell… you know the rest of it. I met Zidane again, and all the rest of 'em, and you…
Heh, heh. Meeting you. You pissed me off.
… thanks. I'm sure it was mutual.
Afterwards they sat in a long beautiful silence, drinking it in, and before either of them knew what had happened he'd fallen asleep in her lap. She gloried in it, his vulnerability, and for a long time Freya stroked his hair quietly and eventually lay back herself, careful not to disturb him.
("Don't deny you love it when I sleep in your lap, when you brush my hair - you get all maternal and you get that silly smile on your face. You'll make a grand mother one day, Frey.")
The memory hit her so suddenly she almost wept at the thought, but there had been too much weeping that day. That note… that damned note! Freya usually prided herself on keeping a cool head and very rarely getting noticeably angry, but that note had rubbed her up entirely the wrong way. Aless had had no memories of Fratley; when that note arrived, it just desecrated the entire thing. Gods, that letter…!
'Dear Freya… I don't know what I did to drive you away yet… I hope and pray you'll give me one more chance. I… miss you very much - I do not think you can contemplate how much - '
(Miss me? You dare to claim I do not understand the concept of absence? YOU?)
Freya was glad that the note was dying slowly, wasting on the bank. Glad that the ink was soggy and smeared. Wished that as it died so could the betraying memories.
Better not to think any more… and keep the sorrow for outside the rocky walls. A place so beautiful did not deserve the decaying thoughts inside her brain.
Her friend's head was warm, cradled in her hips, coarse red hair spilling over her stomach. Freya smiled briefly, hoping Amarant would forgive her for the bruises that would mar his skin, and soon drifted the same way he did.
Mook was sitting quite happily on a log, sorting out his letters. He'd been given a special job now by the Queen of Alexandria herself - cripes! - to deliver letters back and forth from Mr. Coral and Mr. Tribal. His mother was in paroxysms of delight and was claiming her son would be the next mailmaster.
A big shadow fell over him, a familiar one, and he looked up, blinking. "Well, hello there, sir, you've come a long - erk… um…"
The figure stood over him. The moogle gulped.
"Have you dyed your hair?" he said weakly.
The person tried to smile. It didn't work very well.
"I'm a friend," he said finally, with a voice like crushed coal. "I want… you to show me where you get your letters from."
"Er," Mook said. He felt a bit weak in the wings. "I'm sort of not allowed to do that. Mr. Coral said he'd rip my wings off. He'd get angry. It's a secret."
"Let us just say that more than your wings will get ripped off if you make me angry." The enormous man thought a bit. "It is an emergency, you see."
Mook felt a bit relieved, although something didn't feel right about it. "Oh. Um. Well, I suppose that adds up. I'll send a letter after I tell you the way to make sure - you know, just in case, and things…"
"What is the way?"
"North and then northwest from the big dead oak tree. He collects his letters on the rock in the clearing there. You go directly from here. What's your name so I can tell Mr. Tribal?"
"I'm very sorry," the man apologized.
"Cor, sorry for what?" Mook asked, perplexed.
Silence dominated the clearing.
Then it was broken very sudden by the sharp shrill shriek of a moogle.
And once more it was silent, and Rohgn smiled.