Disclaimer: These are not my characters. They are the sole property of Squaresoft. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of storytelling, stepping briefly into their world to influence their actions.











"Absolute Zero"



Part Three: Where to turn?







"If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?"



-Percy Bysshe Shelley











Reminiscence



Walking into South Figaro brought Celes nearly to her knees. Here was the same occupied town that Locke had busted her out of years earlier. Edgar's soldiers patrolled the street, much as Ghestal's had before. Standing there made her want to flee. Want to vomit.



"What is this, Locke?" She turned to him with wide blue eyes.



"I don't know." He tentatively reached his hand inside his jacket, to where his daggers rested. "Let's hope this is all under Edgar's watchful eye."



"Yes, let's." Celes began walking towards the pub, carefully eyeing Owzer's house. She was well aware of the events that took place here during the reign of the Empire. All too aware.



Inside, they found more tension. The pub was filled, it seemed, with angry people. There was a cautious silence, and things seemed way too calm. Locke strode up to the bartender with his usual brazenness. "Yeah, I'd like to know what exactly is goin' on 'round here." The bartender glared at him, suspiciously. "And a pint as well. And one for my friend here." He added mock-cheerily, to try and keep things cool. Celes felt her stomach churn, and hoped to some god that Locke knew what he was doing.



The large man behind the counter gave them both the once-over. Locke, he was fairly sure he recognized. One of the King's comrades. The woman was more familiar still, and he pondered it for a moment. Her pallor, her stance. He had seen a woman quite like her before, and she had not been a pleasant woman. Dangerous, even.



Then he saw her, all ice and glory, and knew who she was.



"Anthony," He shouted across the room to a man in the corner, dressed in royal garments. "I think these are your people."



"Your people?" Locke turned in anticipation of a scene. His hand flew beneath his jacket and paused there.



"Settle down." The man, Anthony, stood up. "Edgar has sent me." He bowed, slightly. "You must be Locke." Locke settled at little, heart still racing from the shock. Tracey nodded toward Celes. "Lady Celes."



"Why has Edgar sent you?" Celes stood tall, eyeing the man, at least a foot short than her. Her stature was intimidating, to the best of men. "What message do you bring?"



"No message, madame. He sent me to lead you to the castle."



"The way is not safe, then?" Locke inquired. Tracey nodded slightly, looked around. His eagerness to leave was very apparent.

"Come this way."



The three drew many glances as they dashed from the pub. The bartender shook his head. Poured their drinks down the drain. Once they had left, a stir of hushed conversation began around the pub once more.



Whispers





As they walked through the caves, toward Figaro Castle, each was confronted by their own quiet demons.



Celes walked softly, already plagued by her thoughts of guilt. The seizing of her veins to ice. She had been even more intensely worried by her memories of these caves now, and Locke and her first meeting here in Figaro. She was being plagued by dreams of Vector. Dreams of a time when she hadn't seen a future, and suddenly realizing. Those were dreams of now.



Locke saw only Celes. Her furrowed brow concerned him, and he knew she was feeling some intense pain from these circumstances, of late. As for himself, he had already cried all his tears. As long as he could feel her warmth by her side, he could forsake the rest of the world. Once again, she was all that mattered. He could not lose her, would not lose her. Losing her meant losing himself.



Anthony had thoughts only for his kingdom, this Figaro. He was worried about the king. Knew somehow that the arrival of these guests would improve his health. For that reason, every creak in the cave walls sent him reeling. Watching for danger at every turn. He would bring them to Edgar. Somehow he knew that this was vitally important.



Nobody talked as they approached the castle. Celes drew a deep breath upon sight of it; Locke placed his hand at the small of her back, but they said nothing.







By candlelight



Edgar was sitting in his private chamber, when the messenger brought them to him. He had been writing what seemed like the hundredth letter, a message for hope to no end. He had been shrouded by a dark cloud all week, but their entrance immediately lightened his features. Made him cry out in joy.



"Friends! Welcome! Come right in." He rushed to greet them, ushered Anthony aside. Smiled his warm thanks to him, then strongly, eagerly, embraced them both.



"Edgar, old chap! You look pale." Locke laughed, and Edgar beamed at him.



"No paler than you, my dear friend!" He bellowed. Turning to Celes, he grasped her hands. "Celes. Lovely as ever." (He wisely chose not to say "Paler, as ever.") He kissed her left hand, with a showy display of etiquette.



"You haven't change one bit, Edgar." She flushed a fierce grin. "Thank the heavens."



"Now, both of you sit down. Immediately. What would you like? Tea? Ale? Just say the words and I will send for it." Edgar led them to a chair, facing his desk.



"Something warm to drink would be nice."



"Yeah. That'd be a great bit, that would."



"Done."



They talked for hours, like old friends, and in some ways that's what they were. In some other ways, possibly even stronger ones, they had changed. Grown distant. But that's how it was with these things. Still they retained certain ties now, and nobody ever forgets the feeling of standing together. Fighting for the same cause.



And now, more than ever, they would be fighting for the very same cause.







Tears





That night as Celes was moving toward the bathroom, she heard a young girl crying. Not usually the motherly type, she was surprised when she found herself walking into the room where the noise was coming from. The young girl, Danae, looked up, slightly startled.



"Who's there? Nanna?"



"No, not Nana." Celes hushed her, awkwardly, unsure of how to treat the frightened little girl. "My name is Celes." The little girl rubbed her puffy eyes.



"Wow. You look pretty. You're all white, though." She sat up. Her reddish hair was tousled. Celes sat on the edge of her bed, slowly. "Why?"



"Why am I . . . white?" Celes was more than a little bewildered.



"All frosty white like the snow!" She widened her dark eyes. Celes rubbed her arm, and looked around the room. She smiled, not to scare the girl.



"Well, you might not believe it, but I once had that snow, the essence of it, placed into my heart."



'Oh. Really? Did it hurt?"



"Yes, it did. A little."



"But you're okay now, right?"



"Yes, I am" Celes smiled. I am. The girl rumpled the blankets in her hands, churning a thought for a moment. Celes found she couldn't predict what she would say next.



"So then you're an ice faery, would you say?"



"Ummm," Celes considered. Decided for once, to avoid the cold truth, and tell a little (Locke-type) story. "Yeah, just that."



"Wow. Do you have wings?"



"No. But maybe I'll get them if I'm a really good faery." Celes smiled at the excited little girl.



"Boy, I'd like to have wings."



"If you go back to sleep, I think you just might dream that you have wings."



"Wow. Really?"



"It's possible. Let's try it and see, shall we?"



Rumours





Terra received a message, that cold morning. An anonymous note that led her to believe that someone knew that there was more to this snowstorm than could be figured by common folk, like her self. Though Terra, in a reality, was far from common. And she already knew, somehow, that there was more to this white-out than simply snow. It was a wound. A wound of the earth. She was close enough to the earth, from her father's side of the family, to feel these changes it was facing.



She didn't recognize the writing, but her memory usually avoided those types of things. For the most part, she didn't understand who would send this letter to her, of all people.



The letter did contain certain interesting information about the whereabouts of her friends, though. Mentioning Locke and Celes, and trouble in Figaro. Something about the castle of Doma, and then . . . oh. My. Thamasa.



Terra nearly dropped the letter when she came to that part. She had seen the wave, its offspring waves having hit their shore, but Mobliz had taken no damage. She had picked up some driftwood and flotsam from the shoreline just yesterday, all the pieces lending aid in her building of her fortress here in Mobliz. Every bit counts. But now. She was lining her home with the losses of Thamasa? Lighting her fire with pieces of the magi's houses?



Terra wept on that cold morning. She stood on the outcrop above Mobliz, in the wind, and cried for hours.







Gossip



"So, Locke. Now that there are no ladies present . . . "



"Oh. This ought to be just wonderful."



"What's the deal with you and Celes?"



"What you mean, What's the DEAL? Must we really talk about this?"



"Still the old Ice Queen then, I take it."



"Hey, don't call her that, okay?"



"Why not? I've heard you say that, many a time."



'Joking, Edgar. Only joking."



"But then why do you wince in such pain, Locke, when I say it, hmm?"



"Cos I don't feel like having this conversation, that's all."



"I'm telling you now. She is feisty, but she's a real gem, that girl. A real catch. You should nab her while you can."



"Nab her? NAB her? What is she . . . some bloody sack of potatoes, Edgar?"



"Oh Locke, friend, you never change."



"Neither do you. For better or worse . . . "





Never Fade Away



So, that day in Figaro, the three friends talked business. They talked of pleasures too, of course, but they primarily discussed the matter of the falling snow and what was to be done. About it, and more pressingly, because of it.

Edgar wasn't looking himself again, and Locke was very worried about the look in his eyes. The fading light there. His friend had always been a witty one, a lively one. A sparring partner. An able man with words and wit. A bright young king with obvious cheer. But now. The fireflies have left his eyes. The lustre in his hair. Gone.



Nobody mentioned Sabin. Celes noticed this. She wouldn't be the one to do it, either. That was a weight she was incapable of lifting. Surely, Locke. He's your friend. And he's so . . . So pale, you said? You were right. He is pale. But yes, I shouldn't think this way. He's my friend too. And Sabin . . . Missing again. Like before. During the war. Had he withered here, in the palace? Left to roam once more?



Sabin's presence hung above their heads.



Edgar told them about his correspondence with Narshe and Jidoor. The pooling of resources to find an answer to these mysterious weather patterns. And no results. The scholars faltered, could not get their feet secure in the snow. And Figaro, under rampant hysteria. Constant outbreaks.



"So you see, it's looking quite bleak."



"We must do something. Surely, something . . . "



"Will you continue to Narshe? My duties here . . . I couldn't accompany you."



"We understand, Edgar. We will go on your behalf then."



"Yes, we're not to let the world go so easily. It won't do . . ."



"No, Locke. It won't do."



The Cloak



She eyed the cloak. Sueded, with furs, deep navy. A startlingly beautiful object. She moved around it, here in an old room in the castle. A room which, even to this day, smelled weakly of lavender. A long, graceful coat. Warmth was promised from its tender folds. A heaviness, despite its soft edges. Celes lifted it of its rack, pushed her arms into the sleeves, which fit her perfectly. "Snug," as Locke had said. The deepest blue. Celes viewed herself in the mirror, a picture of royalty.



Edgar's mother had owned this cloak. He had offered it to her.



She felt shy at this gift, even slightly ashamed. She often had misjudged Edgar. This present made her feel guilty about that. The dark coat made her features ever paler, purer. Her eyes more blue. She felt like an Imperial General again, somehow, in this cloak. Proud and unwavering. She hadn't been this way since . . . Since Locke had taken her into his little world. She'd known nothing of pride there. But somehow, this had been a comfort. She examined her eyes, searched for any sign there of the hardened General Celes.



Nothing. Only clear blue intelligence. Softened by the travels. Made truer and constant.



She smiled. How to repay Edgar for this? Going in his place to Narshe, was all he asked for. But then, his eyes. She understood about Sabin, then. Maybe. Maybe that could be her gratitude to the young king. She stood there, feeling like a worthy adversary to the cold elements. The cloak giving her power. A frightening ice goddess. A peace-seeking ice faery. Oh, that girl. Danae. The girl had given her some warm feeling that had reminded her of Terra. Celes could not help but smile at the thought of her.



Locke peered through the open door, quietly, as only Locke could do. He saw Celes smiling at herself in the mirror and was enveloped in a calm warmth. And that cloak she wore. Edgar had offered it, and oh, how she looked in it.



Locke pushed through the door, Celes glancing up at him through the mirror. Smiled. He reached her. Wrapped his arms around her from behind.