I. A WOMAN SCORNED
The bathroom door opened, letting out a steamy fog that poured into the hallway. Relm walked out, a towel around her head, another wrapped around her body.
Once in her bedroom she pulled off both towels without bothering to close the door. She glanced in the mirror and shook out her hair, then combed it for a few moments. After putting down the comb she opened her dresser drawer and pulled out a black strapless bra. She put it on and then paused for a moment, grabbed two similar bras in one hand and a handful of underwear in the other.
Why the hell not?
She tossed both piles on the bed, not bothering to count the panties. She pulled a black pair on and looked into her closet.
Humming, she put on a pair of loose red pants, holding them at her knees - they were long enough to slide over her ankles, and the cuffs hurt when she stepped on them. She found a black shirt with open shoulders and put that on as well. Laughing giddily, she grabbed a handful of shirts, skirts, and pants, throwing them on the bed beside the undergarments.
Back at the dresser she dug up some socks - black, white, green, polka-dotted - and put on a pair, piling the rest on her bed next to her other clothes. She put on her black combat boots and laced them up tight, blousing her pants from them.
Enjoying the stomp stomp stomp of her feet, she shook her now-dry hair and then pulled it back with a leather thong, then wrapped a red paisley bandanna over her head. A few curly red hairs slipped loose and tickled her forehead.
Jewelry? No, she'd leave that here. Makeup? She opened her case, paused, then closed it and tossed it on the mattress.
She kept a large suitcase under her bed. Opening it, she was assaulted by the scent of cedar. She indiscriminately shoveled clothes inside, leaving a pile on her bed of clothes that wouldn't quite fit.
Dragging the suitcase behind her, she left her apartment and locked the door. Sabin's apartment was nearby, and she snorted in disapproval as she passed his door and smelled the rich scent of roasting meat.
She walked to the train station, one corner of her suitcase digging a series of small ruts in the dirt path.
She hadn't seen Edgar for nearly a month now. It was time for a surprise visit.
II. DON'T GO AWAY
Celes smelled breakfast the moment she stepped out of the shower. Wearing only her robe and a towel over her hair, she padded lightly to the kitchen, her feet leaving wet marks on the hardwood floors.
The table was set for two. Orange juice and milk were already poured. Edgar's back was to her as he leaned over the stove. With one hand he was scrambling eggs with a spatula, with the other he held a pan and was flipping the pancakes.
She laughed with delight. He jumped and a single pancake bounced off the rim of the pan, landing on the floor with a fleshy splat. He put the pan on the burner, frowned at the mess, looked up at her, and smiled.
He took her in his arms and kissed her.
"Good morning, my sweet."
She brushed her hands through his hair. "Well, you're in a good mood."
"I can't remember the last time I felt better."
He was already dressed, which was a pity. Had he been as scantily-clad as she, she might have convinced him into a forth tryst. But she was still a bit tired, and the effort in undressing him again was a bit too much at the time. Sighing, she sat down. She had barely pulled her chair in before Edgar was pouring food onto her plate, and though she very much wanted to wait for him to be seated, she sensed him hovering over her and waiting for her approval. She took a cautious bite.
It was wonderful.
"This is delicious, Edgar! I didn't know you could cook!"
Edgar grinned as he picked the pancake off the floor and tossed it toward the sink.
"Don't tell anyone. I have enough responsibilities as it is."
He filled up his own plate and sat opposite her. She couldn't stop smiling at him.
After they had eaten, Edgar stifled a burp. Celes laughed again.
"Don't you dare try to clean the kitchen," she said. "I'm going to take care of it."
"No, don't worry about it. I know where everything goes."
"Please, Edgar."
"I'll wrestle you for it."
She shouted as he grabbed her out of her chair and dropped her softly on the floor of the living room. She pushed him over but he quickly regained his position on top of her. He pinned her wrists and as she struggled, causing her towel to fall off and spill honey-gold hair over the carpet.
He bent down for a kiss that she gave to him most willingly.
"Celes," he said, a bit sadly. He stood up and helped her to her feet.
"Celes," he repeated. "What do you feel?"
She looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, are you happy? Do you feel . . . guilt?"
"Why? Do you feel guilty? Should we feel that way?"
He shook his head. "I don't know what to feel. Locke's gone. You're here. I love you. That's all I know."
She took his hands. "Maybe that's all you need to know."
"I can't believe we did this." He let go of her, waved his hands about. "I shouldn't be doing this. Not to you. Not to him."
She frowned. "I love you."
Her statement disarmed him, and he suddenly found her arms around his waist and her lips upon his.
They cuddled for quite some time. He eventually let her go and began to wash the dishes. She watched him for a minute, then went into the bedroom to get dressed.
He wore a curious look when she returned.
"Isn't that your Imperial uniform?" he asked.
"Yes, it is. I got tired of wearing dresses. I've worn this twice this week. Makes me feel . . . I don't know. Free."
"Locke made you wear housedresses?"
"No, of course not!" Her hands absently found her hips and rested there. "He just . . . There was this family atmosphere we had here. I guess I sort of fell into a role. Wearing dresses, cooking, cleaning house . . ."
"But not having children," he interrupted.
"No. Not that. I know people have been talking about it, but you're the first one I know to bring it up."
"I'm sorry."
"It's alright. It's nothing I'm ashamed of. It's just that I don't want children."
"Any reason?"
"Yes. Terra."
She had expected him to flinch at the mere mention of her name, and when she was certain he was ready to hear more, she continued.
"It started as convenience. Locke and I were treasure hunters together for the first two years, more or less. We couldn't handle kids while traveling the world, could we? And then when Terra gave birth . . . well, I decided right there I wouldn't ever let that happen to me."
The teakettle whistled. Edgar jumped at the sound, but quickly shook his head in a gesture of self-derision. He poured two cups as she talked.
"It was silly of me, I know. There was no reason at all to think what happened to her would happen to me. I probably would have come to my senses in a few years. But then Terra had her second miscarriage . . ."
Edgar handed her a cup and saucer that clinked and jittered. Once she took it he grabbed his shaking hand by the wrist.
"Sorry," he said. "Go on."
"No," she said, aghast at the pain she was causing him. "Not without you holding me."
She took his hand and brought him to the couch, sitting him down and then placing her body in his lap. He held her.
"Once Terra died, I knew there was no way I could ever have children. I was so scared, Edgar."
Edgar had calmed himself down and spoke with neither tears nor the threat of them. "From what the doctors told me, she died because she was part esper. She simply wasn't born with the ability to have children. I think there was some medical name for it - damned if I remember."
"I never believed that," she stated firmly. "I don't know why, but I knew it was something the Empire did to us. It occurred to me that having magic-users like us was a danger, and it would be a huge threat to the Empire if we escaped and gave the Returners magic-using children."
"You think they sterilized you and Terra?"
"Yeah, or something with the same effect. Something far worse. Maybe there was some drug or technique that allowed for a successful birth, or maybe not. Whatever their intents, they made sure that if a female magic-user slept with a man without the Empire's intervention, she would be sorely punished by her own body. If one defected to the Returners, she would take seed and lead them to think she would give them magic-using children. Then both child and mother would die in a way that would look very much like a birth complication. That way, the Returners could never gain a new generation of mages, and any attempt would lead to the death of their female magic-users."
"The goose that laid the golden egg," Edgar stated.
"Yes, exactly. Resistance to the Empire is punished by its own selfishness."
"You think Cid had anything to do with it?"
She lowered her eyes.
"I think he turned a blind eye to it, which is just as bad. I can't pretend to know the evil things he never tried to stop. I don't want to know."
Edgar placed a hand on her thigh. She took it in her hands and squeezed.
"In any case, I really don't have any way to prove this happened. Terra and I were the only female Imperial mages not killed by the Light of Judgment, as far as I know."
"It seems in line with the Empire's motives," Edgar said. "And it surely isn't below its moral code."
"I know," she said, sadly.
"What about last night?" Edgar said. "And this morning? Will you . . . are you . . .?"
"Taking birth control? Of course."
"Birth control?" His tongue worked over the words like a strange toy.
"Pills. They keep me from having children. Didn't Terra tell you about them?"
"She never told me what she used. I always assumed it was her business."
She shrugged, not particularly bothered by his naïveté. Just because his throne sat on the forefront of technology didn't mean he kept up with medical breakthroughs. And the pills she got from the Kohlingen potion shop were a fairly new medical marvel.
She kissed him in an I-love-you-anyway sort of manner.
He held her for a few minutes more and then stood up, careful not to drop her on the floor. She stretched out on the couch, comfortable in the warm cushion he left.
"I have to go to Zozo. You know why."
She nodded.
"Will you be alright alone for the rest of the day?"
"You'll be back tonight?" she asked, with just a hint of excitement.
"I will. I might have to bring you to Figaro Castle afterward, though. I need to be there for my people."
"You won't even consider leaving me here for more than a few days?"
"No," he replied matter-of-factly.
She smiled. "I'm glad."
Ten minutes later, she stood on the front porch and waved as Edgar walked down the dirt road to where his airship lay in wait. Once he was out of sight, she noticed the poor state of her flower garden. She walked back in the house and returned a minute later with a filled watering can.
She sang lightly to herself as she nursed her flowers back to health.
III. EXIT MUSIC
Hours later she lay on her couch, wiping her sweaty face with a handkerchief. Her pants and boots were smudged with dirt. On the kitchen table laid the watering can atop her worn gardening apron. A pair of heavy gloves and pruning shears were beside it.
She had meant to only water her plants, but she then realized her rose bushes needed to be cut. One thing led to another, and it was noontime before she knew it.
She was tired, hungry, and sweaty. Once prioritizing these needs, she decided she would first eat, then take a nap, then bathe. She wanted to be fresh and sweet for Edgar when he returned.
She cooked some chicken, ate it plain, and then went to her bedroom to sleep.
A knock at the door awoke her.
Celes yawned, stretched, and went to the front door. A man stood there, dressed all in black. He smiled at her.
"Ms. Celes Cole, I presume?" He extended his hand. She gave him hers, but maintained a look of confusion even as he took it and kissed it politely.
"My name is Masters. I'm the funeral director at Zozo. I'm very sorry to make your acquaintance at this time of sadness, but I was told to meet you here and bring you your husband's personal effects. And," he paused with feigned discomfort, "his remains."
She shook her head. "No, not here. Edgar left to take care of that. He should be on his way back." She stepped backwards into the house. Masters followed her with open arms and a sympathetic frown.
"Perhaps a mistake had been made. I was told to bring him here for a wake to be held within a day or so. You'll have to do it soon, you see. The funeral, perhaps the day after? It's your choice, of course."
She shook her head, near tears. How could he be so callous?
"I'm sorry. I see my experience with the rather unsavory people of Zozo has made me somewhat caustic. I apologize for offending you." He pulled out a small satchel. "These were your husband's things."
She took it and began to work at the knot. It was tied very tight.
Masters walked out to the doorway and waved an arm. Two men seemed to appear from nowhere, each carrying the end of a black coffin.
"Oh, goddess," she whispered.
Masters had gotten behind her. "This living room will make a most excellent funeral parlor. Just a matter of moving these couches around. Can we bring in some of those flowers from outside? The rose bushes are a bit wilted, but surely that's the point, isn't it?" He spat a short bark of a laugh. "Come now, we'll put him on the coffee table."
She wasn't taking this disrespect a moment longer. "You won't touch him!" she screamed, throwing the still-tied satchel to the floor.
"Oh, shit!" one of the men behind her cried.
She spun around on one heel, seeing the man holding the head of the coffin lose his grip. With a loud crash the end struck the floor. The latches popped. The top fell open.
She screamed.
It took less than a second for her to realize the coffin was empty, but it was too late - the world was already turning black.
Behind her, Masters twiddled a blackjack between his fingers.
"Very good," Masters said. "That was the perfect time for a distraction."
"Thanks, Morgan," said one of the men. "But seriously, she just scared the hell out of me when she screamed like that."
"No matter," said Morgan. He regarded the crumpled form before him with interest. Her leather jacket was undone, and one leg was bent below her in an apparently painful manner. It would have been kind to move her slightly to prevent her from tearing a tendon, but instead he leaned forward and roughly squeezed a breast.
Morgan stood up and smiled.
Nice. I suppose that settles it: Pleasure for me, then pain for her. Then pleasure and pain at the same time, and finally more pain followed by death. Very good.
"Get her in the coffin," he said. "She said that dickless king of Figaro is coming here soon."
Morgan opened the satchel with a knife. Inside were not any papers, of course. He pulled out the medallion and chain inside and put it on. The eye engraved upon it seemed to wink at him.
The guards scooped the woman up and placed her in the coffin with surprising gentleness. Morgan toured the house. It was quaint, to be kind. Though the word that kept returning to Morgan's mind was cheap.
This is that fucking thief's home. I wonder how many stolen things are here on display.
Morgan, of course, had no particular interest in taking Locke's stolen trinkets. Besides, the one item he wanted back so badly was surely in Locke's hands. Furthermore, he had a brand new toy that made the loss of the Infinity Edge not quite worth it, but at least bearable.
His greed resurged as he crossed into the bedroom and found a beautiful sword lying on the dresser. Its scabbard was leather and wood reinforced with bronze and decorated with gold weaves. An unbuckled leather belt was secured to it. Its hilt appeared silver; the grip was of woven leather straps ending with an unrecognizable round jewel. The guard consisted of a crosspiece that curved upward slightly. He drew the sword and studied the blade.
Morgan knew at that moment the hilt was not silver, for no one would ever build a sword so perfectly and be foolish enough to use silver. It was made of something far stronger, maybe a material no one has known about for a thousand years. The blade was double-edged and pointed, about as long as his arm. It was decorated, no, completed, with intricate carvings - symbols of a language ages dead.
The weapon was surely a woman's sword - no weapon that light would find its use in a man's hands. He wondered what metal could possibly be so weightless. It didn't matter much. He would keep the sword, perhaps as a decoration for his office. He could probably sell it for a huge amount of GP, but he didn't want to do that. He wanted to keep it near him.
I'll keep it as a reminder. A reminder that if you fuck with my family I'll fuck with yours.
He would need it. He was sure his other memento, now being borne to his airship in the coffin, would be dead within a few days. Sooner, if she was lucky.
Laughing, he slid the sword into its scabbard and left the house. Today was turning out to be a very good day.
IV. TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE
Locke ran to his front porch, stopped, leaned against the door, and gasped for breath. He had run the entire length of Kohlingen.
The ferry ride was right on schedule. He was glad for that. And he had no trouble finding a chocobo stable. The bird he rode nearly to death; the creature gave up on him just on the outskirts of Kohlingen. He hadn't slept at all except on the ferry and for brief moments in the saddle. He made excellent time.
Once gaining his breath, he unlocked and opened the door.
"Celes?"
She wasn't there. He checked the bedroom, the bath. He ran outside to look over the backyard. Nothing.
Where did she go?
There was no sign of struggle. The front door was locked. He checked it. No one had pried the door. He would have seen the telltale scratches of a picked lock a mile away - none were there.
Morgan won't be here for hours, if he really is coming here.
Locke checked the bedroom again. All her clothes were in the closet, but her Runic Blade was not.
She was in a hurry, but she left of her own accord. Why else would she bring her sword? Who else would find it in this mess?
The stove was still warm. She hadn't been gone more than a few hours.
I'll wait for her.
He took off his stolen robe and threw it out the back door, intending to burn it sometime later. The dead man's clothes disgusted him. He washed quickly and put on jeans and a wool shirt.
Locke pulled a denim jacket out of his closet. It was very much like the one he donated to the Fake Locke Cole's Death Fund, but never worn. Celes bought it for him a year ago. He had been so attached to the old one he wouldn't give it up, even when she threatened to throw the worn thing away. He felt his eyes water as he put it on.
Dammit, she's fine. Stop worrying.
He pulled a bandanna from his bureau and tied it on, then began to search the house more thoroughly.
It didn't take him long to find a wooden button behind the couch and another one wedged between the cushions.
These are from Celes's nightgown . . .
Panicking now, he ran back into Celes's closet and found her laundry basket. Yes, there they were. A pile of buttons on a shelf and her nightgown, rolled into a ball, beside her sewing kit. He unfolded the nightgown and held it in one hand with a few buttons in his other hand.
The last time I saw her wear this was two weeks ago. It was whole then.
He stood in the bedroom, hands trembling slightly.
He came into the house. Sometime last night, while she was sleeping. He snuck inside, maybe tricked her somehow. Then he tore open her nightgown and . . .
Screaming, he threw the buttons at the wall, reveling in their chaotic clattering upon the floor.
It was at that moment he heard the front door open. Someone shouting his wife's name. A male voice. There was a brief pause, and Locke heard a sword being drawn from its scabbard.
Idiot! You left the door unlocked. Did he hear you?
Locke drew his dirk with his free hand, still holding the nightgown in his right. He stood beside the open bedroom door, back pressed against the wall. He heard footsteps come to the door, another pause, and the man was inside.
Once the man was in the room, it took Locke Cole only a quarter of a second to jump him and put his dirk to the man's throat.
"Struggle and you'll die," Locke hissed.
"Hurt her and regret it," the man countered.
Five seconds after seeing the man enter the room, it dawned on him. The blue cape. The gilt sword. His notable height. The voice. Yes, the voice made it clearer than anything - he didn't recognize the man when he was shouting, but he did now.
With a gasp of surprise, Locke let go and stepped backwards.
The man turned around, and Locke found himself staring at the infuriated face of Edgar Roni Figaro.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I like writing myself into corners. I honestly don't know what's going to happen next, but I hope to post the next chapter in the next few weeks. Keep in mind that with all my work and obligations and my other creative outlets, writing this story is last priority. Perhaps if I got a few positive comments I'd be persuaded to sit down and write more. Who knows?
