Chapter 5: Mind Battles
Seifer | June 8
Quisty was lying on her side as if she had jumped from the swings and landed the wrong way. Wet, grainy sand smeared her rosy cheeks and stippled her carefully done French braids. She squinted in the blistering sunlight, confused and hurt.
Seifer was sprawled out on his bed, eyes shut and arms resting behind his head. He was not asleep. He was not dreaming. He was remembering. The act of remembering was a therapeutic exercise that he carried through with quiet determination—on his terms, in his own time.
She was too dazed to speak, to react. And then, a belated realization of her predicament: whining at first, followed by a swift fountain of tears. Frustrated that she couldn't even wipe them away because her hands had become gritty and muddy from the fall.
Snippets of memory came to him with buzzy repetition, his mind delivering scraps of scenes like impressionistic lyrics. What exactly did these scenes mean when decoupled from everything else: his wisdom, his prejudices, his fears?
Matron knelt into the sand and cautiously touched the little blonde girl's ankle, cooing and murmuring words of comfort to her. It was most likely a twisted ankle, and surely that irreverent devil Seifer was tied to this accident—
Something about this song wasn't right. It was frazzled and glitchy, and the focal point felt off. The mood was crude, sinister, and wrapped in a sneer. It couldn't possibly be his own sneer. This scene was not a part of his past. He could feel it in his gut. Seifer steered his mind to descend into the bowels of his memories and latch onto a different plane of existence. In the fusillade of noise, he desperately searched for that which would ring out like a beacon in the night.
Quisty was staring wide-eyed at him, dainty hands clamped over her mouth in consternation. There was no prelude to her tears this time; they simply erupted. He could hear Matron's padding feet approaching them, soft yet urgent.
The tune had changed, and it destabilized him for a moment. But it didn't always mean that he was wrong. Sometimes the scenes would spew out antagonistically in an attempt to trick him, but tension did not always equate to falsity. There were times when that tension was necessary to bring balance to the light and the dark.
Quisty's wailing was like a dirge. Somehow she managed to sound despondent and bratty at the same time. Matron leaned over him, her long black hair tickling his face. She was frowning and fussing, trying to help him sit up so that she could carry him back to the house.
Now there were two versions of the memory layering on top of each other, daring him to crumble in confusion. But it was too late. Seifer had already sensed this new memory attempting to hide itself from him at full throttle, resisting him like taut strings. This was the real story; it had to be. It wasn't Quisty who had been injured. It was him.
Sharp pain searing through his tiny ankle, too much for a little boy to bear. He squeezed his eyes shut and held back a primal scream because Quisty was already crying and he didn't want to frighten her even more.
Seifer opened his eyes, blood pumping through his veins with the taste of victory. He had won this battle and reclaimed another precious memory from the Guardian Forces. For so long he had believed that the whole controversy of memory loss was a rigged game that he could only win one day at a time. But as he fought, as he pursued, as he repeatedly shouted out his desire to remember, the truth had finally begun to emerge.
The cinematic maelstrom diminished, leaving in its wake an air of regretful longing. He would let it stick around like a charred aroma that he would slowly but surely infuse with top notes of warm hope and dangerous faith—and the final ingredient would be a love so powerful that it could redeem him. A love that he was certain was right at his fingertips.
He had a full day ahead of him, and surely this was an auspicious start.
Seifer's day had proven to be satisfyingly productive.
He had started off by taking one of the SeeD vehicles in for routine maintenance. While the car was being serviced, he had dropped into a local bookstore to buy the Library Committee their promised replacement of the Insect Guidebook, Color Edition. Upon returning to Garden he had met up with Raijin and Fujin for their postponed training session, followed by dinner and drinks at a trendy gastropub.
Now he was freshly showered and left alone with his thoughts. And sitting at the centerpiece of his thoughts was the lovely Quistis Trepe.
She hadn't just visited him on the night that he nearly passed out from illness.
She had come to him every single day that week. It was all he could do to stop grinning like a fool whenever he thought about it.
The two of them were aware that he no longer required her constant solicitude after the first couple of days but she chose to remain with him during the daytime, and he certainly hadn't complained about the company. When he was with Quistis, time had moved at a pace that was disconnected from the demands of the real world and all of its rush and responsibilities. Her extended presence had been like softly falling rain instilling a measure of serenity in his heart. He had hoped it would never end.
In between attending training workshops, she had continued bringing him food. Seifer would take intermittent naps, during which she quietly studied her bootcamp notes and attempted (in vain) to organize his desk. When he wasn't knocked out they would debate over inconsequential things and razz each other to exhaustion. Quistis had even taken it upon herself to launder all of his blankets throughout the week—a task for which she had refused his help. But most of the time they would say absolutely nothing. Silence that he didn't even know he craved, the special kind that could only be held between two people.
That moment. Oh, the unadulterated thrill of that moment. Just what exactly had possessed him to grab onto her hand other than fever-induced delirium he didn't know, but to his delight Quistis had responded. Her eyes had softened and her fingers had willingly laced into his, fueling his growing certainty that he was not alone in his affections.
Just when he thought his heart couldn't get any fuller, Quistis had gone and one-upped herself. She hadn't known that he was still awake after that mournfully wretched nightmare—there was no chance she would have sung to him otherwise. Her voice had been faint but beautiful, swooping and eddying like some inner monologue of emotional cleansing. And as the song crested he had felt the brief touch of her trembling fingers upon his lips.
When their time together had come to an end, Quistis had been sent off on a mission far, far away. Trabia or somewhere close to there. The whole thing conveyed the feeling of having happened so long ago that he wondered if he had dreamt it all—when in reality she had left just a few days ago. Seifer lay awake at night feeling subdued and sunsick. It was a new kind of ache that weakened his spirits even as it fluttered and soared and filled in his every hole. How was it possible to feel so terrible and wonderful at the same time?
There was a sudden knock on his door. "Seifer," drawled a familiar voice. "Hey, are you busy?"
He opened the door to find Irvine cradling a cardboard box of supplies. Seifer glimpsed bundles of patterned cellophane bags, fluffy chocobo charms, and tiny gourmet edibles.
"Irvine. Come on in."
His friend set the box down on the floor. "Haven't seen you around lately."
"Yeah, I was out of commission."
"What happened?"
"Got the flu."
"Oh, dang. Heard this latest one was pretty nasty. Looks like you're feeling better."
"I am, thanks. What's with the box?"
Irvine grinned in a way that looked startlingly like Selphie. "You've officially been assigned your task for the Garden Festival."
"Aw. I was hoping Selphie forgot about me."
Irvine chuckled. "Never."
Seifer observed the box with disinterest. "Arts and crafts ain't really my thing, though."
"You don't have to be skilled in that area," Irvine assured him. "You're just putting together gifts for the attendees."
"Oh. Guess that's not too bad. I mean, your girl could've asked me to parade around in some crazy mascot outfit or something."
Irvine grabbed one of Seifer's spare blankets and settled down into his loveseat. "Don't let Sefie hear you suggest that, or costumes might actually become a requirement…"
Seifer bent down and rummaged through the box. His hands quickly grabbed onto a stray object that didn't seem to fit in with the rest.
"Oh yeah, that one's specifically for you," said Irvine.
It was an unassuming bottle no bigger than the palm of his hand, painted matte black and encircled by a sturdy ring of vintage hammered copper. There was no label on it but he would recognize this item anywhere: his favorite brand of purified blade oil that had sadly been discontinued. He was certain that not even Squall knew about this rare miracle product, one which worked wonders in protecting Hyperion from all manner of grime and guts. He had discovered its existence years ago when the Disciplinary Committee confiscated several bottles from some doe-eyed cadet hustling contraband in the cafeteria. Seifer had agreed not to write him up in exchange for the stuff.
"No freakin' way!" Seifer eagerly shook the bottle as if to verify its contents.
Irvine looked mighty proud of himself. "Told ya I could find it."
Seifer shook his head, impressed and pleased by his friend's thoughtful gesture. "I'm sorry I ever doubted you. How much was it?"
"Free of charge."
"What?"
"Buddy of mine from Galbadia Garden owed me a favor. He managed to haggle it from a hole-in-the-wall store somewhere."
"Nice. You sure I can just take this?"
"If you insist, I actually risked my life to get this off the black market and you owe me five thousand gil," he deadpanned.
"Very funny. Seriously though, I owe you one."
Irvine waved off his gratitude. "You've done plenty for me."
Seifer dug his hand into the box once more and examined a miniature container wrapped tastefully in a satin bow. Inside sat three pastel-colored macarons. He removed the covering and popped one of the cookies into his mouth. "Fancy as hell. I'm surprised Garden's able to afford something like this."
Irvine accepted a macaron from Seifer. "Well, the money's not exactly from our budget. Rinoa's dad helped out for this occasion."
"Oh, figures. Caraway's loaded. They on speaking terms now?" Seifer unceremoniously dumped the contents of the box onto his desk, which probably wasn't the wisest choice given the existing wreckage.
"At times," answered Irvine. "Squall and Rinoa have got this unspoken agreement going. 'I'll try to bond with my father if you promise to try to bond with yours...'"
Seifer grinned. "'Try' being the operative word."
Irvine grinned back. "Exactly."
"So I assume I just bag these."
"Yeah, one of each item and then tie the ribbon in a bow all cute-like," explained Irvine. "I've got some more boxes stacked up in my room. Thought we could do the first batch together."
Seifer welcomed the mundane diversion, hoping it would temporarily ease his compulsive thoughts about Quistis.
They had gotten through quite a few goody bags before Irvine suddenly paused his methodical inserting, crinkling, and tying.
Seifer glanced at him to see what was going on.
Irvine was staring with fascination at the desk—or rather, a specific object on the desk. He slowly and deliberately pulled it out from the chaotic flotsam.
It was Quistis' signature barrette. Seifer hadn't noticed it was left behind. The sight of it sent his brain off on new tangents.
Irvine grinned knowingly.
"Wipe that smirk off your face," growled Seifer.
"No need to get so touchy, Seifer." Irvine casually spun the accessory between his fingers. "It's just a hair clip."
Seifer crossed his arms, unable to hide his irritation. "Yeah, well I need to return that to its owner."
"And who might that be?"
"None of your business."
Irvine laughed, lifting up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I won't poke around." He placed the barrette off to the side.
They quickly completed the batch, and Seifer agreed to pick up the rest of the boxes from Irvine's room the next day.
Loneliness crept back in as soon as Irvine left. He had been Seifer's first real friend outside of his posse, maybe even before Quistis had approached him. He couldn't remember the exact timing of it all. Irvine was easy to talk to, always honored his choices, and never made Seifer feel like he had to prove himself. Their friendship was like driving together on a long stretch of asphalt toward some version of the future where they could find untarnished hope and hard-won wisdom.
Seifer glanced at his new present sitting by Hyperion. His gunblade was definitely overdue for a fresh coat of oil, but he just wasn't in the mood for it right now.
Instead, he picked up the barrette and admired it. Classic rectangular design, beige and black with dainty square inlays. Heavier than it looked and in impeccable condition except for a couple of healthy scratches on the pinch clasp closure. Ladylike while managing to give off vibes of "don't mess with me." The thing suited Quistis perfectly.
He held onto the barrette like some kind of fidget toy as he logged into his laptop. He looked at the photo—their photo—once more, as if he was reading a diary. Who was it that once said the eyes were the window to one's soul? Seifer's eyes seemed to express heartfelt confessions at one angle and humor-laden barbs at another. Quistis' eyes spoke of impending romance even as she oozed a sense of unhurried cool in the way that she held herself. The image provided him with a gentle escape—but to a place that was becoming more and more tangible.
He wondered what Quistis was up to. Somewhere on the other side of the world, the sun was rising on her without him. Maybe she was already incognito and kicking some serious ass. All without batting an eye, of course. She would have moments of combat-driven ferocity interspersed with times of quiet introspection. She would search for light and hope in every mission that she undertook, no matter how seemingly insignificant the calling. Her honeyed laughter was a moment of solace in a world that lacked faith. If he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could feel her bloom in the desert of his mind.
The fan site had garnered a new total of 514 views.
"Looks like I'm not the only one dreaming about us," he mused wistfully to himself.
