Mother's Day Gift
Author's Note: Sorry everyone. It's been awhile, I know. So much for finishing this on Mother's Day (as was my original intent). Thanks for all those that read AND reviewed, but if you didn't review that's ok! This is just for fun and for the enjoyment of others. So on with the story. (Insert Squaresoft copyright spiel here)
Chapter 3
The figure was hazy in the distance. The fog surrounding the two of them didn't help matters either. It had just stood there, unmoving as if it were waiting for her. Tifa squinted her eyes to make out the figure, but only a blurred outline could be seen.
A slight chuckle rang clearly in the fog, almost as if it were physically cutting through it reaching her. Then music began swirling around her.
Tifa stood stock still in the void listening intently to the piano that was playing somewhere, yet everywhere. The arpeggios were right on key, never missing its mark. The emotions behind the keys were strong, yet restrained almost as if it were some controlled passion. The song, a haunting melancholy that had an abundance of treble sounds with no bass which didn't make it dark and depressing…just a bit sad.
Her mother used to play this song.
Tifa recalled that she had tried to learn this song right after her mother died to keep her spirit in the Lockheart household alive. However, she decided to give it up since her small hands just weren't long enough to reach the full octaves required to play the song.
*You can try reaching them now, Tifa.*
"Mama?"
The brunette woke up with a start. She had never had a dream with her mother before. Most of her dreams were usually about death – her mother's, her father's, the destruction of her town, but never anything quite like this. The dream had just reinforced the reason why Tifa had come back to Nibelheim in the first place – she had wanted to visit her mother's grave.
Tifa sat up on her bed glancing at the artworks. She noticed small initials and signatures on each of them.
/They're artists' works./
She sat there staring at the different signatures on the pictures formulating some logical reason connecting the drawings to the key in the flowerpot. The young woman felt that the only logical reason was that her house was on public display – hence, the artists' pictures and the key in the flowerpot. The house curator must have found the key and moved it to a more discreet place.
After all, the old Strife home was considered a main attraction for tourists in this town with its billowy banner proclaiming "The Roots of the Planet's Hero". As if it could get any cornier than that, Tifa did not know.
/He would've hated it./ Tifa smiled to herself as she put the pictures back in their respective frames.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The sun was just about to set past the Nibelheim mountains. The town of Nibelheim was aglow with the retreating rays of the sun. An outline of a person on chocobo could be seen approaching the town's gates.
The figure quickly dismounted and led the chocobo to a familiar section of town where there were cafés and sidewalk artists. The man spots the familiar group of artists and makes quick strides over to them.
"Ahh, you again," a middle aged woman said nonchalantly as she glanced up from her easel where she was sketching a portrait of a client in front of her.
"Well, looks like you're back in town!" an old man said in surprise. "I knew you were bound to come. It's that time of year again, huh?"
"Yeah, it is," the man said surveying the town around him. "I was wondering if you could make a work for me this time."
The old man's eyes lit up, "Ha, I was wondering when you'd ask. I thought I'd never get the chance."
"Well, I just wanted to get different artistic styles each time. I'll make this one worth your while."
"Hey George, is he asking you this time?" an artist with a black beret said as he stood up from his easel and walked over to the old man. He turned to the youth and asked "Are you asking for the same thing again?"
The man gave a small smile and nodded.
"Hmph, figures. George, make sure you don't screw up on this one. Maybe you can best me on the watercolor that I did for this guy last year."
"We'll see about that Roger," George said playing along with the fellow artist's challenge. Turning back to his client, George rubbed his old, weathered hands together, "So, what'll it be? Watercolor? Pencil? Oil pastels?"
"I'd like a painting this time."
"Sure, I can do a painting," George said enthusiastically as he rummaged through his bag for his paints. "Have a seat and start describing the girl again to me. I think I forgot since the last time you were here."
The young man took his seat and started recalling the girl's features.
/I wonder if she has changed./
He shook his head. Her…change? Not likely. At least he hoped that she hadn't changed both physically and personality-wise.
Then again, so much time had passed.
The young man looked up to see George patiently waiting for him to come out of his short reverie.
"Well, are you going to tell me about her, or are you just going to sit there lolling your head daydreaming?"
The youth pursed his lips together and finally spoke. "She has brown hair. It's dark…almost like chocolate."
"Alright, you're going to have to tell me more. Try to be more specific so I can try to get this on the first shot," George said.
"Her hair is pretty long…past her hips. She has eyes the color of wine…and she has this great smile –
George chuckled, "Whoa there, sounds to me like you have a thing for this certain girl. Instead of you getting so flustered telling me about how great she is, do you happen to have a picture of her so I can get a clearer idea of what she looks like?"
The man nodded and brought forth a worn picture of the woman from his pocket and handed it to George.
"She's beautiful," George offered. The picture was of a woman leaning on a railing. Her hair was slightly billowing behind her from the wind. She had long, silky hair matched with a complexion of creamy milk. Her eyes held the spark of youth, and at the same time held a certain wisdom that one can only acquire after having been through many trials. The woman's smile was radiant and genuine since most of it can also be emanated from her eyes. He did a double take of the picture and recognized something vaguely familiar about the girl. His scruffy gray eyebrows knitted together in thought, "Come to think of it, she looks like that one girl, Tifa Lock-
Immediately, the young man took the picture from the old man's hands and looked at him for a moment with blue eyes that pleaded for the man not to say her name. "Yes, now do you have a clear idea?"
The old man's eyebrows shot up. The younger man's behavior was quite erratic. It was apparent that it had a great deal to do with this girl. George nodded then turned to his easel and started to paint.
~End Ch. 3~
Author's Note: Sorry everyone. It's been awhile, I know. So much for finishing this on Mother's Day (as was my original intent). Thanks for all those that read AND reviewed, but if you didn't review that's ok! This is just for fun and for the enjoyment of others. So on with the story. (Insert Squaresoft copyright spiel here)
Chapter 3
The figure was hazy in the distance. The fog surrounding the two of them didn't help matters either. It had just stood there, unmoving as if it were waiting for her. Tifa squinted her eyes to make out the figure, but only a blurred outline could be seen.
A slight chuckle rang clearly in the fog, almost as if it were physically cutting through it reaching her. Then music began swirling around her.
Tifa stood stock still in the void listening intently to the piano that was playing somewhere, yet everywhere. The arpeggios were right on key, never missing its mark. The emotions behind the keys were strong, yet restrained almost as if it were some controlled passion. The song, a haunting melancholy that had an abundance of treble sounds with no bass which didn't make it dark and depressing…just a bit sad.
Her mother used to play this song.
Tifa recalled that she had tried to learn this song right after her mother died to keep her spirit in the Lockheart household alive. However, she decided to give it up since her small hands just weren't long enough to reach the full octaves required to play the song.
*You can try reaching them now, Tifa.*
"Mama?"
The brunette woke up with a start. She had never had a dream with her mother before. Most of her dreams were usually about death – her mother's, her father's, the destruction of her town, but never anything quite like this. The dream had just reinforced the reason why Tifa had come back to Nibelheim in the first place – she had wanted to visit her mother's grave.
Tifa sat up on her bed glancing at the artworks. She noticed small initials and signatures on each of them.
/They're artists' works./
She sat there staring at the different signatures on the pictures formulating some logical reason connecting the drawings to the key in the flowerpot. The young woman felt that the only logical reason was that her house was on public display – hence, the artists' pictures and the key in the flowerpot. The house curator must have found the key and moved it to a more discreet place.
After all, the old Strife home was considered a main attraction for tourists in this town with its billowy banner proclaiming "The Roots of the Planet's Hero". As if it could get any cornier than that, Tifa did not know.
/He would've hated it./ Tifa smiled to herself as she put the pictures back in their respective frames.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The sun was just about to set past the Nibelheim mountains. The town of Nibelheim was aglow with the retreating rays of the sun. An outline of a person on chocobo could be seen approaching the town's gates.
The figure quickly dismounted and led the chocobo to a familiar section of town where there were cafés and sidewalk artists. The man spots the familiar group of artists and makes quick strides over to them.
"Ahh, you again," a middle aged woman said nonchalantly as she glanced up from her easel where she was sketching a portrait of a client in front of her.
"Well, looks like you're back in town!" an old man said in surprise. "I knew you were bound to come. It's that time of year again, huh?"
"Yeah, it is," the man said surveying the town around him. "I was wondering if you could make a work for me this time."
The old man's eyes lit up, "Ha, I was wondering when you'd ask. I thought I'd never get the chance."
"Well, I just wanted to get different artistic styles each time. I'll make this one worth your while."
"Hey George, is he asking you this time?" an artist with a black beret said as he stood up from his easel and walked over to the old man. He turned to the youth and asked "Are you asking for the same thing again?"
The man gave a small smile and nodded.
"Hmph, figures. George, make sure you don't screw up on this one. Maybe you can best me on the watercolor that I did for this guy last year."
"We'll see about that Roger," George said playing along with the fellow artist's challenge. Turning back to his client, George rubbed his old, weathered hands together, "So, what'll it be? Watercolor? Pencil? Oil pastels?"
"I'd like a painting this time."
"Sure, I can do a painting," George said enthusiastically as he rummaged through his bag for his paints. "Have a seat and start describing the girl again to me. I think I forgot since the last time you were here."
The young man took his seat and started recalling the girl's features.
/I wonder if she has changed./
He shook his head. Her…change? Not likely. At least he hoped that she hadn't changed both physically and personality-wise.
Then again, so much time had passed.
The young man looked up to see George patiently waiting for him to come out of his short reverie.
"Well, are you going to tell me about her, or are you just going to sit there lolling your head daydreaming?"
The youth pursed his lips together and finally spoke. "She has brown hair. It's dark…almost like chocolate."
"Alright, you're going to have to tell me more. Try to be more specific so I can try to get this on the first shot," George said.
"Her hair is pretty long…past her hips. She has eyes the color of wine…and she has this great smile –
George chuckled, "Whoa there, sounds to me like you have a thing for this certain girl. Instead of you getting so flustered telling me about how great she is, do you happen to have a picture of her so I can get a clearer idea of what she looks like?"
The man nodded and brought forth a worn picture of the woman from his pocket and handed it to George.
"She's beautiful," George offered. The picture was of a woman leaning on a railing. Her hair was slightly billowing behind her from the wind. She had long, silky hair matched with a complexion of creamy milk. Her eyes held the spark of youth, and at the same time held a certain wisdom that one can only acquire after having been through many trials. The woman's smile was radiant and genuine since most of it can also be emanated from her eyes. He did a double take of the picture and recognized something vaguely familiar about the girl. His scruffy gray eyebrows knitted together in thought, "Come to think of it, she looks like that one girl, Tifa Lock-
Immediately, the young man took the picture from the old man's hands and looked at him for a moment with blue eyes that pleaded for the man not to say her name. "Yes, now do you have a clear idea?"
The old man's eyebrows shot up. The younger man's behavior was quite erratic. It was apparent that it had a great deal to do with this girl. George nodded then turned to his easel and started to paint.
~End Ch. 3~