By Kitt
Disclaimer: Square ownz...any and all characters/places/things from FF6 ^_-
I - Pancakes and the Silver City
Relm Arrowny sat alone in her bedroom, hands all black with charcoal. She was sketching.
There would be no playing outside for her on this hot day. Only the really rowdy kids were out there and Relm didn't like to play with them all too much. Most of them were boys, but that wasn't the problem. Heck, there were even a few cute ones that had caught her eye. The trouble was that they liked to play in the sand and sometimes even in the mud holes not too far from Thamasa's beaches. Relm hated getting dirty. She wasn't much for the beach itself either. The sand always managed to stick between her toes and drive her crazy.
It was good for tanning though.
She was on her bed, knees up, her sketchpad resting against them. She wasn't quite sure what she was drawing. She had started out with a vague, head-like shape, thought of making it into a monster, but then changed her mind when the eyes came out a bit too human. Very well, she'd make it into a person. Wouldn't be too hard for her. She was Thamasa's artistic genius, after all.
And Owzer's too, back in Jidoor.
Yes, he'd want her to finish that painting very soon. It had been a few months already and she still hadn't gone back there. She intended on living up to her promises, but she hadn't felt like working on a masterpiece lately. Summer made kids lazy.
Hmm, whose face is this? Who's this gonna be?
She narrowed her eyes at her picture. So far, it was just a head and two eyes.
I know.
With the charcoal, she drew some long hair tied back with a ribbon, a very familiar nose, added some charm to the eyes as best she could, and drew few dimples and a beaming smile.
Voila! Edgar! Hehehe...good ol' lover boy.
It wasn't perfect, but it would do. Thank goodness she hadn't used her special paints, or her so-called magic brush, or she would've been sitting besides a perfect clone of the King of Figaro.
Or would that really be a bad thing...?
Her tiny lips quirked into a half-smile as she closed the sketchbook.
I miss him. I miss all of them.
She placed the book on her nightstand and slid off her bed.
I'm starving. Better go see if Gramps is up.
Her feet touched down on something soft. A yelp followed. Interceptor whimpered and scrambled out of Relm's way, looking up at her with an expression that could have been called reproachful---if he hadn't been a dog, that is.
"Aw, I'm sorry boy. Didn't know you were in the way." She reached down and ruffled the fur of the dog's neck apologetically. "C'mon, let's go see if the old man's awake. I'm hungry." She left the room, followed faithfully by Interceptor.
After Shadow's vanishing in Kefka's tower, his dog had become attached to Relm. It rarely left her side. And every time Relm laid eyes on the animal, she was reminded of his former owner, the man clad in darkness who had moved with the shadows.
The dog hates strangers, he had said. Funny then, how it took to her so quickly, just like that.
What a liar that guy was!
She skipped downstairs lightheartedly, Interceptor at her heels. Her short summer dress danced about her knees and her blonde curls bounced freely, down to her shoulder blades, the longest she'd had her hair in years. Arriving in the living room, she caught her grandfather sprawled out on the armchair before the empty fireplace, head back. His snoring filled the whole room.
"HEY OLD MAN!"
"AHHH---! What, what?" Strago was all arms and legs for a moment, flailing about on the chair. "Relm! What did I tell you about scarin' the daylights outta me when I'm nappin'? Crazy girl..." He struggled to sit upright, wincing at his aching back. Gonna give me a coronary one day.
"Sorry Grandpa, but you are practically deaf," Relm stated matter-of-factly. Interceptor left her side and jumped up at the old man.
"Dang dog! Heel! Sit! Down! Relm!" Interceptor's paws rested on Strago's knees as he lavished the old mage with animal affection. Strago had his hands full trying to keep the beast at bay.
Relm frowned. "My name's not a doggie command." She walked over to Interceptor and spoke merely one word---heel---and the dog instantly complied, settling down at Strago's feet.
Her grandfather threw her a cynical look. "Always obeys you, doesn't it? You'd think he'd listen to me after living here for so long."
"Never mind the dog. I'm starvin'! I need food!"
Strago sighed. "All right. What'll it be?"
Relm smiled that winsome little grin of hers. "Pancakes."
"What?" Strago glanced at the clock on the wall. He squinted at it, then reached for his specs on the table and tried again. "It's...after two o'clock in the afternoon! Pancakes are for breakfast!"
"Not here they aren't! You asked me what I wanted, and that's it. I want pancakes! Lots of 'em! And on the double!" She pointed a commanding finger at him.
"Would it hurt to say 'please'?"
"Would it matter if I did? You'll do it anyway if I ask."
The old mage grimaced, defeated again by the childish charms of his adopted granddaughter. Things had always been that way ever since she came to live under his roof. Relm had learned to take advantage of Strago's good nature in a few weeks' time, and Strago himself grew to tolerate being bossed around by what was back then just a curly-haired little toddler.
He did try to punish her every now and then, but it never seemed to have an effect in the long run.
"All right, you win. C'mon, into the kitchen."
He got to his feet, stepping over a lively Interceptor, and led the way to the small kitchen. Inside, he began rummaging for the ingredients for the pancake batter. Cabinet doors flung open and dishes and cups were placed irregularly on the table. The afternoon sunlight filtered in through the curtained windows, turning their sheer orange into flaming gold. Spontaneously, Relm walked over and parted them, allowing the light to flow through freely.
There, that's much better.
"I could use a hand, Relm."
"Whatever you say." The eleven-year-old shrugged and went to help her grandfather, hoisting a sack of flour up from its spot in the kitchen corner, where it had been slouching wearily against the wall.
"Sure you can lift that?" Strago eyed the girl cautiously.
"...Of course..." Relm took the sack into her skinny arms, her face flushed from strain. She rushed over to the table and set it down with a loud sigh. A small puff of white arose from the corner up top. She wiped her forehead mechanically. "Oi... Hey Gramps! You know, you promised to tell me daddy's story one day."
"I did?"
"Yes, you did. Back on Setzer's ship. And I know you're not that forgetful!"
The old mage stopped in the middle of his bustling about, his dark eyes cloudy with thought. "Yeah, I vaguely remember saying something about that..." Of course he hadn't forgotten; he was just hesitant...
"I've waited for months already! And a promise is a promise!"
Strago turned to Relm and found her staring at him persistently, her eyes hard. Oh, how could he resist that little pout?
How could he resist her at all, whether she was pouting or throwing a tantrum?
But I'm not sure if Relm's really ready to hear the truth. Maybe this could wait a few more years...? Yes, maybe he could prolong the inevitable again for a little bit, until he was more certain about his granddaughter's reaction. Maybe she'd swallow the pill easier at thirteen. Or sixteen...
"Are you sure you wanna hear it now?" he asked her, using that soft-eyed look he usually gave her when he was trying to beat around the bush. "Because I know you think you know everything, but let me tell you girl, there's a lot you don't know about your old man---"
"Cut to the chase, Grandpa, and let's hear some storytellin'!"
"But it's a long story..."
Are you still trying to back out of it?"
"---Gonna take more than a day to tell the whole thing..."
"I've got patience! So let's hear it!"
Ah, no use. Foiled twice in one day. At this rate, he'd never be able to put it off for another month or two. "All right, fine. You win. Again." Dang persistent little... "Get out the butter and I'll start. This takes place thirty-some years ago, so of course you weren't a thought in your momma's head yet. Actually, I don't think your momma had seen the light of day yet herself..."
The mining camp of Narshe was a relatively new city. It sprouted at the base of the great northern mountains only five years ago, when a few folk from Nikeah seeking riches for themselves happened upon silver in the catacombs. When they returned home loaded with the precious ore, rumors fired up the port city. Many Nikeans abandoned life by the sea for a chance to start fresh near the foothills up north. Despite the harsh winters and threats of avalanches, people were determined to strike it rich. Day by day the rumors grew even more exotic, with tales of jewels and even gold in those great mine shafts, guarded by creatures whose skins could also rack up a small fortune. It was hard to tell just how many people left their homes behind back then.
Word of the newfound mining town's riches spread across the rest greater continent, attracting both the earnest and the greedy. Some folk from Figaro packed up and headed for the colder climate, a trip which took travelers weeks. Even those from as far west as Kohlingen took the train through the western mountains, adding to Narshe's swelling populace. Those from Zozo in the far south came in time, those drifters and thieves who sought either a way to make a decent living or just wanted more wealth to pilfer. In time Narshe was overflowing with people, which soon forced the newly appointed elder of the city to chase out any newcomers. Undaunted, they settled down in significantly smaller settlements built about a mile or two away. These little towns flanking the Silver City never lasted very long, but rather served as places for new prospectors to stay until room was found for them in Narshe.
When a new building was up or an older one was abandoned, Narshe's Lot Commission admitted the next person on the list into town, where they would take up residence and begin to realize their dreams. And so it was for the greater part of Narshe's early existence. People moved in and out of the town. The disappointed soon rivaled the hopeful, as many left the mining camp empty-handed and flat broke. Not all dreams were meant to come true.
There were quite a few lucky folks, however. Some who packed up and headed home after several months' stay at Narshe were loaded with silver ore and the raw forms of a few other precious metals, for there was more than just silver alone in the great mountains. Too, moogles were discovered, but as man encroached on their territory day by day in a desperate search for riches, those elusive little creatures eventually dug deeper into the shafts. There were sasquatch living in the caves as well, but unlike the moogles, they weren't ignored for the larger part: a furrier could rack up a pretty gil for a coat made from their hides. Narshe boasted wealth in many forms.
A small family from Zozo had managed to claw their way to the famed Silver City, stopping at town after town along the way. The father of the family, a cobbler by trade, was about as average as they came from the town of thieves, though he wasn't above stealing in any way. In fact, he owed much of his trip funds to successful pick pocketing. However, that wouldn't be necessary in the near future. He was going to make his family rich. They would start all over in Narshe, and if things didn't turn out right, well, they had little to lose. After all, Zozo was one of the worst cities in the world. The father lived all his life there; going back wouldn't be too much of a bad thing.
The family's name was Arrowny, and at one point both husband and wife had five children to boast. Out of those five the youngest child Clyde was the only survivor. Those that came before him had died of illness; one had even been kidnapped when she was only a few years old. Her parents weren't even sure if she was still alive. Clyde himself hadn't survived his early years unscathed: in addition to catching scarlet fever, he had his appendix removed a few months before his family left for Narshe, after being punched low in the middle by a much bigger boy in a fight over a game of jacks. Such was how things were in Zozo, which, along with Narshe's rumored silver, fed the father Edmund's decision to take leave of the wretched town---
"Waaaaaait a minute, Gramps!" Relm interrupted, dusting flour off her hands. The pancake batter was just about finished, sitting in a large bowl, waiting to be fried. "How do you know all this about Narshe and stuff? Did daddy tell you?"
"Yep. Didn't make a gil's worth of that stuff up myself, if that's what you're asking," Strago answered her. He threw a glance at the old stove. "I need a match."
"Comin' up." Relm opened one of the kitchen drawers and removed a pack of matches. She handed them to her grandfather, who lit one and made to get the stove started.
His voice drifted out from inside the great cast-iron cauldron. "I will say this though... Your old man wasn't too specific about how many kids his mother had. Every now and then when he retold the story, the number would change. And as for the start of Narshe... I can't verify that. Only he knows. I never set a foot off this island until after Locke and Terra came along." And Shadow, too...
While Strago was inside the stove with the lighted match, Relm took the opportunity to sneak a fingertip's worth of batter from the bowl.
"So," she resumed, licking her lips rather loudly, "daddy might've been lying about some of his story?"
"Maybe," said Strago, now backing out of the stove, smoldering match in one hand. The fire inside was ablaze. "As far as his early days go, I can only tell you what he told me. Now, where was I?"
"At the part where daddy's father left Zozo. Jeez, you ARE forgetful, old man!"
"Forgetful? You just listen here---!"
"The story, Grandpa," Relm said simply.
"Humph! Here, get rid of this match."
The Arrowny family did not get into Narshe right away, as was to be expected. Instead, they ended up in the small outskirt town of Valdebrooke, two miles away from the Silver City. Valdebrooke was a loose-knit gathering of chocobo stables and merchants hawking all sorts of rare and unusual trinkets. It was one of the more "middle-aged" establishments that preceded Narshe, so there were quite a few people out on the streets. There were no homes, just street after street of inns and hotels. After all, since Valdebrooke had no silver, whoever would plan on staying there permanently?
The family of three carried only the clothes on their backs; they had little belongings of importance to take for the trip. It was midday when they purchased a room in a hotel on Stratt Street, using money snatched from the purse of a pompous Jidoor woman en route to Narshe herself, on the train through the western mountains. Two-hundred-some gil there was, more than enough at that time to lodge for a few weeks if they didn't go for someplace too classy. The leftover amount combined with everything else they had would keep the small family on its feet until the name Arrowny appeared at the top of the Lot Commission list.
Which would end up taking a few weeks.
During that time the family's eight-year-old son took to playing in the streets, not hindered in the least by the heavy foot-traffic and the occasional chocobo-drawn cart. The dusty town took its eventual toll on his wiry little self---his light skin lay hidden under a mask of gray ash and his short tawny hair was dark with soot. At the end of the day his mother had quite a time cleaning off that dirt.
Scrawny though he was, he was certainly no weakling. What his limbs lacked in fat they more than made up for with lean muscle, the type that could make a good warrior out of him one day, or an army soldier if he chose to be professional about things. He wore no welcome in his eyes, normally using their dark glint to drive people away. A snaky shade of green they were, and very haunting---sure signs of a chip on the shoulder, an unabated vendetta, a desire to be avenged for some mysterious misdeed. He was a born pessimist.
Clyde had been tossing pebbles into Stratt Street one afternoon, almost a week into his family's stay in Valdebrooke. By then, he had explored every alleyway, every hidden corner, every unseen nook and cranny of the small outpost. Day by day things failed to impress him. To top everything off, there weren't any kids his age living nearby that he could play with. He felt isolated, surrounded by so many grownups rushing here and there with business agendas on their minds. He curved his wrist and sent another gray stone skipping into the wide street.
Clap, clap, clap...silence.
He was hoping that it would have ended up hitting something. Anything! Anything to upset this routine, all these same old comings and goings.
Across the street were a few merchant stores, some of them a bit more well to do than others. One in particular had managed to catch his eye on day one: seemingly well faring, though in a modest way, open-aired, and filled with all sorts of delightful little objects. There was an awfully tempting rapier hanging on the wall in back, its handle ivory and silver, its long blade winking tauntingly at him in the sunlight as if to say, You could never have this, could you? Poor boy, with such poor parents!
There was jewelry of all kinds on the counter, necklaces and elegant bracelets and rings studded with sapphires. There was a strange-looking headdress of sorts too, a round band trimmed with dyed chocobo feathers in bright colors and lots of beads and assorted gaudy stuff. Clyde wondered who the former owner had been. Also in the back was something that he actually truly desired, and perhaps even something that his parents could have afforded: a bandanna, a big black one with fancy white markings set in a pattern. Being a boy, he wanted it solely for decorative value, and he got a kick out of imagining himself in it. It had such a dark, unassuming quality about it; it became downright irresistible after a few days.
Clyde had asked his father for money to buy it recently, but was rebuffed. "We're gonna need every gil we have when we get into Narshe," his father told him. "Can't afford to go throwin' it away on the junk they sell around here."
"But I'll never SEE it again when we get into Narshe!" the boy whined. "It'll be gone! Someone'll have bought it by then!"
His father dismissed the idea. "Boy, when I make this family's fortune, I'll be able to buy you a dozen a' those."
But Clyde didn't want a dozen. He wanted that one bandanna, or rather, as time went on, wanted the feel it gave him more than anything else. It had become the first obsession he would remember.
It seemed as though the devil himself had picked his brain one day, and sent him the idea of stealing the money from his father to get the bandanna or to just steal the darn thing itself from the shop. Either way, his angel had the final say, and so there Clyde was, sitting on the porch of the hotel, flicking pebbles and coveting the black bandanna in the merchant's shop across the street.
He had never really hated his parents, nor had he ever minded being poor, but now the position was loathsome.
Out of sheer boredom he rose, dropped the remaining stones he had, and crossed the street, paying no mind to the cart that had to swerve out of his way to avoid a collision with him. He even paid no mind to the mouth he got from the frustrated driver. Serves him right, he thought. His eyes should be on the road.
Nearly all the while his green eyes hovered on the precious bandanna, the enviable object, the symbol of stylishness in its own humble right. He came to a point right before the counter and placed his hands on top, peering over the edge. Yes, there it was, hanging lazily on the wall on a silver hook. Beautiful...
"Nice sword, huh? Like swords?"
Clyde tore his stare from the bandanna and found himself staring at the sudden speaker. Tall he was, or at least so from a boy's point of view, brown-haired, and dark of eye, either hazel or brown. It was hard to tell. He was leaning on the countertop amongst all the assorted items, a clever smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He had likeable written all over him.
"Nah, not the sword," Clyde answered, as calmly as you please. "That there bandanna." He pointed to it, trying to seem as adult like as he could manage.
"Oh, that? That's nothing really. Most people go for the sword. Not that that's surprising or anything. It's a genuine Narshe souvenir, sort of. That silver inlay---that came straight outta the mines of the Silver City itself. And the blade was made in Doma."
Oh, sure, it was a pretty sword, but Clyde knew that his parents would certainly say no to it. Besides, he wasn't really interested in weapons. Who was it who had said to him once that the clothes made the man? Well, that bandanna had the power to change him into a man as far as Clyde was concerned.
His eyes darted to the feathered headdress, a temporary distraction. "An' what's this?"
"That...? That's a, uh, well...I really don't know," the man said, scratching the back of his neck. "Someone found it in the mines in Narshe and sold it to us. I made the mistake of buying the damn thing, and my father hit the ceiling. So now, when people ask what it is, I have to tell them that it's a 'moogle headdress,' so people think it's worth value. Or at least that's what my old man tells me." He looked at Clyde and smiled again. "But don't you go about tellin' anyone that I said that."
Father? Oh, so he wasn't the final authority of this place then? Clyde gave him a more scrutinizing stare. He looked old enough to be caught somewhere between nineteen and twenty-four on a good day.
"Where's yer dad now?" Clyde asked.
"Oh, he's in back," the man answered, jerking a thumb behind him. There, off to the right, were the thin lines and grey hinges of a closed door that Clyde hadn't previously noticed. "Our home is right behind here."
"Ain'tcha worried about people stealin' stuff here at night, when yer asleep?"
"No, that's when that rolled-up canvas above you comes down and gets tied."
"What if someone's got a knife?"
The shopkeeper chuckled. "Well, that's a chance we're willing to take here, me and my father. Most people in this town are so bent on getting the silver in Narshe that they don't give stealing from souvenir shops a passing thought. To be honest, not too many of these places are worth stealing from anyway. They usually carry junk."
Clyde didn't respond. He hoped that the man wasn't putting him off from trying to get the bandanna. Not that Clyde would try to nick it; after all, he'd already dismissed the idea of thievery. He just couldn't see his obsession as something unworthy of attention. Sure, it wasn't flashy, but that was the greatest thing about it. It's flash couldn't be found in the glimmer of added silver from Narshe or anything like that.
There was a half a moment of quiet before the young man spoke up again. "How long have you been here, kid?"
Clyde didn't answer right away. He didn't mind asking other people questions that much, but he certainly minded being intruded upon. Of course, the young man's question was harmless, but Clyde was a skeptical boy. In his mind no query could be totally innocent. "Why do you wanna know?"
The young man's eyes went soft, as if deep inside he'd been offended. "I was just curious. I didn't mean to pry."
The green-eyed boy looked thoughtful. Well, this guy seemed innocent. Maybe he could be trusted...a little. "I've been here almost a week."
"Where're your parents staying?"
Again, there was hesitation before the question was answered. "That hotel there, right across the street."
"The Marx?"
Clyde nodded.
"It's a nice hotel from what I hear. You like it there?"
Clyde sighed a bit irritably and the young man seemed to tolerate that gesture willingly. "Sort of. I guess," he replied evasively. Truthfully, the boy felt better when he was giving people an answer that they couldn't readily interpret. His eyes went back to the bandanna and his longing for it returned.
The young man at the counter may have been a bit soft and a bit too honest, but he was quick on the mark when he wanted to be. "You really want that ratty thing, don't you?"
The boy nodded. "My dad won't get it for me," he explained.
"Ahhh, it's not that expensive. Won't cost ya much. As a matter of fact," the man said, his voice reaching a peak, "it won't cost you a thing. We're not selling it for very much anyway." With one long lean arm he reached back, nabbed the bandanna off the hook, and handed it to Clyde, who took it eagerly. His dirty face lit up and his eyes shined and he had lost all traces of his serious, melancholic look...until his natural suspicion took over once more.
"Wait," he said, "are you really gonna jus' give this to me? You don't want money for it?" His eyes then dropped to the bandanna, now resting in his hands. The material was so soft, so smooth, and up close it was even more dashing. And so big! He couldn't wait to try it on and see what he looked like wearing it.
"Nah, go crazy kiddo. I probably couldn't pawn that thing off on a good day. Go nuts."
Well, that was all Clyde needed to hear! His smile was the real thing this time, not caught up in the smirk or leer of distrust. He held his new treasure out against the wind, admiring it in all its glory, watching it twist and trail out like a flag. Shouldn't he thank the man? Nah, he could always do that later. He'd best be off back to his parents to show them what he got today. Proof that Clyde Arrowny always got his way, even if he had to wait a little bit for it to come to him. When he had admired the bandanna sufficiently, he tried to put it on, but it was then that it hit him---he wasn't quite sure of how to get it on just right. It was really huge! He looked at it helplessly for a moment or two, trying to figure out a way to get it on without having to humble himself to ask for assistance.
"Need a hand?" the friendly young man asked.
Wordlessly Clyde went behind the counter and held the bandanna out to him shyly. Well, he offered to help, hadn't he?
The young man threw Clyde a dashing smile and turned him around, dusted off his hair a bit, and tied on the revered bandanna. When he was finished he turned the boy around again and gave him an appraising look.
Clyde was flashing him his trademark half-smile. His eyes were verdant gems.
"You look like a...like a...like a pirate actually."
Really, the boy looked more like a street rat wearing an oversized bandanna, but in its own quirky way, the thing suited him. It covered all of his short hair and was so big that the ends that trailed from the knot in the back were nearly as long as his arms. And the black color complemented his green eyes. He beamed beneath what he took to be praise, even though he wasn't the type of boy who smiled or blushed often.
"I don't gotta sword or anything though," he said, suddenly realizing the inadequacy.
"That can be fixed." The young man reached up again, this time removing the ivory-hilted sword on the wall. He handed it to a boy who was struggling to suppress his abundant excitement. "You're not getting this one for free though." He winked at Clyde.
"Ya sure I won't try to run away with this?" Clyde asked slyly.
"Nah, I'm positive you won't," the young man replied, looking the boy in the eye. He grinned confidently.
Clyde smiled back. Ha, he trusted way too easily. Fortunately for him, it wasn't Clyde's nature back then to stab a gift-horse in the mouth any more than it was his nature to look in there for more. His father had told him to accept what came to him and be grateful enough never to expect anything else. Spontaneously Clyde struck a swashbuckling sort of pose, waving his sword at an imaginary enemy, pretending that he really was a pirate aboard some fantastic ship, getting ready to set sail into the sunset. "How do I look?"
"Oh, like you're ready to plunder a port. Where's your first mate, captain?"
Clyde was taken a back for a few seconds. Captain? Did he want to be captain of anything? No, he never wanted to be a leader. He was happy being a loner, even if it did get boring having no other kids around in this town.
"Ah, I ain't no captain," he spoke proudly after a time. "I'm a lone pirate. I don't need anybody."
The young man cracked another smile. "You're a strange kid, I'll give you that."
"Why's that?"
"Well, most kids usually like company. Sure, you'll see a loner here and there, but usually they're the type that don't like being loners. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you seem to enjoy it."
Clyde paused again, studying his new friend. He was right. Very perceptive. How he figured that out so fast was a mystery to the boy with sandy hair and green eyes, but he wouldn't let it throw him for very long. He caved in and beamed at the man with an expression that fell between a leer and a crooked smile---his gesture of acceptance.
"I'd like a mirror," he said. "I wanna see what I look like."
"A mirror? I don't have one here, but inside there's one in my room..." There the young man trailed off, his eyes growing hazy with uncertainty. "But I don't think my father would like me to just go inviting strangers in there at the drop of a hat." This time his ensuing smile was a bit queer, as if it was trying to hint at something.
Clyde didn't follow right away, being as young as he was. "How's that? We've been talkin' for a while now---"
"What I mean is, I'd like to get your name, if that's okay with you."
His name, eh? Well! After all that talking, it was evident that this young man was worth trusting. Clyde responded in what could have been called record time for him.
"It's Clyde."
"I see. I'm Gavin."
The boy and the young man shook hands.
"C'n I go in now?"
"Certainly." Gavin turned to the door behind him, knocked a few times, and then entered with Clyde in tow. The boy left the silver rapier back on the store counter. It had occurred to him vaguely that someone might have tried to steal it while the storekeeper was away, but that wasn't any of his concern.
Inside, the house was dark, save for a few kerosene lamps shedding orange light that kept the blackness from becoming complete. There was a faint whiff of tobacco coming from somewhere unseen; it was then that a very tall figure emerged from the back of the house. Over six feet he was, and thin, and as he drew closer to the lights his thick gray mustache came into view, along with a pair of black eyebrows and two very dark eyes. Despite his lack of obvious muscle, he was imposing.
"Dad, why do you always turn the lights down so much? It's too dark in here, for gods' sake!" Gavin moved away from his guest and turned up the flames of all the lamps in the room, bringing the place to full lighting. He darted back and forth throughout the room, parting the curtains of some of the windows here and there as well.
"I told you, I like it that way," his father answered him. His voice was fathomlessly deep, maybe from years of smoking. Clyde noticed the pipe in his hand. "I thought I heard you come in here," he continued. "Why ain't you outside?"
"Oh, I brought a guest, that's why." He returned to Clyde's side and pushed him forward towards his old man. "This is Clyde. He just wants to use the mirror in my room. He wants to see what he looks like in his new bandanna." At that Gavin patted Clyde on the head. Beneath him, the boy squirmed, uncomfortable with being the center of attention.
Gavin's father grimaced a bit, but didn't put up much resistance. It was as if he didn't really mind having an unexpected guest deep inside. The fresh light coming into the room made his attire easy to see: black vest, white dress shirt, black slacks, and long silver hair gathered into a thin tail at the back of his head. He looked like a figure cut out of a photograph, and stood equally as still.
"And Clyde," Gavin went on, "this is my father, Mr. Abbingway."
Mr. Abbingway nodded curtly at the boy. Clyde watched him, swallowing silently. He was really impressive! And to top it all off, he was no dynamic figure, no dashing swordsman or swaggering pirate. He was simply a shop owner in a small city that was meant only to house hundreds of Silver City hopefuls...and he seemed to be mighty comfortable with that. He had the slim outlines of an aged tree, a withered oak whittled down by the elements that still stood tall after all those years. He spoke with a kind of authority that seemed to come from within himself, not from a title or something obvious. He was certain. He was sure. And that was that.
It was the root of Clyde's second memorable obsession. That tall figure had made an impression on him to end all impressions. All of a sudden the bandanna on his head no longer seemed important. It no longer held the power to make him a man. No, now he wanted to become a Mr. Abbingway in his own right. He was going to be dark and silent and self-sufficient. He was going to be absolutely certain. And that would be that, in time.
"Quiet little fella, ain'tcha?"
Clyde said nothing. He was still blinded by Mr. Abbingway's very presence.
"He's a boy of few words," Gavin jumped in, "kind of like you, dad."
Mr. Abbingway grunted, then trained his eyes on the boy's bandanna. "Looks awfully familiar," he spoke, stroking the top of Clyde's head absently. "In fact, it looks just like the one we have hanging outside..." He trailed off and raised his eyes to his son.
Gavin softened somewhat under his father's dark stare. "He paid for it," he said, reaching into the back pocket of his trousers and pulling out a few gils, evidentially his own money. "See?"
Clyde was stunned. He was paying for it himself? Whatever for? To make his old man happy? For a moment there the boy was tempted to finally speak up and admit the truth, but he held his tongue and minded his own father's advice. Another gift-horse had come along.
Mr. Abbingway grunted once more, but made no indication of buying into the lie. "I can't afford to lose out money-wise in this town. Bad enough business is so terrible these days." His hand had never left Clyde's head, not even when he looked down at the boy and said, "Back room, on your left, and don't think about goin' anywhere else."
Of course he was referring to Gavin's room, the one with the mirror he had wanted to see, but at the time Clyde didn't give the directions much thought. The most important thing was that they were carried out. He took off in a flash for the aforementioned room, with not one glance behind at his new friend.
He found the room very easily, much to his relief. Inside, the windows were wide open and the light of day was free to pour in. The view was an expected one: a long, almost endless stretch of grassy plain, edged off in the far distance by the rising peaks of mountains. Near the base of those mighty mountains was the Silver City of Narshe, no doubt bustling with activity at this hour.
Clyde tore his gaze from the window and sought out the mirror. It was atop a great dresser before Gavin's bed. He stood right in the middle of its frame and took a long look at himself. He was the perfect picture of a street boy, dusty from head to foot. The only thing about him that hadn't yet been soiled was the brand new bandanna tied tightly on his head, sections of its bold white pattern lost within small creases. Too, his eyes were as bright as ever, but still retained their devilish snakelike quality.
Gavin was right, he did look like a pirate.
Yet the bandanna didn't seem as great as before. A thought flickered through his mind: why ever had it been so important to him? Whatever had made him want it so much? Well, there was no point in complaining about the gift. After all, Gavin had just recently paid for it out of his own pocket, managing to save Clyde's butt in the process.
And Mr. Abbingway had frightened him. To be sure, the man had the kind of figure that a strapping twelve-year-old boy could lick in a few minutes, but it wasn't his build that Clyde feared. It was him, and the things that he might very well be able to do.
That was part of the reason why Clyde was so angry with himself just then. He'd made a coward of himself! He had shown fear back there. That kind of feeling should never be displayed. Clyde hadn't learned that lesson from his parents, however; he'd picked it up during his early years in Zozo's streets, where he witnessed a variety of crimes during which people had acted like utter cowards in order to avoid getting killed. What fools! How could they live with themselves afterwards? They were spared because of pity, not because they were worth sparing. Clyde snorted. He would have chosen death had he been in any one of those positions, rather than show his fright. Was he the only person who felt that way?
Well, when he got back out there, he'd show that Mr. Abbingway just how tough he really was! He'd look that man in the eye as composed as could be. Besides, he looked amazing in his new present. Perhaps that bandanna still had some of its former charm.
He left Gavin's bedroom and made his way into the living room behind the store. It was then that he noticed something---Gavin didn't seem to be there. The house behind the store had fallen silent. Too, the lamps had been extinguished, but the windows remained open and the curtains parted. Butterflies were in Clyde's stomach now, but he ignored them. He wouldn't make the mistake of letting them dictate his actions this time.
Mr. Abbingway was sitting on a large armchair in one corner of the room, puffing away on that pipe of his, which filled the room with a hazy gray fog. An open book lay spread across his lap. Clyde eyed him secretly, wondering if perhaps he could just dash past him without being seen. What a glorious thing it would be, he thought, to be able to turn invisible.
Those dark, dangerous eyes left the open book and found Clyde immediately, hovering in the little passage between the back of the house and its living room. Black-brown, those eyes had caught him and held him still like a trapped animal.
Don't be afraid, don't show him fear, Clyde told himself.
"Tell me something, youngster. Tell me the truth. You didn't really pay for that bandanna, did you?"
Clyde swallowed. He could feel his face flush. Dang it, didn't he swear to himself that he wouldn't show fear again? And now here he was, speechless. Well, he couldn't avoid answering, could he? No, he was too afraid of Mr. Abbingway for that. But could he tell the truth? Heck, it seemed like it was already out in the open...but would that make things worse than they already were?
"I won't bite ya; just answer." Again the great voice rumbled throughout the room like thunder. Clyde had to answer now; he didn't have a choice.
So he shook his head. No, he didn't pay for the bandanna.
Mr. Abbingway grunted approvingly. "I didn't think so. My son's an over-generous sonovagun when he wants to be. Cost me a lot over the years." A reflective pause. "You should thank him when you leave."
Clyde nodded. Yes, yes of course he'd thank Gavin! Absolutely! Without a second thought, he made to run off, sensing an opening to escape, when Mr. Abbingway stopped him again.
"You're not a bad kid..."
Wait a minute. He and his new friend had tried to pull a fast one on this man, and yet he wasn't a bad kid? This changed things. Clyde wondered if Mr. Abbingway wasn't simply trying to make conversation with him like his son had successfully done. But Gavin was more open and friendly, just the opposite of Clyde himself...and this tall, quiet man who liked living in a dark house.
All of Clyde's earlier shyness melted away. The wide eyes, the speechlessness, the urge to flee---all gone. He stopped and studied Gavin's father. How old was he? He had to have been fifty or sixty-something, judging by the gray hair and the big mustache.
Mr. Abbingway finished his earlier remark. "Kinda like me when I was your age." A slow, deliberate smile.
Like him? So Clyde was like Mr. Abbingway already?
The smile faded, but the impression it left did not. "Go on, git. Gavin's outside."
Clyde was off in the blink of an eye.
"All right now, bring your plate here."
Relm complied and Strago piled on two pancakes, one at a time. The eleven-year-old watched while hunger made her stomach restless.
"Syrup's on the table," her grandfather told her.
She was seated seconds later, dressing her meal with a small dab of butter and just the right amount of maple syrup. It had to be just right, or it wouldn't be worth eating. Relm hated soggy food.
Strago sat across from her, having made some pancakes for himself.
"That Gavin sounds like a nice guy," Relm stated out of the blue. She cut her pancakes crosswise and speared one section with her fork. "Even though it's so weird---why would a guy his age wanna be friends with a kid almost my age?" She popped the forkful of food into her mouth and chewed.
"Ahh, well...your old man was kinda lonely back then, I suppose. No other kids around to hang out with. Even though like I said, he liked being by himself." Strago reached across the table for the pitcher of syrup. "And Gavin, well... Your father always spoke well of him. Seems like he was a little lonely in that town too."
"If daddy was such a loner, then how'd he meet mom?"
"Oh, you'll see. I was there when that happened." The old man smiled. Yes, I remember that...and I won't forget it either. One of the best times in my whole life. He cut his own pancakes, every now and then raising his brown eyes to behold the girl he'd taken in nearly ten years ago. She'll like that part, that's for sure. But will she like everything else, including the worst part...?
Strago lost himself in thought. Relm asked him a question absently, but he didn't even hear it.
That was her old man who saved her when her friend's house caught on fire a year ago...
"Grandpa...?"
That was her old man who died in the tower... Gods, I'll never forgive him for that---
"GRANDPA!"
"...Eh? What is it?"
"I asked you if you could finish the story later! There's something I wanna draw, when I'm done eating."
"Oh? Anything in particular?"
"Maybe. Or maybe not." She shrugged, then grinned broadly, from ear to ear, realizing that the ambiguity of her answer smacked of the way her father had behaved so many years ago.
She'd practically read her grandfather's mind. Strago smirked. Humph. Just like her old man.