CHAPTER FIVE

I. O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN

The wheel of the great airship Falcon spun beneath nimble hands, sharply bringing the vessel to a new heading. One hand released the controls and brushed nervously through long white hair.

He was running out of time. The Falcon had kept a full head of steam for hours now, but he may already be too late.

Damn me for not making this contraption faster. The retrofitting would have been simple enough. I could have done it years ago. Why couldn't I force myself to do it?

He knew why. This ship was rebuilt for Daryl. He couldn't change it now - not without destroying her memory.

Why keep the memory of a dead girl in higher regard than the well-being of a live one?

"That's a damn good question," he stated. He started, realizing he was talking to himself, and glanced around with embarrassment.

No one was there, of course. He'd been alone for a long while. Sighing, he turned his attention to the compass.

It had been a hectic few days, to say the least.

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Yesterday.

His habitual journeys to Zozo were rare, but there was something about it that captivated him. It was seedy, violent, and dangerous, even for a fighter as skilled as he.

Setzer knew for a fact that someday he would die in Zozo.

Yet he continued going there. It wasn't the people he liked. It wasn't the challenge they posed - the patrons of The Trick Coin were just as skilled, though perhaps not as talented as cheating.

It was the rawness of the place that appealed to him. It was the fact that in places like Zozo, gambling was in its natural form. It wasn't entertainment there. It was life and death.

More often death than life, he thought.

He knew there was something wrong at Abe's, the gambling joint he entered the previous evening. It was his common haunt there, and he could sense the atmosphere was disturbed the moment he entered the door.

Regardless, he sat down at the first table he saw and let gold coin fall like rain from his fingers into the pot.

"I'm in," he said.

The man across from him glanced upward. He wore a grimy bandanna over his head, obscuring one eye that more than likely had been put out in some previous fight.

"You don't even know what we're playing," he rasped.

"I'll figure it out," Setzer returned with a wave of one hand.

And so it began.

The game turned out to be poker. Ten hands passed before Setzer asked his first question.

"What happened here?"

The man to his left was dealing. No one answered until he was done.

"Morgan."

Setzer nodded. Two more hands passed. He won both.

"What does he want?"

Nobody answered, and after a minute Setzer snapped his fingers and ordered a round of beer for the table. The three men playing him waited until the beers were set before them and paid for before answering.

"He had a treasure," said the man in front of him.

"It was stolen," said the man to his left.

The man to the right burped and tossed a coin into the pot. "He wants it back."

Setzer nodded once more. He waited at least twenty minutes before speaking again.

"Who stole it?"

As he asked, he pushed nearly a thousand GP into the pot. The man to his right, obviously inexperienced, raised an eyebrow. Someone so easily surprised into emotion won't last long in this town, thought Setzer.

Still, he hoped the hand would go to him.

"Fold," said Setzer, laying his full house facedown on the table.

Setzer lucked out. The amateur gambler beside him won with a measly three of a kind. He noticed his face trembling as he tried to fight back a smile, then pulled his winnings toward him in two huge handfuls.

"A treasure hunter," said the amateur. "He was killed by a bounty hunter, but he didn't have the treasure. Morgan's goons came in here and roughed some guys up until he found out where the guy was from. They say Morgan left Zozo right after."

The man started to form the coins into stacks.

"The treasure hunter," Sezter said. "What was his name?"

Silence. The man to his left and the man with the bandanna stared at him with contempt.

Setzer gripped the amateur's shoulder softly.

"Please. I need to know."

The man hesitated, then shook his head.

"Locke Cole. Poor bastard. I heard he has a wife in Kohlingen."

In a flash, Setzer was out of his chair. His coat rustled as he nodded to his opponents, wished them good evening, and made his way to the door.

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This morning.

Setzer arrived at Kohlingen in the morning after piloting the airship without sleep through the night.

Locke's home was abandoned. Setzer knocked, waited, and checked around the house. All the doors were locked. As he returned to the front door, he realized he had no more time to waste. He needed to get inside. He needed to see if the house was ransacked, as he thought it might be. If it was, he would know Celes was gone, and he would start looking for her.

And if the house was torn apart on the inside, and Celes was there, amidst piles of papers, broken furniture, and clouds of feathers from rent pillows, if she was there lying on her back with her hair splayed about her and her ribs crushed and her fingers broken and if the feathers and papers were stained red with blood -

Setzer's legs turned to jelly. He braced himself on the side of the house, held back a wave of panic, and exhaled slowly. He quickly turned around and dug his fingers into Celes's garden. If he broke a window he could get inside. All he needed was a large enough rock . . .

"Now, see here!" boomed a commanding voice before him.

Setzer looked up. In his panic he hadn't seen the large man just outside the gate to Celes's house.

I haven't time for this, thought Setzer. He stood up, hands to his sides. The man before him probably didn't notice his slight flick of the wrist, and surely couldn't see the razor-sharp playing card fall from Setzer's right sleeve into his hand.

"Hey!" the man shouted. "Setzer Gabbiani!"

Setzer cocked an eyebrow. The man before him had a fuzzy hat, a long mustache, and a heavy jacket with a small tinny star on one lapel. His look of disdain changed instantly to awe.

"Gil Andrews, Sheriff of Kohlinghen, at your service," the man declared, extending a hand. Setzer discreetly pushed the card back into his sleeve and shook hands.

"Me and the wife love your establishment," he gushed. "We go there every year, we do. What's a man like yourself doing in this little town?"

Setzer grinned, though he felt no honesty behind it. "I'm looking for Celes, actually. Have you seen her lately?"

"Celes Cole? Naw, I haven't seen her for a while. She's quite the popular one these days isn't she?"

Setzer's smile faltered. "Why do you say that?"

Andrews waved his hands defensively. "No, no, I wouldn't mean that! Pure as driven snow, she is. I just mean to say you're not the first visitor she's had this week."

"Who else was here?" Setzer forced himself to look friendly.

Andrews smiled a little. "None other than King Edgar of Figaro. Wonderful fellow. He came by two days ago. He has his own airship, you know. He's spent some time here in town, but he left yesterday in something of a hurry."

"Was he alone?" Setzer asked in a burst of hope.

"I'm not sure. I think Celes might have gone with him. I haven't seen either of them since."

Edgar, you magnificent bastard! How did you know to get her out of town?

Wait, Setzer. Don't get ahead of yourself. Check the house first.


"Do you think you could let me inside Celes's house for just a moment? I need to get something I let her borrow a few weeks ago, and I hate to wait for her to return."

The man shifted his weight. "I don't know, Mr. Gabbiani. I can't rightly break into someone's home without a good reason."

Setzer frowned and lowered his eyes. "I understand, Sheriff. I guess I'll just write a note for her and slip it under the door." He patted the man on the back.

The sheriff started walking down the path to the gate. "Sorry I can't help you, Mr. Gabbiani. I'll see you again soon, I hope."

"I'm sure you will," said Setzer. "It's been good talking to you."

Setzer waited until the sheriff had walked far down the path, over a hill, and out of sight before taking a look at the skeleton key he had palmed.

Nice enough fellow, but an easy mark for even a mediocre pickpocket such as I.

Setzer opened the front door, walked into the middle of Celes's and Locke's living room, and breathed a sigh of relief. He checked the bedroom, bathroom, closets, and study. No bodies. No blood. Nothing. Had Setzer spent another hour investigating the house, he might have seen an impression where the corner of a coffin struck the floor. He certainly would have been there long enough to meet Locke and then Edgar. But none of these things happened - Setzer left the house, locking the door behind him, and boarded his airship. He would not realize the consequences of these actions for a long time.

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Now.

That was four hours ago. Since then he has come to the assumption that Edgar and Celes knew Morgan was after them, had at least an inking of how dangerous a man Morgan could be, and fled to Castle Figaro.

He was nearly there. Coming in low, he saw a tiny figure far below him, barely visible in the swirling desert sand.

Setzer's curiosity got the better of him and he turned around for a better look.



II. THICK AS A THIEF

Edgar stared, first with anger, then complete, horrible fear.

It's Locke's ghost oh gods and goddesses and he has the nightgown Celes's nightgown and he knows HE KNOWS and he has his knife out to avenge her honor . . .

Edgar stumbled backwards and collapsed.

It didn't seem longer than a split-second to Edgar. It was as if he blinked his eyes, but upon opening them he was staring at the ceiling and not the wall. Locke's face loomed upside-down above him, and Edgar realized he was lying on the bedroom floor with Locke behind him, supporting his head.

Locke was staring at him with genuine concern, not the unfettered hatred moments before.

"You alright?" the Locke-ghost asked. "You passed out for almost a minute there."

"You're dead," Edgar whispered, not because he felt weak (though he did) but because he felt one should always whisper to a ghost.

"Shit," Locke hissed, gritting his teeth. "You got word from Zozo, then? From whom?"

"A letter from the Mayor of Zozo," Edgar said, a bit less restrained. His mind felt a bit clearer. "You know, you're not disputing the fact you're dead. Though for a ghost, you're looking particularly opaque."

Despite himself, Locke laughed. "I assure you I'm very much alive. I ran into some trouble in Zozo that necessitated fabricating my own death. I hoped to clear the matter up within a few days and come back here before worrying anyone."

Edgar stood up cautiously. "Fabricating your own death?"

Locke told him all he knew, beginning with his discovery of the Infinity Edge and ending with what he heard as he ran from Morgan's office, including the suspicion that he might have killed his son.

"Gods, Locke." Edgar shook his head. "I know we both have blood on our hands from our adventuring days, but I had always believed we were killing evil men for the greater good. But killing someone over a damn throwing weapon . . . Locke, that doesn't sound like a treasure hunter. It doesn't sound like you at all."

Locke lowered his eyes.

"I was protecting property that came to my possession by the code of treasure hunting and salvage. And when I killed that younger man, it was to defend my very life."

He shook his head.

"I wish that I just gave him what he wanted. I wish I didn't kill him."

Edgar felt a glimmer of happiness. This is the Locke I know.

"I thought you were dead, Locke."

"I know."

Locke's eyes widened in surprise as Edgar's tall frame stepped toward him and enveloped him in a bear hug. Locke patted him on the back.

"I'm sorry, Edgar," he said. "I guess I did a fair deal of emotional damage to some of my friends. Celes didn't read that letter, did she?"

"I told her. We both thought you were long gone, Locke." Edgar suddenly froze in panic.

She was pretty depressed at first, Locke, but she felt a lot better after I slept with her. Oh, and by the by, due to my awe-inspiring ineptitude, she's been kidnapped and will most likely be tortured and killed very soon.

Locke broke the embrace and read Edgar's face it in a heartbeat. "What are you hiding? Is she alright?"

"I think she's in grave danger. I . . . I was so surprised to see you I forgot why I came here. . . oh, damn me. . ."

"Where is she? What kind of danger?"

Edgar wiped his brow nervously. "I came to Kohlingen when Celes called for my help. She had a letter informing her of your death, and I volunteered to go to Zozo to identify and recover the body. Only when I arrived at the Zozo mortuary, I was attacked. I was lucky, I'll admit - I was outnumbered and taken by surprise - but I managed to drive off two men and detain a third. I interrogated him quite roughly and gathered the information that this was a trap and that it was set up by some intimidating fellow named Morgan. I became curious enough to work the town for more information and eventually heard from someone that the same Morgan was on his way to Kohlingen. I assumed it had something to do with you and rushed here to warn Celes."

A glint of hope flashed in Edgar's eyes.

"Is she still here?"

Locke shook his head. "No, no one's been here for hours."

Edgar lowered his eyes. "Then I've failed her." He dug his fingers into his scalp. "Damn it all, why did I have to waste so much time in Zozo when I could have just come back here?"

"Is Morgan really that dangerous?"

"The townspeople fear him. Some say he's a demon. They say he has the power to see things. Things people shouldn't be able to see. And he surrounds himself with extremely skilled fighters."

"They can't defeat Celes," Locke stated. But there was an uneasy sense of inquiry in his voice.

"Celes hasn't fought a battle in ten years. Nor have I. Nor have any of us. Locke, you're the only person I know who still gets into fights. And even you can't be anywhere near the level we were when we fought Kefka."

Locke sighed. "You're right." As he lowered his head, he noticed Celes's green nightgown lying on the floor. He had balled it up and placed it under Edgar's head when he passed out, then forgotten about it.

"The nightgown!" Locke gasped. A blush formed at the bottom of Edgar's neck and worked its way up.

"Edgar, I found this wrecked in the closet. And her sword is gone. I think Morgan came by at night, maybe while she was asleep. And she had her sword, or was trying to get it, but she couldn't draw it for some reason. Then Morgan ripped off her . . . and . . . oh god, Celes. Forgive me!"

And just like that, Locke was crying. He didn't notice the pain in Edgar's eyes because he was holding Celes's nightgown in his hands and burying his face in it, inhaling the scent of her perfume, of her lotions, of her, and when he imagined cruel hands clawing at her smooth skin it made the tears come faster and harder.

Edgar licked his lips nervously. Tell him now. We've got too many things to worry about already, but the longer this waits the worse it's going to be.

"She wasn't wearing that when Morgan came."

Locke looked up and wiped his eyes. "How? How do you know?"

"Because . . . because she wore it for me. I was the one who damaged it."

"W-why? Why did you do that?"

And at that moment Edgar realized that no longer how long he lived, the next six words out of his mouth would be the most difficult words he would ever utter.

"I slept with your wife, Locke."

Locke's eyes focused on him, first very wide in confusion and disbelief, but he blinked once and suddenly they were hard and the anger in them was so hot the tears boiled away.

"You what?"

"I slept with Celes the night before I went to Zozo. She was in grief and she was lonely. I was . . . well, I was just there."

Edgar tried not to wince, but that last word was a lie, and he knew it. He wasn't just there. He was a willing participant, hesitant at first purely because he knew that anything he desired so much could not be right. He wanted her for years, and even though it appalled him, even though he might lie about it, he couldn't deny it to himself.

That was the true betrayal, wasn't it? Not the adultery, but the fact he had loved Celes, loved her behind Locke's back for so long. He never acted on it until now, never suggested it to anyone, and perhaps never before fully realized it, but it was his own feelings for her that made him despicable.

Locke seethed.

"I'm going to choose my words very carefully. First, I am glad you decided to comfort my wife in her time of need. Second, I realize, or at least hope, that this would never have happened if you thought I was alive. Third, I am extremely angered at the fact you couldn't wait more than two weeks before moving in on my wife. And fourth, I can't waste time beating the absolute shit out of you while Celes is kidnapped."

Locke leveled his eyes at Edgar. The man had assumed a submissive posture.

"I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely.

Locke waved his hand. "No, just shut up. We're not going to discuss this now. We're going to get in your damn airship, we're going to fly to Zozo, and we're going to find Celes."

Locke threw down the tattered piece of clothing and walked out the door. Edgar followed, slightly dazed. After Locke closed the front door he gripped Edgar's shoulder and whispered in his ear.

"This isn't over, Figaro. And if we fail and she shared her last night of pleasure with you, I swear that I will kill you."

Edgar had a retort ready, but said nothing. He fell a few steps behind Locke, feeling unfit to lead him to his own airship.

Locke, whether or not she's alive, I might save you the trouble.



III. QUEEN OF THE DESERT

There were really no words for the incredible joy Relm felt as she saw the uppermost spire of Figaro Castle over the horizon.

Not that she was particularly interested in seeing Edgar anymore. She would be again after a brief nap, but right now in this scorching world of heat and sand all that mattered was food, water, and fatigue. She had none of the first, a little of the second, and plenty of the third.

"You had enough money for a chocobo near the coast, you stupid bitch," she muttered. "All you had to do was wait at the stable another day and you'd be all set. But no, you were in a hurry. Why wait for a ride when you can get a head start and die out here!?"

She wiped her face with the edge of her cape.

It had seemed like a good idea about two hours into the desert to change her clothes to more fitting desert attire. She had planned to build a tent for privacy, but by the time she got to a suitable oasis to stop and refill her waterskins, she decided any creature capable of surviving in this hell deserved a free look. Gym shorts were fine, but she was sweating through her shirt - a bikini top was much more comfortable. A long white cape protected her back and legs from the desert sun. Sandals were a bit more reasonable than her sand-collecting combat boots. A kerchief protected her hair and neck and completed the ensemble.

She looked idiotic; she knew that for certain. But given the fact that she was going to reek of sweat no matter what she wore when she arrived, impressing the castle guards at the front gate was not a viable option.

At this point, she couldn't decide whether she wanted food, drink, sleep, or a bath more. The sandstorms were mild, but already every inch of exposed, sweaty skin was layered in crusty sand. Her eyes burned with it; her thighs, rubbing each other like sandpaper at each step, began to sting; her nose felt caked with it, as did every crevice of her body.

She hurt. She hurt all over. And even with her destination finally in sight, she felt exhaustion seep in even faster. The pounding in her head threatened to drive her mad.

Only when she heard her name called did she look up and realize the pounding was not in her head at all, at least not mostly. A hundred feet above her, the Falcon hovered. Setzer was leaning over the side shouting to her.

She couldn't quite hear what he was saying over the drone of the engines, and eventually Setzer waved his hands in frustration and ran back to the controls. The airship slowly lowered down until it was only about fifty feet above the sands when a rope latter was thrown off the side. Setzer beckoned her aboard.

Relm shrugged, slung her traveling bag over her shoulder, and climbed aboard. She put down her bag and pulled up the rope ladder before joining Setzer at the controls.

"You're on your way to Figaro?" Setzer asked.

"Yeah. Thanks for the ride. I saw the castle; it's just a few miles that way," she said, pointing slightly to the right of the bow.

"No, the castle's straight ahead, and much farther than that. You probably saw a mirage. It's a good thing I found you - I noticed your tracks seemed to be going in circles. You might have died out there."

Relm put her hands on her hips. "And who made you king of the trailblazers? So what if I got a little sidetracked for a few minutes? I was about to make camp when you arrived, and after a snooze I would've known exactly where to go."

Thrusting back her shoulders in a defiant posture caused her cape to spread open, and Setzer gained an eyebrow-raising glance at her attire.

"Just what in the hell are you wearing?"

Rather than cover herself again, Relm pushed her cape back behind her shoulders. "It's my desert uniform, alright? It's too hot here to wear anything else." Setzer leaned toward her and lightly touched her shoulder, and she elicited a brief grunt of pain.

"That's not enough to protect you from the sun. I suggest you go below to rest and dress more appropriately. Something suitable for combat. You may need it."

"Combat?"

"I'll explain later. Lie down for an hour. I'll wake you when we arrive at Castle Figaro."

Relm nodded, curious as hell but too tired to ask questions. She picked up her things and walked to the hatch but stopped before going inside.

"Setzer?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you for helping me."

"You're very welcome."

Setzer smiled as he watched her disappear into the interior of his airship.

She's a good kid. Still rebellious, but sweet. Strago raised her right.

I hope she's as strong as Sabin says she is.

I hope I'm not about to kill us both.




IV. AWAKENING

. . . I

. . . I can't . . .

. . . I can't believe I fell for that . . .


The black haze of nothingness parted like a series of veils, and all too quickly she realized she had not fainted - the painful swell on the back of her head told her the force responsible for her unconsciousness was physical, not emotional.

I don't remember - what am I supposed to do?

Think. Think, Celes. What do you feel right now?


She kept her breathing as it was before. She could smell cheap tobacco, beer, and damp wood. Mildew. Something oily, too. Lamp oil? Yes, but something else. Diesel fuel.

Now she felt the thrumming of engines through her feet, her thigh, her chest, and even the side of her face. She could feel the roughness of poorly sanded wood even through her clothes.

Was she wearing clothes?

Yes. The sensation of warmth and tightness over her body answered that. But her arms felt bare. Hadn't she been wearing a jacket before?

Pain now. On her cheek she felt irritation. She was apparently pressing against the wood hard enough to scratch her face. At the same time, she suddenly realized the ache in her shoulders and the metallic tightness over her wrists. Soreness in her arms, pressure on her feet.

She was standing up.

No, she was hanging by her wrists with her feet touching the floor. How long had she been suspended like this? Surely her shoulders would have separated if she had been in such a condition for more than a few minutes, and she knew she wasn't in that degree of pain.

Ever so slowly she opened the one eye not pressed against the rough wood that she now decided was a wall.

It was dark, but not too dark to see clearly. Candlelight flickered from somewhere behind her. She was sure by this point that she was in a storage room of some kind. Now she caught a whiff of exotic perfumes and spices. It was the smell of merchant's wares, of a king's storeroom. It was the smell of gold and money and wealth stolen, lost, and found again.

It was the smell of . . . him.

Oh, Locke. My love. What have I done?


She knew she was in danger. She knew she had been captured - perhaps to be ransomed, or raped, or murdered, or all three. For the briefest of moments she thought, however, that it was her own husband who deceived her. To punish her for being so quick to bed his best friend.

For being so weak.

I'm sorry . . .

I don't know why I did it . . .

I loved you. I still love you. But I was so lonely. So scared. I knew Edgar would love me and make it right.


Without thinking, she drew a sharp breath as the floor creaked behind her.

"He's alive, you know. He won't be for long, but he's alive now."

The voice, slimier than lichen, oily as paraffin, wafted into her ear.

"Masters," she hissed.

"Morgan, actually," the man said. "I go under different names when it suits me."

There was no point in feigning unconsciousness. She stood up straight, giving her manacles a few inches of slack. She saw they were hooked together and went to a chain bolted to a roof beam a few feet above her. She turned her back to the wall and faced him.

"General Celes Chere," he stated. He was wearing a dark robe by this point, and a medallion on a chain around his neck. She didn't recognize the symbol etched on it, but a trick of the light made the thing wink at her knowingly. The effect was disheartening enough to cause her to lose her voice for an instant.

"It . . ." She swallowed saliva that burned her throat. "It's Celes Cole."

"Now, you know better, General Chere," he chided. "You may have fooled your Lazarus of a husband, but that's no feat." He smiled wickedly, tracing a finger along the medallion. "No, I see into your heart, General. Locke may have thought you were his, but you never belonged to anyone but the Emperor."

"That's not true," she spat. "I left the Empire of my own accord ten years ago."

"You lie, Celes. You quit Kefka's command, but you never became more than an Imperial witch. You couldn't do better than the Empire. You joined Locke and his friends to mislead them, didn't you?"

"No!"

He walked toward her, a long object materializing from his cloak. It was the Runic Blade.

"My sword . . ."

"If I lie," he sneered, "If you're no longer an Imperial, then why do you wear the uniform of a General to this very day?" He jabbed her in the stomach with the hilt of her sword. "If you hate the Empire as all good people did, why do your hands continue to wield its power?"

"I . . ."

Fast as lightning, the sword was unsheathed, the blade pressed against her exposed neck.

"If you're anything more than a Magitek-laden whore, then why did you murder my parents?"

She felt her eyes well up with tears. He can't be lying. I've killed so many people. But how does he know everything? How can he see into me like this?

Morgan lowered the sword and sheathed it.

"I'm a just man. I believe in the value of forgiveness. But for forgiveness, there must be confession, mustn't there be?"

"I . . . suppose," she whispered. Her eyes were blurry. She squinted and felt the tears wash down her cheeks. She couldn't even look at him; she stared at the floor instead.

"You burned the town of Maranda."

"Yes."

"You led assaults that killed hundreds, murdered at least a dozen by your own hand."

"I did."

"You killed men, women, and children. Burned them to death."

"I'm sorry . . ."

"You had the Returners hunted down and murdered in cold blood. These weren't enemy soldiers - they were family men who were only trying to defend their way of life. You wiped them out without remorse."

"I killed them. . ."

"Tell me, General, how many of Locke's friends would you have killed if it wasn't for your act of treason?"

"I don't know."

"Your arrest, now that was something interesting, wasn't it? As far as I've heard, Kefka ordered you detained because you were out of control, weren't you?"

"I don't remember"

"Not before you wiped out almost every Returner in South Figaro, of course. Tell me, General, did you ever apologize to Edgar for decimating his kingdom?"

Her lower lip quivered. She hadn't.

"Not even when you seduced him?"

"What!? How do you know -?"

"I know more about you than you do, General. I know how embarrassed you are by your own womanhood. I know how poor a warrior you have become. I know you can barely swing your own sword without breaking a sweat and chipping a nail.

"Most of all, Celes. I know just how weak you are."

She reeled in shock. Her face contorted, her eyes burned, and - gods forgive her - she trembled before him.

"That's right, General. Cry, you silly little bitch."

"Fuck you," she choked out.

"Oh, there's plenty of time for that later. But might I ask what angers you more, General? The fact I kidnapped you, or the fact that I know you so well? Tell me if I've said a single word that wasn't the honest truth."

She shook her head.

"I thought so. Now turn around, my dear."

She looked up again, seeing he had produced a short rawhide whip from the folds of his robe.

"No," she seethed.

"Oh, yes. Forgiveness does not preclude punishment, as you should well know."

"How dare you."

"How dare I indeed. Maybe this isn't my place, but someone needs to do this. It's the only way to save you, Celes."

He unwound the whip and absently cracked it. Seeing she had no choice, Celes turned around and clenched her teeth.

"Now, that's a good girl."

With a sweeping motion, Morgan spun the whip in a circle, pulled it behind him, and struck her in the middle of the back, tearing through shirt and skin and leaving a crimson trail behind.



AUTHOR'S NOTES: For four months I swore off most of my favorite websites, including Fanfiction.net, to facilitate the incredible amount of studying and writing I needed to complete for my numerous classes during last semester. I came back to find the site completely revamped, my Favorite Authors and Stories gone (I've tried to reconstitute them by going through every page of the Final Fantasy category and putting in the stories and authors I like, but I'm sure to have missed some), and most of my favorite stories ("Dark Empress" and "The Descent" come to mind) have not been updated.

Very disheartening. And yet, I am happy to see a few people are (once in a while) giving me reviews.

Notes to my fellow writers:

DK - write another chapter, gosh dang it!

Midnite Angel Aeris - sorry about the Pearl Harbor rant. I guess I tend to get frustrated when I'm told an idea I thought was original was actually used by someone else. I really don't mean to take my writing here too seriously. It's just fanfiction, for Yevon's sake.

Bard of Today - thanks for the intelligent review. I thought I was the only one who read fanfics more than a few months old.

That's all. I don't know how much longer this story will be, but I feel I'm past the halfway point. I'm working on chapter six already, so hopefully I'll be posting them way, way more often than I have been so far.

I hope you are all still enjoying my story.

- Scribe of Figaro