Disclaimer: These are not my characters

Disclaimer: These are not my characters, except maybe those which I have invented. Those that I haven't 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 Eight: The Freeze

"A sad tale's best for winter."

-Shakespeare

Contemplation

Celes sneezed, and Locke spun toward her in concern. She rubbed her nose; glanced at him in mild frustration, as if to say, "Don't look at me like that. I'm not made of porcelain." She whispered to him, "Dust, love. Just dust." He slid his arm around her back, leaned toward her, sinking them both into the depths of the upholstery of the couch.

Around them, the living room was filled with people. The sneeze was barely noticed otherwise, in all the commotion. Lydia and Lenore had dropped in to visit, after they had explained certain things to Locke, and were now discussing issues with Arvis and the others. The fire crackled with the winds coming down the chimney, and the room was a riot of conversation and clinking tea-cups.

Arvis seemed increasingly mellow and tired after the death of Banon. He spoke in calm clear tones.

"So, this remnant. This feather that was lost, it would have been important in your research, no?"

"Oh Gods, yes! That would have been something, certainly. Something to work with. We've been looking at some fragments of flesh, Lenore and I, but that's insignificant, really. It's nearly impossible to acquire data like that from such a small source, with the technology we're using. But the feather. Now that's a relic we could surely use." 


"Can anything be done?"

"Perhaps we will chance upon another." Lenore's eyes betrayed the fact that she feared they would not.

"I have a way."

The room grew silent and all eyes shot towards Alexis. She was standing now. Her compact body looking quite fiery. "This." She held the small white whistle between her fingers. A small flute, which could produce a shrill, nearly in-audible tone.

"A moogle charm? Where on earth . . . "

"Doesn't really matter, I suppose. But it may be our best shot at getting the relic back."

"You mean to use it?"

"Of course."

"But aren't the moogles . . . "

"We'll see now, won't we?"

Ivory

Terra regarded the air with a blind indifference. To her left, as to her right, was nothing but whiteness. It bit her, caused her to falter. She moved now, with instinct only.

The ice tore her skin.

In Mobliz, Sebastian held a bead of pure ivory. He rolled it between his fingers.

Seraphim.

Spread wings of protection over Terra.

Please move her with your gentle powers.

The bead glistened. Casting a dull milky haze upon the man's face.

Terra's face felt warm. Numb. Her eyes rolled into her skull, then set themselves upon a soft glow emitting from the sky.

Guide her in her journey, please.

            Terra fell to the ground, engulfed in warmth, unable to feel her limbs anymore. For a moment she felt as if she was floating in a clear white space. Weightless. Opening her eyes, she faced a warm ray of white light. It looked her over deeply. Her lips moved.

            "You want to kill us for what we've done, but revenge is the same as the initial violence. It solves nothing."

            Silence.

            Then only howling winds. She could see that her legs were now moving, though slowly, and the feeling returned. Her eyes could see only far enough ahead to guide her. It continued this way until she perceived, ahead of her, a town.

Moogle Charm

Alexis approached the edge of the cliff, facing the snow. She knew better than to go any closer than she stood, as she feared she would underestimate the distance. She paused, listening to the wind. Waiting for a break in the storm where the gale lowered to almost a breeze. She stood there, her boots deep in snow, for quite some time, but then . . .  There it was. A break in the storm. There always was one.

She put the whistle to her lips, and blew with a force from the bottom of her lungs. Not too shrill, or too deep, the pitch of the whistle glided like honey throughout the valley. Bouncing off the snow, flake-to-flake, and diving to the greatest depths of the canyon. It engulfed everything; a moogle song that flew like fire.

If Mog was out here anywhere, he would hear it. If, indeed, he was still alive.

Alexis stood there, playing this tune, until she could no longer feel her legs. She would not give this up until she was sure he would not come. Mog had been, after all, a favourite companion of hers as a child. Even up until a few years ago, she went to him when she wanted to avoid Arvis or get away from the rest of the commotion of Narshe. She missed him, but by now, had grow accustomed to the absence.

Then. A piece of white that moved. A small pink antenna.

"Mog!" She dropped the whistle and embraced him tightly (picking up the whistle afterwards). The stocky little creature laughed, his whiskers twitching.

"Kupo, Alexis! You scared little ol' me, you did, but you sure can play that whistle. It was a sing-song like no other. Now then, what's all your worryin' about?"

"Oh Mog, you . . . You're such a gem."

"Ku-uopo! Spit it out, lady!"

"Okay, yes. We need your help. It's urgent."

"Nothing new there. Kupo-kupoo! So spill. Lay it on me, Romeo!

And so Mog returned to Narshe with Alexis.

Remnants of Albrook

When Terra entered the pub, she was regarded with much indifference. She was pale and weather worn, but that wasn't anything that would separate her from any of the other patrons of the bar. They cared, certainly, but nobody wandering around town had much concern for anyone else's business. It was an unspoken, "Don't ask, don't tell," policy. For this reason, her arrival went uncelebrated but not completely unnoticed.

A lame girl in the corner sat sipping a thick ale, and she noticed Terra's entry. She looked up with bleary eyes that had seen better days, but were still quite sharp, even through the blur of alcohol.  She sat up a little, shifting her weight awkwardly. She straightened her ragged clothes, and watched the green haired lady carefully.

Terra approached the bar, and nodded weakly to the lady behind it. Her face was now flushed blood red in all areas but the centers of her cheeks, where the skin was pure white. The lady, a tall thick woman, threw a warm mug down in front of her, and nodded, chewing her tobacco.

"You ought to get that face checked out in the hospice, girl." Terra lowered her eyes, accepted the mug, and nodded quietly. The lady grunted, "That ain't good for you, girl. Looks bad." She snorted, and went about her business as usual.

Terra retreated from the bar, settling unto a table.

The girl watched her, quietly.

From her bag, Terra pulled out a small bag of coins and regarded them. A frown slowly fell across her face when she realized that their were not many inside the bag, barely enough for a decent room in the inn. She sipped her drink, and lay her head back onto the seat. A sad sorry time this was. And no purpose yet in sight.

She was jolted back to consciousness by the sound of wood clinking down on the floorboards. There before her stood a young woman, leaning on a pathetic excuse for a crutch.

"I can find you a place to stay for the night, if you want it. It won't cost you anything, either, except maybe enough money to buy me another drink."

"Well," Terra smiled, a unsure but grateful expression. "And how is that possible?"

"You'll find I've grown quite resourceful, Terra."

Mog

            Mog was chatting, eagerly. A choreographed explanation.

            "So yeah, that's right! I can't say I saw the thief, exactly, no offence Locke!"

            "None taken, my friend."

            "Right. But I think I know of the suspiciousness, rightly so, that you refer to."

            "Can you be somewhat clearer, possibly?" Arvis didn't get Mog-speak, try as he might.

            "Kupo, kupo, kupo!" Moogle fury.

            "Oh, Mog. Calm down. He's just being an asshole. Isn't that RIGHT, Arvis!" Alexis glared at her uncle, furious that he could be so daft as to toy with a moogle's sense of pride. Didn't he see how important his information could be?

            Celes reached toward Mog, placed her hand on his furry shoulder. "Have you seen any sign of movement in the mountains, Mog? Anything that seemed suspicious?" Mog rumbled in delight.

            "Rub me. Kuuupooo."

            And so it went for quite some time. Mog baiting and deferring their conversation until they were nearly through with him. Then, as he could sometimes be, he turned completely serious. Settled down, and gave them a straightforward account of activity in the cliffs just East of Narshe. The area where they had once faced Ghestal's army under Kefka's command. Where once they had fought an Esper. Yes, the Tritoch. They had nearly forgotten this.

            The area swelled with a deep danger, Mog said. A quiet source of pure evil.

To the Mountains

            They followed the path of the moogle, Mog, through these mountains.

            The path, once familiar, sent a cacophony of worries through their minds. Each bend bringing back old pains, and prides, and now new fears. A strange voice filled their minds, a pang of icy terror. It entered their heads and leapt out again, hidden in the gusts of the storm.

            This, it spoke to each of them:

Setzer: Better turn back now, silver, or your Luck will betray you. You go too far with your own whims to safely fall back into the arms of good Fortune.

Alexis: You can't be serious. Considering yourself a leader here. Why girl, the last time you climbed this cliff, you fell and bruised your knee. A child. Only a child. You have a long way to go yet before you can enter here unscathed.

Celes: You were right, you are flawed. You're cold girl. You want to freeze to death?

Locke: You want me to believe that you aren't afraid? That the idea of this fight for survival doesn't terrify you? Terrify you that you'll lose something, someone, else? Why don't you just run away? Run, like you've run so many times before.

Mog: Die moogle! You are going to die, like you should have long ago. Kupo-po!

Aillen: They don't know you are here yet, but I do. You can't hide. You're not going to live forever by your wits. You are as afraid as anyone. Hiding in dark corners.

            And they didn't know that their nagging consciences could be so very right. They didn't think it possible that the storm would threaten them so much. But here, they began to here the falling of the grace of the world. Piece by frozen piece.

Attack

Edgar lit three candles in his bedchamber. One for his mother, one for his father, and one for Sabin. The last was harder to light, the wick doubting itself many times. He persevered, and finally it danced with the other two candles, sharing a slow meandering waltz.

Edgar stood, his robes dragging along the floor, and walked toward the wind. Glass, and sealed tightly, as were all openings in his castle now. An impenetrable fortress, if such a thing existed, and Edgar doubted that very much. He stood and watched the snow toss itself violently into the window, trying to find a way into his castle. The winds roared against the castle walls, hungrily.

Edgar's shadow flickered on the wall in front of him, lit by the light of the three candles. They shone at different angles, each shaping his silhouette in different ways, reflecting an aspect of him. His family. They were here with him, even though they really were not. He was amazed at how different he looked, cast across the wall in this way. His shadow flickered in time with the slow dance of the candles.

Another form appeared in the corner of the wall, and Edgar saw it immediately. It was his attacker. He had been waiting for this, despite the many guards posted in the dungeons of the castle. In the end the only person that can protect you is yourself, and Edgar knew this to be true.

He reached downward and picked up his chainsaw.                                         


White cliffs

 

            At the top, nothing but whiteness.

            They could barely hear each other shouting back and forth to each other over the winds, and visibility was impossible. Their eyes stung themselves closed. They moved as though blind, feeling their paths, fearing the moment the ground would drop out and they would fall.

            "What are we here to prove?" Alexis screamed headlong into the wind, but nobody heard her. She held her bandaged arm up to the gusts, straining herself with the force required to shield her eyes.

            Could she see? See anything, anything at all. Did she make out a form . . . Aillen?

            Celes stepped forward, feeling the snow crush beneath her feet. "So this is what I'm all about? So this is ice, the power of ice . . . " She struggled to remain upright, her willowy body hurled wayward by the storm. She felt into the whiteness for a familiar touch of flesh, but Locke's form could not be reached by her, could not be found in the void of the storm.

            They all began to feel as though the storm was swirling around them. The force of the gale emanating from the very place they stood.

Survival

Edgar sat in his throne room, eyeing the walls. Portraits of kings before him lined the polished stone. They eyed him in what seemed to be contempt, or was that pity?

Anthony entered the room, offered him the pipe he had requested. He took notice of the oddness of this request, but said nothing. It was not his place to question the king, especially in lieu of the recent events in the castle.

He had rushed into the King's chamber only minutes before. Blood. The chainsaw dangling from Edgar's arm. Those empty blue eyes. "A pipe," he had said, flatly. "I need a pipe." And now two servants mopped the chamber from ceiling to floor, filling buckets with sopping crimson water.

Edgar sat deep in the throne of his father, inhaling deeply. His father had been known to smoke a pipe when he was faced with a trying situation, such as the one Edgar now found himself to be in. Hell, he could have used a lot more than a lungful of smoke.

Edgar sucked back deeply, and pondered. Hoping his noisy mind would eventually let him sleep.

Snow Sickness

Celes felt a sharp pain in her chest. The winds slowed and she stood in a patch of calm for a moment. A brief instant in the eye of the storm. She imagined that she saw a warm glow, a soft milky light. It twinkled and laughed at her.

Time. There is so little time left.

            Locke spun around in the snow, pacing like a caged animal. He felt a consuming sense of worry. Reaching. Where? To grasp on. To what? He cried out, "Celes!" And louder, screaming. "CELES!" Words lost to snow. He gazed upon a white light, and shuddered. His legs gave out from under him.

            The others could also perceive a light emitting from the center of the storm. It swirled and flashed and was then gone. They struggled to action, forcing limbs, but none was attained.

            Too late now. You had your chance.

            Celes felt her mouth scream, and watched herself absorb the shards of light as they burst from the core of this ice swell. She held her arms, numb with frost. No feeling.

            Several of them heard her, and could not ever forget after that day the sound of her screams of terror. So unlike her, so full of the sense of raw fear.

            One saw her. Aillen. Stumbling briefly into the center of the storm.

            Her eyes witnessed a loss of vision. She watched the liquid inside them slowly freeze, particles of ice crept alone her retina like a spiders web. She felt her legs shatter inside, then give way, limp from pain. She was mildly aware, as she glazed over, that she was cushioned in the arms of someone. Someone had caught her. But now, she was leaving. Her eyes searched for the face of the one she loved. The only one who could save her.

            "Locke . . . " Her words a whisper. "Kiss me. I'm . . . I think . . . " Then nothing.

            Aillen felt his heart snap and pressed his lips unto hers. At least, then, she would think she had been safely in her lover's arms. Pain jolted through him as his lips were bruised with ice, cracked, frozen and purple. He yelped in pain, and Celes dropped slowly frozen unto the icy ground.

            Then silence.

            Temperatures reached their lowest that day. The snow, now tired, stopped falling.