XIX
"The three things most often mistaken for courage are stupidity, suicidal tendencies, and the lack of all other options."
--Estharan saying

Squall's blood was rushing past his ears.

He could count his own heartbeats, resonant as they were. We was trying not to panic--trying to maintain control in the stench of sorcery and the empty chamber. (I can do this,) he told himself--without really believing. (I've been alone before. I've fought alone before. This is... just another challenge.)

There was an echoing emptiness in his mind. One hand went up to his neck, gripping the Griever pendant that hung there--the strongest of the GFs, the one corrupted far in the future whom he had fought and vanquished. (The GFs said they'd come when they were needed. Where are they...?

(...I can't wait for them. Every second that passes is another spell the Crystal Pillar gains.) He grimaced to himself. (If you wanted to turn back you should have a long time ago. You can't now.)

He stepped forward, and the doors swung open before him.

Laughter sounded from the room beyond. "What did I tell you?" asked a voice. "I am the cat, and you are the mouse. And a most unusual mouse indeed, to think that you could challenge me."

(He knows I'm here, he knows I'm listening. I can't put this off any longer.) Steeling himself, he drew his sword and stepped across the threshold.

"Perhaps not a mouse after all," Dyne said from hid sculpted throne. An obsidian cobra's head reared behind him, ruby eyes glinting--its coils seemed almost to constrict in the torchlight, gripping the silk pillow upon which Dyne rested. His sword lay across his lap, gleaming. He looked like nothing so much as a warrior monk, some throwback to the Eastern chivalric days--his hair gathered behind his head, the sword and throne mere extentions of his will. "Perhaps you are a weasel, who burrows into a rabbit's den only to find the fox has taken up residence. Either takes courage. I am impressed, dear Leonhart. Do not doubt that."

"Give up, Dyne," Squall said. (I've killed sorceresses before. You're less of a threat than you think.)

"You do not regard me with the revulsion the others do," Dyne laughed. "You do not see me as evil."

(...I don't believe in evil,) Squall thought.

"Of course not," Dyne chortled. "Two men meet and war, each with their differences, each in their own right. Thus speaks the legendary Leonhart, philosopher at war."

"You can read my mind."

"Of course," Dyne said. "Your vaunted GF, Bahamut did the same thing? 'Maybe we were born... only to fight'? I know you, my friend."

"You're not a Guardian Force." (And you're not my friend.)

Dyne only smiled. "You are a clever one. And since you believe so firmly in differing perspectives, perhaps you could learn to share mine. I offer you a chance to join me."

(Never.)

Dyne frowned. "I cannot allow my rivals to remain unchecked. Though you are no sorcerer, you are my rival nonetheless. I offer you one choice, join me voluntarily, or make me find some other method to nullify the threat you represent. So, what will it be? Do you join me, or do you die here?"

(Neither.)

Dyne stood, raising one hand in a practiced gesture.

The dors behind Squall clanged open, and a soldier entered--dragging withhim a bruised and dazed Laguna. He threw the president to the ground before Dyne, hefting a massive black sword--which he placed to Laguna's throat, pressing down so that the flat indented the skin.

"Your father," Dyne murmured. "There is no love lost between you, but would you see him die?"

There was a noise from the stairway, but Squall and Dyne both ignored it.

Squall looked at Laguna for a second, then turned back to Dyne. (You think this will convince me to join you? Why? So I can know that I'm in the employ of someone who resorts to hostages and blackmail?)

(Never.)

Anger began to show beneath Dyne's calm facade. "Kill--"

"Hey!" someone yelled from the doorway. A Death spell triggered behind the soldier, and he fell over, blade clattering to the ground. Seifer ran in, gunblade cocked and ready.

"Nice timing," Laguna said, rubbing his neck and standing up. Seemingly out of nowhere he produced a machine gun, nodding to Dyne civilly.

"You dare challenge me?" Dyne growled, fingers curling around his sword. "You dare face me--I, Master of the Pillar, Dyne Ascendant, Sorcerer and--"

"Shut up," Seifer said.

Dyne raised his sword, swung into a ready position--half-crouched, blade high, two fingers bracing the weapon, his face twisted into a mask of hate and fury. "Fear me," he said. "I am power incarnate. I give you one last chance."

Glancing at Laguna, Squall saw the iron determination in his eyes. "I won't leave you again," Laguna said.

Squall snorted. (We don't have time to be sentimental. Concentrate on the fight, Laguna.)

He glanced at Seifer. The renegade was smiling, Hyperion at the ready. "Don't think this is for you, Squally," Seifer said. "This one is for me."

Squall turned back to Dyne. Laguna and Seifer--dubious fighting companions at the best of times, but now they were all Squall had. He looked at Dyne.

He drew his sword, stood at guard.

"We're ready for you, Dyne," he said. (Bring it on.)

-

(The enemy, the blade, and the magic. Forget the pain. Forget your allies. Those three things are all that matter...)

Dyne fought like a dragon.

Lithe and serpent-quick, he spun and danced around the blades that sought him, deflected the bullets that snapped around him, kept himself at the center of hissing fray incomprehensible to anyone outside the moment. Sorcery cloaked him, so that at times he seemed to have no substance, at times too much--twin blades sang and cut where there was only one, illusions drew and deflected attacks as if they were as solid as flesh and adamant. He moed faster than eyes could trace--almost faster than blades could follow.

But he was one man, and not invincible--and in hunters' symphony, his attackers were bringing him down.

In dodging Squall's strikes he found himself cornered and harried by Seifer's, in parrying Seifer he found himself in the line of Squall's sweeps, and in evading both he put himself in the clear for Laguna's shots--his robe was dirtied with blood, his skin gleaming with sweat, and while he gave as good as he got he couldn'tkeep up.

He fell, gasping, staggering back, holding the blade between himself and his adversaries like a refuge. And the fighters circled, holding him at bay.

"You..." Dyne began, raising a hand to the gaping wound just below his hairline. "You..." he tried again, voice choked with rage.

(...is that it? Did we win?)

Dyne pulled back his lips into a snarl, raising his sword high. The blade was bloodstained--whose blood, Squall wasn't sure. Some was his.

Dyne brought the sword down on the ground, leaning on it as he would a walking stick. Head bent, hair falling over his eyes, sides heaving, he looked... almost pitiable.

But not quite.

"...this... isn't it..." Dyne said, collapsing onto the ground. With a supreme effort of will, he raised his blade. "I will... not... be vanquished..."

The blade fell.

"Hah!" Seifer yelled. "We did it! We won!"

"Yeaaah!" Laguna yelled. Squall stared at Dyne for a bit longer, thinking (It can't be that easy. Nothing concerning sorceresses and sorcerers is that easy...)

From deep within the Castle, something laughed.

Final sorcery! a voice rumbled, echoing from the walls and through the passageways like deep dark throats. Earthshake and flarestorm. This castle will end!

(...just for once, I would like not to be right,) Squall thought.

"Does... that mean what I think it means?" Laguna asked.

Squall nodded. "Run."

Thankfully, Seifer didn't argue. As all three turned to run for the stairs, there was a low, hiss behind them. Hands on their weapons, they turned back.

The throne was uncoiling, red eyes blinking. Its mouth opened, fangs as sharp as blades glinting in the light. A long tongue flicked out, scenting the blood in the air. Its scales gleamed like armor, hard and unforgiving.

(...not good!) "Run! Next intersection, split up!" (It can't follow all three of us--)

Laughter and the serpent following them, they bolted through the halls.

The next intersection had five roads, and without a word, Squall took the center path. He could hear the footsteps of his companions fading away behind him.

Final sorcery, the dread voice echoed. Come forth, children of chthonic night. End!

Squall jumped back as a Grendel appeared in front of him, snarling. Ramming his sword into the thing's neck and pulling the trigger, he sidestepped as it raked him with its claws. It spat, snarled and tried to turn enough to bring its tail blade into play--hard, in the narrow tunnel, where there was barely enough room to dodge. Ramming a Flare spell into it just as he stabbed through its ribcage, Squall watched as the huge brown-blue monster collapsed. Running up the hall again, he wondered just how many "children" there were.

There was a flash of red light from one side, and Squall brought his gunblade up again. Lowering it as he saw the tiny, green form of Carbuncle, he took a moment to wonder what the GF was doing.

Flicking an ear at him, the GF bounded off up the passageway, red jewel casting a ghastly light. Squall, with a moment's hesitation, followed.

Carbuncle led him through an insanely twisted, convoluted route, with plenty of turns and enough dips and hills that Squall wondered if they weren't going in circles. Carbuncle seemed to know the way to avoid the monsters--more than once he would pull Squall into a side tunnel just as a Blue Dragon would lumber past, or as some winged abomination Squall had never seen before would cut through the air to one side of them.

If Carbuncle had any doubts as to where he was bringing Squall, he didn't show it. Finally, they burst into a circular chamber, only about as big as the Ragnarok's passenger seat. With a last ear-flick, Carbuncle dived into a hole in the ground that had previously not been there.

Something huge pinned him against a wall, and Squall turned to stare into Bahamut's formidable face. "Too late!" The GF hissed. "All this--and still too late!"

"What--"

Bahamut silenced him with a look. "There are too many of these creatures, and I cannot dare stay any longer. But I will give you power--"

Unimaginable power began to flood into Squall, more powerful then a hundred Ultimas--more powerful than five hundred Ultimas! But it was just raw power, and Squall met with the same difficulty Dyne had: he had absolutely no way to control it.

"--power to do what you may need to do," the GF continued. "We must leave now. Do not seek to call us."

(What was that all about? ...what's that?) Squall froze, hearing a noise behind him. His hand almost leaped to his gunblade--

"Squall!"

Squall turned to see Quistis, chain whip ready, running towards him from an adjoining hall. "What's happened? What's going on?"

"I think Dyne may be dead. Possibly," Squall said, "but he wants to take us with him if he is."

"We can't go back this way," Quistis said, pointing the way she had come. "It's clogged with monsters."

Squall looked at the two other halls. one lead up, and one lead down. "We'll just keep taking every hall that leads up," he said. "We'll hope it gets us to the Castle."

"Squall--" Quistis said, looking down the third corridor and pointing. Squall moved over, and looked.

The corridor was fairly straight for a long distance, and well-lit. It helped to see the the roiling black mass of people at the far end.

"We need to get out of here," Quistis said. Squall nodded.

"That passageway," he said.

Both ran. The passageway branched and split numerous times, but there was always one clear path leading upwards.

Until they got to the armory.

Qusitis skidded to a halt, looking around the rows of armor. There was only one entrance, and one exit: a tiny air vent that would obviously not hold two people.

"It was a trap?" Quistis asked.

(No, that--can't be it. There would be a thousand easier ways. We must have taken a wrong turn--)

"The last intersection is too far back--they'd be there by now!"

(There's no turning back. There hasn't been any turning back since we entered SeeD. There hasn't been a single thing from which we could ever back down. Did it really take me this long to figure that out?)

"Squall," Quistis asked, turning to stare at him. "What are we going to do?"

Squall stood there for a moment, considering the options. The odd encounter with Bahamut popped into his mind:

"...power to do what you may need to do..."

"Help me into one of these things," Squall said, moving over to the armor. Quistis balked.

"What?"

"Help me into the armor," Squall said, taking off his jacket and opening the torso of the armor.

"You can't be serious!" Quistis said. "Don't you remember what Odine said: ultimate power, infinite loyalty?"

"To someone who's already dead," Squall said, thinking (Dead? Maybe. Maybe not. But this is the only way at least one of us will get out alive. Maybe both...) "We have maybe one chance to get out of here alive. Help me."

"I am not goint to let you do this, Squall," Qusitis said.

"We don't have another option."

"Then find one!"

(Damn... don't make me do this). the look on Quistis's face told him he had no choice. He had never had to pull rank before, but there was a first time for everything.

"Quistis," he snapped, hating to have to treat her this way. (She'll never forgive me for this, even if she sees her way to forgiving herself... but, dammit, we don't have another choice!) "This isn't a request! This isn't optional. This is a direct goddam order from your commander, because we don't have another choice. Now help me into that suit!"

Quistis looked shocked--then she looked hurt. "Yes, sir," she said bitterly, twining her hands together to serve as a brace for Squall to step on. Pulling himself into the armor, Squall felt it close around him and shrink. Metal wiring pressed against his skin, bitterly cold.

Handing Quistis his jacket, he said "Go through the air vent. If nothing else, it will hold you until I'm finished here."

"Yes, sir," she said, pulling herself into the vent. With a last look at Squall, she began to crawl through.

It took Squall a moment to get used to the suit again, but he found that it was easier with the jacket. It was easy to turn to the entrance and begin walking out, and the jacket even seemed to grant him some amount of night vision--though how it did, he didn't know.

Walking downwards, he hoped that what he was about to do wouldn't bury all of his companions. But he knew it would work.

(Several generations from now, Ultimecia will excavate the castle and levitate it. At that time, none of these structures exist. Something happened between then and now to cause that. So this has to work. ...it's been preordained.
(Hyne, I hate prophecy.)

The army turned a corner and saw him, pausing. "You're heading the wrong way," one of them said. "Turn around and join us."

(Never.)

If one hundred Ultima's worth of power could be call extrodinary results from the armor, who knew what Bahamut's Own power would do? It would cause an overload, certainly. What else?

(Well, we're about to find out.)

Just like a junction. He could feel the paths and receptacles with his mind, move the magic that burned mental fingers. Pouring all the energy into the armor, he could feel it overload, magic lapping out, overriding sense and contol. Then, a blinding flash of light, an incredible concussion of power--then nothing.

Elsewhere in the Castle the black-and-silver floor shattered, revieling the red tiles beneath.

The stone stairs in the wine cellar crumbled, but for the last five. Half of the stone floor dissolved into dust, shaken by impossible resonance.

The spiral ramp in the clock tower snapped and broke at a weak point, making the balcony inaccessable. Three boards fell and got lodged in the ramp, creating a bypass of sorts.

The door beneath the chandelier jammed shut, nearly fused as magic warped and twisted through the room.

Squall, swimming in impossible awareness, buoyed by the flow of magic within which he was lost, stopped to think (self-fufilling prophecy,) before his synapses overloaded.