Relm only cried for a few minutes. Wiping her eyes, she sat crosslegged in the dojo.
It was truly a beautiful place. The dojo was only a few minutes' walk from Doma Castle, and just outside the town of Doma itself. The place was built on a secluded plain, far from the main road. Sabin believed that proper study of the martial arts required solitude.
The dojo was beautiful. The floor was expertly polished pinewood, which was lovingly sanded and refinished every few weeks. There were no walls, but marble columns ran the length of the foundation. Wildflowers grew all around the structure, some climbing over the stone foundation and brushing the wooden floor.
On the columns were intricate carvings. Many of them were done by Tony, who has been a student of Master Sabin for two years now. He was a talented sculptor and relief artist, and Relm hated to admit to herself she was jealous. Her paintings adorned Sabin's apartment, but none were in his dojo, his place of work and worship. Truly, there was no place for them here in the dojo. But it still angered her that all the artwork in the place Sabin most truly loved was done by a person she simply couldn't stand.
Some of the carvings were incantations, but most were pictures of animals used in Sabin's numerous fighting styles: snake, crane, monkey, leopard, tiger, and dragon. He had wanted to carve Sabin's portrait, but Sabin would not allow it.
Relm decided she would not join Sabin for dinner. Instead, she returned to her own apartment.
It was a modest place, for sure. It consisted of no more than a small kitchen, living room, two bedrooms and a bath. The second bedroom was her studio. Her latest work was on an easel at the center of the room, covered with a tarp. Her paints were on a series of shelves by the door. Had the landlord any idea how badly stained the wooden floor was underneath the drop cloths she put down, he surely would have pitched a fit.
Relm poured herself a glass of water, drank it, and poured another. The sudden invasion of cold water unsettled her stomach, and she nursed the glass as she walked about her home.
She walked into her studio and lifted the tarp from the half-done painting.
It was a portrait of Sabin in a fighting stance. She hadn't quite gotten the background right - she wanted to portray the wildflowers of his dojo floating around him. She had sketched out his entire body, but only gotten the details to his face and chest so far.
She was delaying, because she very much wanted to paint a nude but couldn't quite allow herself to do so.
How could she? Sabin was her master, and he would surely take such a thing as a sign of disrespect. It didn't matter if he never knew about it - she would know, and that would be enough to upset her.
He wouldn't understand, just as he had yet to understand the depth of her feelings for him. He had no interest in love, lust, or romance. His heart belonged to his training, and no one else.
Sighing, she walked into the bathroom and closed the door. She placed the nearly-empty glass of water on the basin and drew a bath.
After running her hand under the faucet for a moment, which was very hot, she slid off her gi. She pulled her tank top off and shucked her shorts, scratching unabashedly at her buttocks where dried sweat itched.
Glancing in the mirror, she removed her bandanna and untied her hair. The chestnut red curls cascaded to her shoulders, and she shook it out. Admiring herself, she ran a hand down her naked body.
How could Sabin possibly say no to this?
The bath now full, she turned off the spigot and slid in, sucking breath at the brief pain of the hot water. Once completely in, she waited a moment before ducking her head underwater and soaking her hair.
She had never drawn much detail below Sabin's waist in the painting. She simply didn't know how to draw one particular part of his anatomy. Oh, certainly she had enough models in mind that she could draw something very convincing, even flattering. But she didn't want convincing. She wanted real.
As she wondered about such mysteries, her hands rested on her thighs. Slowly she brought them to meet each other at her crotch and began to do the thing she did most often when she was alone and longed for something sweet she could not have.
She moaned.
No one disturbed her activity, and she completed her deeply personal act with very little noise. When she was done, just before she picked up the bottle of shampoo to wash her hair, a thought occurred to her.
She realized that at the moment of climax, the split second the fantasy became real, so very real, and she could see him on top of her, and it was not her fingers inside her but him, she realized it was not Sabin she was loving.
She saw the face quite clearly. It was Edgar.
Perplexed, exhausted, and oh-so-content, Relm washed her hair.
II. FIT FOR A KING
Edgar arrived in Kohlingen sometime past midnight. He landed a mile from the town so as not to disturb the sleeping villagers. He considered it rude to arrive at Celes's home at such an hour, and was quite tired besides. Edgar decreased the burners to a minimum - just enough to keep the canopy from collapsing down about the craft and trapping him in the cabin. He shut down the engines but kept the generator on so that the ship's ventilation would continue to work. Yawning, he collapsed into the cot behind the cockpit, fully dressed except for his cape and boots. He slept well.
Edgar awoke early in the morning. He had hoped to wake up before a crowd gathered around his airship, but after he dressed and went to the windows, he saw at least a half-dozen people milling about in unfettered admiration.
Edgar opened the main hatch, which lowered down to form a gangway down to the ground.
The moment he set foot on the ground a well-dressed man, who was nearly bald but sported a thick brown mustache, advanced on him.
"Gil Andrews, at your service, King Edgar." He held out his hand and Edgar shook it warmly.
"Andrews? The Sheriff of Kohlingen?"
"The very same," he replied. "I'd like to welcome you to Kohlingen on behalf of the Mayor and all his people. We don't see many airships here, and almost never do we see a dignitary of your stature, King Edgar, so excuse us for being a bit gawk-eyed"
"Thank you, Sheriff Andrews. I'm happy to be here. I'd love to meet Mayor Billis and thank him for the welcome as well as yourself, but I'm afraid I have business to attend to. I'll try not to take up any of your time. I'm sure you people are as busy as I."
Sheriff Andrews hooked his thumbs in his belt, evidently disagreeing with Edgar's last statement. "Well, if you need anything at all, just let me know."
"Actually, I would be in your debt if you could let me borrow one of your deputies to guard my airship. This is Kohlingen, after all, so I didn't bring any of my personal guard. But I've heard there may be thieves about with intent to prey upon the fine people of Kohlingen, and I'd like if my property could be guarded while I'm here. I shall pay him fairly, and I promise to reimburse the Mayor for any interference I may cause in the goings-on of this town."
Andrews waved his hand. "I wouldn't have it, King Edgar. Your kindness is payment enough. I'll have my best men here night and day, and I assure you they get paid enough already." He smiled. "And as for thieves, I haven't known too many to prey upon this town. Though I know of one who lives here."
"Locke Cole, perhaps?" Edgar ventured.
"Yes! That's him! You know the man?"
"Extremely well. He's been a very good friend of mine. Do you remember the demise of the Empire?"
Sheriff Andrews slapped his forehead. "Idiot! I forgot all about that! You two fought side by side. And his wife, Celes. And yours, may she rest in peace."
"How easy such things are forgotten," Edgar mused.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, King Edgar. I didn't mean to offend." He meekly studied his own shoes.
"No offence taken. It's all ancient history, in any case. Now if you'd excuse me, I must be going."
"Good day to you, King Edgar."
The Sheriff began to shoo away onlookers from the airship as Edgar walked into town.
The first thing Edgar noticed upon reaching Locke and Celes's house was the garden. The plants Celes had cared so deeply for were wilting, many already dead. Frowning, he walked to the door and knocked.
"Just a moment," called a voice from inside.
Edgar heard the lock click, and the door opened just a crack. Green eyes glared at him.
"Edgar?"
She slowly opened the door completely.
Celes was wearing a short cotton nightgown with lace at the sleeves, neckline, and the hem just above her knees. Her long, golden hair was pulled back, but apparently not held with anything. Much of it came over her shoulders and hung over her chest.
Edgar's first thought was of a pale goddess, entirely naked, her golden tresses teasingly obscuring her breasts. Were it not for the nightgown, Celes would have looked exactly like that.
Panic flared briefly in his stomach when he realized Celes was staring at him with a look of curiosity. Did she know what he was thinking? Edgar mentally chastised himself.
The moment lasted perhaps half a second, and suddenly her face broke into a smile.
"You came!" she cried.
Celes hugged him tight, burying her face in his chest, and as her hair brushed against Edgar's face he was assaulted by a multitude of sweet smells. Honey, jasmine, tea, and a thousand nights spent camping beneath the stars.
"I left as soon as I read your letter," he said. "I'm sorry I came at such an early hour."
"It's no bother. I'm just so glad you're here. Would you like some breakfast?"
"I wouldn't dare trouble you so."
"Nonsense, Edgar. I was about to make some anyway. Come on in."
He closed the door behind him and followed her to the kitchen. She immediately turned on the stove and began rummaging through the cabinets.
"Please, let me help," he said.
"No, I can take care of it. Sit down and talk to me."
He smiled. "About what? What was so urgent that you needed me for?"
"Not now. We'll talk about that later or I'll lose my appetite." She smiled, but it was a sad smile. "Tell me about Figaro. I want to know what's happened there."
Edgar told her everything he could think of. There was yet another merchant strike a week ago he managed to defuse. He told her about Sabin's visit a month ago, and all the trouble they had gotten into. "I'd never seen a chocobo run faster in my life," he laughed. He did not tell her about how he felt the night he read her letter - neither the depths of sadness he was in, nor how happy, how important he felt when she asked for him.
Celes made scrambled eggs, toast, and tea for both of him, but her portion was barely touched. Edgar ate heartily, punctuating his words by jabbing his fork at the air. Celes listened, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. She gave him rapt attention, nodding once in a while, laughing often. It had been so long since she last talked to anyone. And to see a man sit there, enjoy her food, and beg for her attention - she felt warm again. Happy.
She missed Edgar dearly.
Once the meal was over, the plates washed (Edgar insisted doing so himself), and the second round of tea served, Edgar stopped talking.
She nervously sipped her tea.
Edgar shook his head. "I know I've been talking your ear off, and I'm sorry."
"I don't mind. You're a wonderful storyteller."
"But a poor conversationalist. Are you in danger, Celes? Is that what this is about?"
"No, it's not me." She sighed.
"Where's Locke? Is it something to do with him?"
"I think so. Edgar, I don't know. He's been gone for nine days now. I haven't received a word from him since he left. This isn't like him."
Edgar nodded. "If he's in trouble, I can search for him. All our friends - I can track them down. It won't take very long."
"There's something else. A letter from Zozo. I haven't read it yet. Edgar, I'm scared."
He put down his tea and saucer. "Where is it?"
"The kitchen drawer. Second one to the right."
He found the letter, unfolded it, and read it with a frown.
"Oh, gods," he whispered. "Celes, I . . ." He put down the letter and kneeled before her chair. "I'm so sorry, Celes."
"No," she cried. "I knew it, god damn it, I knew it I knew it!"
She fell into his arms, her tears hot, wet, and painful on his neck. Edgar felt like he might cry as well. Locke, his best friend, was gone.
Zozo was a dangerous town. Robbery was common, as were assaults. Murder was, at the very least, unsurprising. The letter, though sympathetic, was not much more than a request for Locke's wife to come to Zozo and bear the body back to Kohlingen for burial. There were apparently enough identification papers on the body to compose this letter, which were to be collected by his next of kin along with his personal effects.
Edgar grimaced as he realized that the date of the letter suggested Locke would be too far gone for an open casket.
It would be barbaric to have Celes claim her husband's corpse, but Edgar was capable, though not particularly willing. And if he had already been buried in a poor man's grave (and that would be very likely by this point), he would at least get his things. His bandanna would surely be there. Perhaps that would give poor Celes some comfort.
"Someone has to go to Zozo," he said. "To take care of things. I'll go for you. You don't have to worry about that."
"No," she said. "Please don't leave me here. Stay, at least for the night. Hold me."
"I'll take care of you, Celes." She slowly let go, and Edgar gave her his handkerchief.
"He always said you were his best friend," she said.
"I loved him like a brother. He was a great man. He . . ." Edgar sniffed.
"Tell me about him. I want to know everything."
Edgar did. He told her about how they first met, how Locke remained his contact with the Returners for years. He told her stories, so many stories, about his friend. And when he was done, Celes told him about her life with Locke, beginning with how he saved her life in South Figaro, going through their adventures - even the ones where Edgar was present, but Edgar did not mention that to her - and accounting for all the nine years of their marriage.
Edgar glanced up with some surprise, seeing it was already dark.
"How long have we been talking?" he asked
"Twelve hours, give or take."
"Gods. Are you hungry?"
"No. You?"
"No."
She stood up and stretched, noticing for the first time in several hours that she was still wearing her nightgown.
"Oh, goddess. I can't believe I haven't gotten dressed all day! Ugh, I feel disgusting."
"I assure you look ravishing," countered Edgar.
"I don't care what I look like. And I'm exhausted. Would you care to stay the night?"
"I shouldn't intrude. . ."
"No, please stay. At least keep me company. I'll sleep on the couch."
"No, I will."
Celes smiled. "Thank you. I'm going to take a bath now, if you don't mind."
"Go right ahead."
Edgar watched her leave, heard the bathroom door close, and later detected her muffled sobs along with the sound of running water. He wanted to go to her and nearly put down the book he was reading, but quickly realized she was indecent, and furthermore, if she wanted his comfort she would not hide in the bathroom.
She returned thirty minutes later in a light robe. Edgar was stoking the fire he had just started.
"It was getting cold," he explained. She nodded and walked to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She sat beside him on the couch.
"Celes? Do you think this is appropriate?"
She studied the bottle in her hands. "I bought this a few months ago. It was supposed to be for Locke and I. For our tenth anniversary."
"I'm not sure you should be drinking at a time like this, Celes."
She cocked an eyebrow. "You're one to talk."
Edgar recoiled as if slapped, and Celes desperately wished she could have taken her sardonic comment back.
"I'm sorry, Edgar. Gods, what's wrong with me?"
"It's alright," he said, but the hurt look on his face remained. He took the bottle from her and poured two glasses, perhaps because it meant he could avoid looking at her, perhaps because it was what his hands were used to in situations such as these.
"To Locke, the best damned treasure hunter on Gaia," he intoned.
"To Locke," she whispered. They clinked glasses and drank quickly.
They talked about Locke for at least another hour, during which time the bottle was drained considerably.
"Thank you," she whispered, leaning on him. "Thank you so much for being here for me. You're the only one I could want to comfort me."
"I should say the same to you," he said. "As bad as I feel about him, I'm glad we can cry together." And Edgar did cry, though the tears were nowhere near as bitter as ones he had shed years ago. He was getting used to losing people dear to him, and the truth of that fact saddened him even more.
Edgar had been staring into the fire, dry-eyed but hurting, when he felt Celes's hand on his cheek. He turned to her as she brought her lips to his.
The kiss was something he should have shied away from, but he felt so tired he couldn't resist. And it felt so right.
"Celes," he said. "Please don't do this."
She gazed deep into him. "I need you, Edgar. Please."
"For Locke's sake . . ."
"Locke is dead," she stated firmly, and in that moment it felt real to her. "He's been dead for a week, and I've been denying it far too long. There's nothing we can do that would hurt him."
"You're in grief," he pressed her. "You're not acting rationally. The wine . . ."
"I know what I'm doing, Edgar. And it's not the wine. Not at all. I loved you for a long time, but I stayed faithful to Locke, because I loved him too. And now he's gone. But you're still here." She sobbed. "Please, Edgar. Don't leave me. I can't spend another night in that bed. Not alone. I need someone. I need you so badly."
Her eyes were closed, pinching out tears, but she felt his hands on her head, pulling her in. His lips on hers, parting, a warm tongue in her mouth. It was there and it felt good and she felt happy again when she returned his advance with her own playful tongue.
She pushed him down on the couch and she was lying on top of him, her hands busy with his clothes. His own hands did no more than hold her, trace her body with his fingers, and she knew he was uncomfortable, as if he couldn't remember what he was supposed to do.
After she worked him out of his cape, breastplate, and shirt, he grabbed her wrists.
"How far is this going to go?" he asked.
"As far as you'll let me."
"I don't know if I can. It's been five years since . . ." He trailed off.
"You've been faithful to Terra?"
"Yes."
"Even after her death?"
He nodded.
She kissed him. "I don't care how far we go. Just be there for me." She unbelted her robe and tossed it to the floor, revealing a green nightgown with wooden buttons down the front. It was probably meant to come down to mid-thigh, but it was hard to tell since her writhing had caused it to ride up nearly to her waist, exposing the green satin panties that obscured the convergence of her legs. She took his hands and put them on her shoulders.
"Rip it," she said.
"What?"
"Rip it."
He grabbed her lapels tightly and tore, the buttons coming free and bouncing off the wall and couch. Several landed on the floor with a light tapping.
Her breasts were small, but so perfectly shaped. Smiling nervously, he cupped one and stroked it with all the shyness of a teenage virgin.
He let go as Celes stood up, letting her nightgown pool around her ankles. She put her hands on her hips and smiled sexily, clad in only her underwear.
She yelped as Edgar jumped off the couch, scooped her up, and carried her to her bedroom.
Edgar needn't have worried about his lack of experience for the past few years. To call his performance admirable would have been an injustice. Celes, if asked, would have called it "amazing," and his encore presentation an hour later "mind-blowing."
Both lovers would be plenty sore in the morning, but not sore enough to avoid having a third go at it.
III. TREASURE HUNTER
Locke Cole trudged through the muddy path leading to the coast, scowling. It was raining and the robe he wore offered very little warmth. He regretted the loss of his wool shirt and denim jacket, which would have made travel in this weather at least bearable.
His hand caressed the Infinity Edge in his pocket. It was a fine weapon indeed. A most excellent score for a treasure hunter. But he was beginning to wish he never found it.
It was in one of the caves of the mountains of Zozo. It took nearly two days of searching. The Infinity Edge, a finely crafted boomerang-like throwing weapon, was at least twice as strong as his Wing Edge. He had planned to sell it at first, but immediately after leaving the cave he was accosted and forced into using the weapon. He was nearly dumbstruck with the destruction it caused.
Later, while in his hotel room, there was yet another attack. Someone came in though the window, apparently unaware that Locke was a light sleeper. That one escaped, but not before he told Locke what he wanted to know. And with several fewer teeth, besides.
Some character by the name of Morgan was vying for his treasure. Apparently he was a local crime boss who had been searching off and on for the weapon he found so easily. The first group of men had been his own lackeys, but the lone man was not. It seemed there was a price out on his head. Locke decided it would be a good idea to lay low.
He was camping near a lake just outside town when he was attacked again, this time by a screaming freak with an Autocrossbow. Locke had wielded a similar weapon as a Returner for long enough to know two things. First, the Autocrossbow the man had was a Figaro-made Returner model and evidently stolen. Second, the guy hadn't the slightest clue how to operate the thing. Locke stabbed him in the heart with a dirk and that was the end of him.
After packing up camp - he was not morbid enough to sleep near a corpse - a thought occurred to him. The man looked very much like himself. And Locke couldn't possibly get to Morgan while there was still a contract out to kill him. Hell, he couldn't even walk down the street by this point. But if people thought him dead and the contract was recalled . . .
It was just devious enough to work. Locke switched clothes with the corpse, and amazingly managed not to vomit. He came close, though.
The deed done, he tossed the body in the lake where it would hopefully float to the docks and be found. Locke hid deeper in the woods and waited for several days.
Once he assumed his death was properly faked, he went about his business in his assassin's garb. He spent time in pubs, gathering information from barflys that would tell him all he wanted to hear and then some for a few GP worth of liquor. Once he decided he knew enough, he went to Morgan.
If he hadn't panicked, everything would have been fine. But he was scared, he hesitated, and then he escaped. His cover was blown completely. All his effort for naught.
With the benefit of hindsight, he could see all his mistakes. First and foremost was the fact he kept the Infinity Edge instead of planting it on the body. The ruse would not be convincing for very long without it, but he simply couldn't bear to give up the treasure.
Second was the fact that he hadn't written to Celes in over a week now. It was impossible for him to have done so while in the caves or on the run from his assassins. But after fabricating his death, he probably could have sent a letter to Kohlingen to tell her what had happened without jeopardizing his ruse. This would be most important in case she got word of his death. Should that happen, he wouldn't want her to do something drastic.
Third was the fact he left his papers in his clothes that were, of course, placed on the body. This made the notification of Celes all the more likely, since anyone who was interested could probably find out who he was and where he lived.
That last point mingled with the words he heard as he ran from Morgan's office: "I want his name, where he lives, and especially if he has any family."
What did he plan to do? Was he going to send his men there to find and kill him?
Were they going to hurt Celes?
Though his legs were already sore merely from walking, Locke began to run.
IV. FAMILY TIES
Morgan stared indifferently into the sky. Behind him, an airship canopy ballooned upwards like some demonic tumor. He heard the muttering and cursing of his personal guards as they worked to prepare the ship for departure.
Parker was dead. He was most sure of that now. His poor, silly, stupid son was in a pinewood coffin of the poorly refrigerated morgue. He would have been buried in an unmarked grave, but Morgan saw to it his son would be placed in a plot by his mother.
Morgan hadn't seen his son in months now, so his disappearance for another week didn't seem surprising. Parker had been twenty-three years old. Five years ago, Morgan had thrown him out of the house for stealing a fairly incredible sum of money that was never recovered. His mother convinced Morgan to give him another chance, and Morgan eventually allowed him to visit as often as he wanted. But Parker would never stay long. As far as he knew, Parker lived a beggar's life on the streets. All the more reason for him to try and kill the man who had robbed Morgan to impress his dear old dad.
Morgan was sure that's what happened. Parker was a far worse fighter than he claimed himself to be. The idea that he would walk right into a trap set by his thief was not surprising.
Stupid boy.
But his disapproval of his son didn't lessen his anger. Oh, goddess, it didn't. He had taken his Infinity Edge, and that was bad enough. But to take his son as well . . .
Locke Cole was going to die. Oh, that was most certain. The question was how much torment he would go through first.
He knew his name now. The idiot's papers were in the pockets of his son's corpse. Morgan sent his men out to intoxicate or beat half the town of Zozo into telling him everything they knew. Of course, nearly all of them never heard of the man. But there was one young card-player who said he knew who Locke Cole was. He said he used to play cards with him and some white-haired airship captain from Jidoor. It took two bottles of elixir, but Morgan found everything he needed.
He had no known family, but many powerful friends. He was reputed to be an associate to the royal family of Figaro. Of course, with their impotent king on the throne, it looked unlikely his army would pose any problem. He had friends in Jidoor and Doma, and though Morgan would love to kill all of them for his thief to find, he hadn't the time. Besides, his strategy in such situations was to strike a bit closer to home.
He had a wife in Kohlingen. Her name was Celes Cole. She was once Celes Chere, the Imperial general. The butcher of Maranda. Morgan had vague recollections of her, but it didn't matter. Ex-general or not, she was still a woman. He could handle her.
Of course, simply because he expected her to be weak didn't mean he would plan for such a thing. He wouldn't allow himself to underestimate her - she was sure to be armed and more than likely still an excellent swordswoman.
"Swordswoman." Ha ha, the very idea . . .
He would bring two of his personal guard with him to assist. He would capture her and bring her to Zozo. Then he would hurt her in the ways woman were made to be hurt.
No, he would pleasure himself first, if she were attractive. Then hurt her. Then wait for Locke to arrive. He would capture Locke, kill Celes before him, and then kill Locke.
Morgan held a hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle.
Even better. Hurt her a little bit first, then pleasure, then more pain (for her, of course) and then kill her. Then send her body, piece by piece, to Locke's friends in hope he receives them.
Oh, what fun!
He couldn't decide. He knew he would kill Celes before Locke. After all, it was Locke he wanted to hurt most. He fucked with his family.
"You fuck with my family, I'll fuck with yours," he said methodically. It felt like truth to him, like religious scripture. He liked how it sounded.
Laughing full-out now, he turned around and walked to his awaiting airship.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Chapter Four is still in the editing stages. With any luck, I should be updating this story every week or two. I'm planning on at least two more chapters after this, each chapter made of four parts that focus on one particular character. I like this odd little writing style.
I hope you people enjoy the story so far. I'm certainly having fun writing it.
- Scribe of Figaro
