LOCKE COLE'S FINAL REPOSE

By Scribe of Figaro

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a sequel to Terra Branford's Flight of Fancy. You might want to read it before starting this story, but you don't really have to.

People who have read this earlier might notice that the format to this story has changed greatly. I decided it was a bit annoying to my readers to see me add to this story only a few pages at a time. Instead, I turned each chapter into a section and began collecting four of these sections per chapter. This makes each chapter around ten pages long, a goodly amount for an episodic work.

I've gotten into some racy material, I admit, but in this story I center on action, passion, and violence. Sex was necessary, even flaunted in "Terra Branford's Flight of Fancy." Here it's only incidental, and far less graphic except where absolutely necessary. I like it better this way.



CHAPTER ONE

I. RELM'S INTENT

Relm Arrowny sat cross-legged on the soft, polished pinewood of the tiny outdoor dojo. She was breathing slowly, her hands in loose fists and her eyes closed. With each breath her tight tank top stretched across her small but mature chest. Her baggy pants fluttered in the wind. Her bare feet itched slightly and her red, curly hair was coming loose from her bandanna, but she resisted the urge to move her hands and fix either discomfort.

She should have been meditating, but she found it difficult. Her mind-clearing exercises were no use now. Each time she got near that state of mental relaxation a thought arose in the corner of her vision. Like a colorful stone, it attracted her attention and forced her to grab at it.

Terra Branford has been dead for five years.

That was the thought she continued to grasp at. It was painful, giving her a sinking feeling in her chest and the mild physical sensation of needing to cough, vomit, and use the bathroom all at the same time. The feeling was painful, but so strange she nearly enjoyed it. She allowed her mind to grasp at it like a child who cuts her hand on a thorn and laughs at the sight of red blood flowing from injured fingers.

Terra married Edgar very shortly after Celes and Locke's wedding, and few people noticed she was pregnant at the altar. There was no physical sign of such a thing, of course. She was far to early on. But Relm knew Edgar wouldn't have arranged a wedding so quickly unless there was a good reason for haste, and Edgar considered a woman's honor an important thing.

Edgar fucked her, all right. Oh, of course, they would have said "make love" or "doing God's will" or some such tripe. But Relm knew what it was, and even though she was inexperienced back then she was still knowledgeable. Strago was an old fuddy-duddy, and Relm hadn't much difficulty sneaking out at night and having a time with some of the more interesting older boys in Thamasia.

Strago was dead too.

That thought hit closer to home, and she felt she might cry. But she didn't. Grief had a way of sneaking up on you, lying dormant for years, and then the slightest thought, word, or smell brings everything rushing back like a flood of rotting memories. But Relm could usually see such things coming, and she did now.

Strago had been sick for months, ill with perhaps pneumonia. He languished for a while and died shortly after Edgar's wedding. Relm wasn't even there. She was in Doma, training in Sabin's dojo. Then again, she might have been painting, or sleeping, or taking a bath. She had no idea what time it happened, and she didn't care to know. So many people had been talking about where they were when Kefka moved the goddesses like it was of any importance what people were doing at the time. It sickened her to think such menial tasks as raking the leaves or cooking dinner were to forevermore mean something because people had unknowingly chosen to do them when Kefka damn near destroyed the world.

It didn't matter to her. All that mattered was that Strago died and Relm was alone, fourteen, headstrong, and at a loss of what to do next.

So she decided to continue what she did before - live in Doma, study under Sabin, and paint in her free time. She hadn't sold much artwork, though her technique steadily improved. When she traveled to Jidoor she often had good business, and she typically made a lot more money when she went through the extra effort to wear an expensive dress, makeup, and a disgustingly arrogant smile.

Nine years later, very little has changed. She still lived in Doma, still studied martial arts, and still traveled to Jidoor regularly to sell her work. She was actually supporting herself now, and since Sabin refused to allow her to pay him back for the room and board he had given her for so long, she had saved up a fair amount of cash.

There was still the matter of what she wanted to do with it.

If she thought it were possible, she would have traveled to Figaro, comforted Edgar, and then slept with him. She wanted him very much, but she knew such a thing would not happen. She had visited him a few times with Sabin, and Relm knew her advances would only hurt him. Losing his wife killed off that part of him that once loved. Edgar was thirty-nine years old, a sad sack of a man who had cut his hair short the day his wife died, hair that sported streaks of grey, hair that often fell over his eyes to hide his tears when he broke down in his throne room, ran to his bedchambers, and threw back the bottle of elixir until his pain receded and he collapsed in a drunken faint.

She could see beyond his flaws, though. She didn't care about what he had become because Relm knew that, given the chance, Edgar could love again. He could love Relm, and they would be happy together. So she had thought for the first two years of Edgar's grieving.

But Edgar shaped up, slightly. He still drank, but at least he appeared decent while in public. His hair remained short, but trimmed so that the gray streaks only accentuated his physique. He looked a lot more like Sabin, actually.

Sabin. Relm had grown to like him over the past few years. At first it was only his ineffable physical resemblance to Edgar that started her attraction. Then it was his position of authority over her, the fact she was his student and to love him would be the ultimate taboo. She liked that idea, the indescribable wrongness of it all. And finally, she became attracted to Sabin for the man he was, rather than the man she wished he was. Sabin was so kind to her, to everyone. He was friendly, interesting, strong, attractive, and a lot more intelligent than many people gave him credit for.

She liked the way he regarded her advances with almost idiotic surprise. She backed off repeatedly to keep from scaring him off, but eventually she would not stop.

Relm was twenty-two years old now. She had the experience she wanted as a younger girl, though mostly in the sweaty fumblings of teenage lust, five minutes of foreplay followed by barely a minute of action where she would mutter half-assed assurances and compliments to the boy. She knew there was more, and she wanted it.

She wanted Sabin.

She would have him soon.

Relm smiled, took another breath, and finally let her mind drift to that place where everything slowed down and was at peace.



II. CELES'S PLEA

She sat outside, accompanied only by the night. A worn bandanna wove itself through her fingers, and she cried softly.

It hadn't been this way all the time. The white porch swing affixed to the deck of this tiny Kohlingen abode was once a scene of laughter, of cuddling, of furious groping and stolen kisses. It had been that way for years. She thought it would always be that way.

Celes exhaled, her breath forming clouds in the cold air. She was part of the night. The Ice Queen, General Celes Chere. As she once was, she would be again. A loner. A soldier.

It had been a week since she last saw Locke. He had business in Zozo, and though she didn't want him to go, and especially not alone, he had done so. She had changed sometime over the years, and he knew it. No longer was she comfortable with her sword. No longer could she fight for her cause, her army, her husband, or even herself. She became accustomed to housework, doting, and cooking. And as she refocused her attentions, she lost something. Losing that cool part of her, that sharp icicle that was her strength and her weapon, caused her to lose a part of something that was once important to her. She had grown soft. The muscles she had once toned and strengthened were wasted away. Her feminine curves were earned at the expense of her warrior physique.

All that had once been important to her. But not anymore. Her memories of what she once was, what she once stood for, were lost as well. She couldn't tell exactly what was missing, and it pricked at her psyche like a mosquito.

A week without word from him wasn't too far out of the ordinary. True, he had never gone more than three days without sending a letter, but there was always the chance he might forget, right? What if he found the treasure he sought in some deep catacombs and needed a few days in its depths to plan his method of removing it?

She was so blissfully stupid about it that the Celes Chere of ten years previous would have found it sick.

But then the letter came, and the letter changed everything. It came from the mayor of Zozo.

"Dear Ms. Celes Cole. It is with great regret we must inform you - "

She stopped. The last fragment of the warrior in her took control of her hands, crumpled the letter, and dropped it to the ground. The voice in her head, strong and demanding but often silenced, told her she was unable to handle this. Not now. And not alone.

She continued to sit outside. Alone. She couldn't handle this.

Alone.

On impulse, she went back inside, indifferently kicking the balled-up letter at her feet. She picked up a parchment and a pen and stopped.

Who to write it to? Who could possibly help her? She searched her memory.

A boat ride. A hand on her cheek. His arm around her shoulder. A smile. Understanding. Kindness.

She smiled and began to write.



Dear Edgar,

I am in trouble. I can't explain it fully - I don't know exactly what happened, and if I did I'm not sure how I would handle it. I'm sorry if this makes no sense, but I need you here soon. Please.

Celes




It was rudimentary. Not befitting the summon of a king. Perhaps he would think it the ravings of a sex-starved adulterer. No, not Edgar. He would read and understand.

She sealed the letter and, unable to sleep, waited until morning when she could send it off.



III. EDGAR'S RESPONSE

Edgar stood at the topmost battlement of his castle, a small bottle of elixir loosely held in one hand.

Amazing, he thought. Five years and still it hits me like a load of bricks. I thought I smelled her perfume today, and it tore me to bits.

There was still guilt in his heart, though he tried very hard to absolve himself. Or had he?

Before their first anniversary Terra had given a stillborn child. It hurt her badly, and Edgar had forced himself to remain strong for her. They named it Alex, for it was a boy.

Not "it" goddammit, "he." He was a boy. Our child, taken from us in the womb. Ours to hold for a few moments. And ours to bury.

For nearly a year Terra remained untouched by Edgar. Her difficulty with intimacy frightened him, but it was certainly founded. He didn't ask her why or prod her in any way. They didn't even talk about it. He merely held her, for it was all he could think of. As the months passed she grew closer to him, and the old life in her returned. Not all of it - there was some part of Terra that was spilled, some soft part of her that couldn't survive the death of their child. But when Terra was ready for him and came to the realization Edgar had waited for her and only her, they loved each other again, far stronger than before.

Even Edgar would admit it was fantastic. They spent nearly an hour just becoming familiar with each other. And then . . .

Edgar grinned.

But Terra wouldn't allow herself to become pregnant again. That wasn't a problem; there were ways of facilitating such a need. She had been told by her doctor that the likelihood of her having another bad pregnancy was fairly high, and Terra knew she couldn't deal with such a horror again. Even if she were willing, Edgar wouldn't allow her. Not so soon, at least.

She had been concerned for him. He was a king. He needed successors. What good was she if she couldn't bear his children?

"I love you," he had said to her. And he said it with such incredible sincerity that the weight of those words had driven her back, almost frightened by how strongly he felt. And then she loved him back.

Nobody could explain what happened four years later when Terra became pregnant again. If Terra intentionally sabotaged their efforts, she would never live to tell. And if it had all been an accident - well, that was just as bad. He'd rather believe it was fate, though. It was so much easier to blame chance, even blame himself in some permutation of cause and effect that only made sense while sufficiently drunk, than blame Terra.

There was nothing wrong with the pregnancy. Nothing that could be detected, at any rate. When the time came, Edgar braced himself for tragedy. He didn't brace himself enough.

It was a breech birth. He was told about it as soon as it happened by a nurse. And Edgar's first cursed thought was his coin, the illusion of choice. And he wished with all his might that, given the choice of only one life, his wife would be spared and the baby would die. He could live without the young girl she bore (which was never named, Edgar didn't have the capacity to do such a thing when the time came) as long as Terra survived. Such thoughts would haunt him for years.

Fate, it seems, is strange like that. There was no choice. Both Baby Figaro (the name engraved on the mausoleum in South Figaro) and Terra were taken. The baby died nearly instantly, but Edgar was allowed into the room in time to catch Terra's last moments of consciousness.

"I love you," he said. "I love you," he said again. And then, feebly, "Please don't leave me."

There was blood. So much blood. In later nightmares he would find himself and his love drenched in it.

Her face was pale, even more pale than usual, but she didn't seem to be in much pain. She smiled at him, allowed his kisses over her face, and she whispered her final words.

"Thank you."

There was probably more, but for all he knew the two words were simply the product of delirium. She remained in a coma for about and hour and died.

Edgar stood by her side, holding her hand, and only left the body when another nurse and a palace guard pushed him aside and gently led him to his room. Had he tracked bloody footprints down the hall and marked the walls with his crimson hands? He thought so, but wasn't sure. The nightmares replaced his memories of that time.

He locked himself in his room for ten days. Figaro was a mess. To prevent a war of succession, Sabin was called for. Despite having no interest in temporarily leading the castle, he did so. He arranged the funeral for Terra and her child, the funeral Edgar could not be urged into attendance.

Edgar spent essentially all his time sitting on the bed, staring slackjawed at the wall, not seeing anything. If food was placed before him, he would eat. If talked to, he would pay attention for a few seconds and then blank out. His mind was otherwise occupied. Over that week and a half he relived his wife's death a thousand times.

Locke and Celes came to see him, and Celes cried for him when he made no response to her words. Locke could only look around anxiously. Sabin felt about the same way, but spent less time with Edgar than he wanted to. Sabin had to at least pretend that Figaro was under some sort of order.

There was Relm, too. Seventeen years old at the time. She hugged him, kissed him, told him everything would be alright. But it wasn't long before she realized the danger in taking advantage of him at that time. She had sat down with him, talked for hours in hopes there was someone inside his head that might listen, and then left with the others.

Eleven days after the death of his wife, Edgar awoke refreshed and happy. He surprised everyone when he ascended the throne and began preparing himself for the business he missed. One would have thought whatever stimulant he was on ought to be illegal, but his actions were not related to drugs. Not yet, in any case. He had sprung back from his grief with too much force, and when a young woman with a hairstyle similar to Terra's came to the throne room, Edgar shattered like glass.

He ran to his room crying, tore open a vintage bottle of elixir, and after finishing it, fell into the first bit of restful sleep for over a week. Such a scene would be oft-repeated in the Desert Castle for the rest of the year.

When Sabin realized Edgar wasn't getting any better, he enlisted professional help. And when Edgar came to the realization that he wanted help, he began to get better.

Lessened work schedule. No more liquor. (This wasn't completely true, there were occasions it helped, such as tonight.) Write in a journal. When you feel yourself begin to break, count to ten.

It helped. It really did. He no longer had nervous breakdowns, though he often felt the need for a crying fit. He could hold it back long enough to excuse himself and walk to his room, though. And even those occurrences were less and less.

Like tonight. When was the last time he felt this way? Probably a month ago, maybe more. And even through these horrible fits of emptiness, Edgar was glad. He was happy to know that, no matter how much time passed, his mind would never allow himself to forget her.

What had caused it this time? Perhaps he had smelled her perfume, or something similar. It didn't matter now. His thoughts had flowed out, and the grief had been spent, at least for tonight.

Edgar reached into his pocket and fished out a handkerchief. He felt a thick square of parchment beside it.

The letter. He almost forgot about it. Sometime in the afternoon he picked it up, but was called away by some urgent matter. Urgent at the time, anyway; he couldn't remember what it was anymore. He had placed the letter in his pocket and forgotten it.

Edgar broke the seal and unfolded it. A frown crept across his face.

Celes? My dear, what could be troubling you so?

He didn't like the tone of the letter - not at all.

He carefully refolded the message. Figaro could go for a day or two without its king. He could leave this evening and arrive in Kohlingen before morning.

Yes. That would work. It would be best not to waste time.

Edgar placed the letter in his pocket and made his way downstairs.



IV. DARK LAUGHTER

He was a dark man. It wasn't a thing of ethnicity: his skin was lightly tanned, but not remarkably dark. His clothing was black, but that wasn't it either. He had black hair and a black mustache, and neither of those quite summed up the darkness about him.

It was his soul that was dark. His present company probably wasn't philosophic enough to realize that fact, but deep in the recesses of his mind, something knew. The dark man had black eyes, like two black-greased ball bearings stuck in smooth plaster.

He wore a black tunic and black cape, with a heavy silver chain around his shoulders. There was a thick medallion affixed to this chain, and it hung just below his heart, assuming the man had one. On the medallion was a carved relief pattern that sometimes looked like a cuneiform character and sometimes looked like an eye, depending on how one looked at it. The man's associates found it disturbing to the point that they no longer looked at it.

The man's well-manicured fingernails rapped on the desk.

"Are you sure?" said the dark man, eyeing the person before him with suspicion.

"Yes, Morgan," he said, for that was the dark man's name. "I saw him myself. He had been floating in the lake for a good day or two, and his face was pretty much unrecognizable. But I knew it was him anyway." The man's voice caught in the middle of the last sentence, and he cleared his throat. If Morgan didn't believe him, he was of no use to the man. If that were true, the body he had seen would have him for company.

"Describe him, Richard," said Morgan.

Richard cleared his throat again. "He was wearing a denim jacket. It was pretty badly frayed all around, so it was probably badly worn even before he went in the drink. Underneath he had a thick white shirt. He was wearing dark pants, but his feet were bare. He had brown hair, about shoulder length."

"Was he wearing a bandanna?"

"No, but if he was, I'll bet it was washed away. There was a bandanna in one of his jacket pockets, at least I think. It was so waterlogged I couldn't even tell what color it was. Might've been a handkerchief."

Morgan smiled. It was a good sign that Richard would not die today, but seeing those cunning little teeth made him shiver nonetheless.

"I'm glad to know the deed is done," Morgan said. "Though I'm mildly annoyed I hadn't the pleasure of slicing him myself. I wonder if my benefactor will ever claim his reward?"

Now realizing Morgan was satisfied, Richard knew it was again safe to speak freely. "I don't think so. Not after two days. And not for a 10,000 GP bounty."

"I agree," said Morgan. "This guy was good, I'll admit to that. I wouldn't be too surprised if our unlucky bounty hunter got one in the gut before he took out that fucking thief. He probably died very slowly out in the woods, dreaming of the reward as the vultures lined up around him."

Richard grimaced. He hated when Morgan waxed poetic.

"If that's the case, guess I should thank the fool for saving me from paying out the reward money," Morgan said.

"Too bad he's dead," Richard replied. He hadn't meant it to be a particularly funny joke, but Morgan suddenly laughed. It was a mild tittering at first, but it built up into peals, then roars of laughter. Richard, assuming he was dismissed and not caring if he wasn't, turned about and left the room. Once outside, he shivered again, the spasms beginning at his waist and running up his spine to his shoulders.

He also hated to hear Morgan laugh.