CHAPTER SIX



I. CONFESSION

Refreshed, recently showered, and wearing her gi, Relm lay spread-eagled on Setzer's bed. She slept for a long time, it seemed, and upon waking she continued to lie there.

She first thought about her travels with her friends. The adventuring days. Things seemed simpler at that time. She didn't have to worry about love then. Oh, she flirted with Edgar a lot, but she was never quite serious about it. She didn't have to worry about travel, either. She had crossed the Figaro Desert many times on foot, but it had been so long she had forgotten. She had forgotten how Shadow tore a length of scarf from his clothes and wrapped it around her nose and mouth, protecting her from desert sands. She forgot how Locke told them to only cross the desert at nightfall. She forgot that one does not carry a suitcase and a half-dozen changes of clothes while on a journey where hours of walking may be required, but instead a bag that can be strapped around the back and filled with mostly food and water - a mistake she rectified in a store in South Figaro.

She had forgotten a lot since she was a child.

She couldn't paint anymore. Not as she used to. Not with magic. She had been perhaps eight or nine years old when she first found that her pictures of animals seemed to spring to life before her. Quite a difficult thing for a child to experience. Strago hadn't believed her at first, but when she drew him a leafer that jumped from the page, hopped about the room, and quietly dissolved once her magical energy was spent, her claims could not be denied.

She learned to control her skill better. Strago helped some, but she learned the most through trial and error. Eventually she could quickly sketch monsters as they approached her and scare them off with her own magically animated drawing. After that, she learned how to get her drawings to attack their real-life counterparts. Near the end of her adventures with her friends, she found she could control the enemies themselves. She had many more magic spells learned through the use of Magicite, just as her friends did. But her sketching was the one she was most proud of. This was a craft, an art, a skill that no one else in the world could master.

But that was gone. All gone. Terra felt it worst, but every last one of them felt the terrible illness of magic dying in their bodies during the final battle for the world.

Their ability to use Magicite-induced spells went almost immediately after Kefka was destroyed. Terra's esper skills were lost soon afterward. Slowest to dissipate was the magic spells of the Thamasians, the humans who possessed magic all their lives. Days after their victory, Relm could still sketch monsters, though as time went by her magically-drawn creatures became weaker and weaker. Two months after the fall of Kefka, she could no longer call herself a mage - those powers were gone entirely.

With her only real fighting skill gone, she knew she had to compensate. Her smart mouth and flirtatious nature made self-defense a requirement, and it wasn't long after the fall of Kefka that she decided to augment her crude street-fighting skills with Sabin's martial arts training.

And hell, maybe she did have a crush on him at the time. He was handsome, fairly intelligent, and carried a sense of honor with him. She admired that.

But so did Edgar. It seemed her entire life she held a crush against one or the other, even while doing her best to tease the younger boys, the ones she knew around town. The ones she could control with sex and promises.

She was very promiscuous then, in her teenage years. But those days were over. Even though she never found anything wrong with her acts, she grew tired. It was all far too easy. She got some nice things out of it, and that was good. But she needed to focus on her training and her painting. No time for boys anymore.

At least, that's what she told herself. She wasn't really tired of the flirting, the teasing, and the things that came after that. Not entirely. No, it was something else.

Emptiness.

Her relationships were empty. Not a single one had any semblance of emotional attachment. At least, not on her side. She knew her actions were a bit cruel. She understood that she was hurting those boys. She just never realized how much she was hurting herself.

My heart aches.

It's been so long since I've loved. Maybe I never had. I wish I could have someone. A man I could love, and he could love me back. That would be so nice.


Still staring at the ceiling, her hand drifted to her face. Fingertips touched her cheek, then brushed over her lips. Lips that had given away countless kisses without thought, without regret.

That thought led to memories of far less innocent acts. Her other hand brushed her abdomen.

How many men? How many, Relm? Probably less than a dozen, surely no more than a score. You teased more than you bedded. But you slept with them for trinkets. For money, sometimes, when things got tough. No better than a whore, Relm.

A choking sigh escaped her lips. She would not cry.

But there was Celes, back then? Surely she was the same! She used her feminine charms, and maybe she went as far as I did. Yes, maybe. And she succeeded. She found Locke, and she seems so happy now.

Relm had been insanely envious of Celes for quite some time.

But that was different. She was never as bad as me. Never. And when she got together with Locke, it was because of romance, not desperation.

Besides, no one wants you anyway. You're damaged goods. Zozo street-trash.

Worthless.

And here you are looking for another one. Sabin wouldn't have you, so now you're going for his twin brother. You haven't changed a bit.


"No," she whispered to herself. "No, this is different. I mean it this time."

She wasn't sure, though. Sadly, she closed her eyes and rested.



II. ENMITY

I still love her.

Locke sat crosslegged on the main deck of the Terra Branford, before the main viewing windows, ahead and just to the right of where Edgar was steering. His hands cradled his chin as he thought about his wife.

I'm scared for her. I'm scared that she can't fight for herself anymore. When I first met her, she was more than a match for me. Now . . . now, I don't know anymore. And if Morgan is as bad as Edgar says, I can't say for sure I can save her.

Maybe I'm being too hard on Edgar. After all, I was the one responsible for all this. I was the one who made them think I was dead. They're friends; I should have expected Edgar to come and console her. And hell, how should I know how Celes was going to grieve?


Locke grimaced.

No, I won't believe it. They couldn't wait one week - one goddamned week! - before jumping into bed together. That's not the sort of thing friends do. Had they waited a year, maybe even a month - well, that would be different. I could understand that. But a week! Gods! That's not normal. People don't do things like that.

He folded his hands together and found himself biting his own thumbs in an attempt to keep from shouting out loud.

People don't do things like that unless it's something they wanted for a long time. Something planned. How do I know she hadn't been having an affair for years? Maybe they were just betting on me to check out one of these days. I spend days at a time out of Kohlingen. She's alone in the house, she probably gets lonely. In steps Edgar, regal cape and all, and cuckolds me. In my own bed, damn it all.

I won't let it stand. Not like this. Celes, I can forgive her. I still love her. If she asks for it, I will freely give forgiveness. That is certain.

Edgar, on the other hand. . .


Locke frowned.

He shall pay. I'm not sure how, or when. But when the time is right, I shall avenge Celes's honor.



III. CONTRITION

I still love her.

Edgar stood at the helm, still aiming for Zozo but not really seeing much. He was lost in his thoughts, feeling the wheel only superficially, and perhaps more strongly when wind gusts pushed the rudders about.

I've tried, but I can't quite make myself regret it. It was one of the best nights I've ever had. Never had I felt so free. At least, not since Terra . . .

Wistfully, he looked behind him at the woman's portrait, then turned back to the window.

I wonder what she would think of this. I still miss her, but surely she'd expect me to move on by now. Five years is a long time.

Hell, what am I thinking? She'd take Locke's side, for sure. She loved him too.


He glanced at Locke. They hadn't spoken a word to each other since they left his house some hours ago. He merely sat there, meditatively, staring out one of the side windows.

I wonder what he's thinking about? I can hazard a guess.

Damn it, Edgar, why must you be so impulsive? A moment of indiscretion and you've absolutely decimated your best friend, perhaps utterly destroying his marriage in the process. And for what? For a night of pleasure? For the brief illusion of a deep and meaningful relationship? For the inconceivable fantasy of finally bedding the fierce and beautiful ex-Imperial General?


A brief gust of wind pushed the Terra Branford off course. Edgar adjusted the wheel to compensate.

I thought about her off and on over the years. I imagined touching her, tasting her. I thought those daydreams were harmless, and I allowed them to manifest as terrible, disgusting, adulterous desire. Desire that wasn't even realized until that critical moment when she offered herself to me. Had I any decency, any honor whatsoever, I would have stopped it. I've been called a womanizer before, but Locke's wife . . . Goddess, I never thought I was that bad.

I wish I could pin it all on drunkenness, or total lack of judgment. But I still love her. I love her and it doesn't matter anymore. I refuse to hurt Locke again, and I will not contribute any further to the destruction of Celes's reputation.


Edgar's chest tightened with the dawning realization that, tarnished reputation or otherwise, Celes may already be dead.



IV. HOPE

I still love him.

During her ordeal, Celes continually came to thoughts of Locke. Edgar had all but left her mind already. She could only concentrate on her husband, and what she was going to do if she got freed. She'd beg for forgiveness, of course. He might punish her, and that would be all right. If Locke tied her up like a dog to keep her from cheating on him, she would still love him . . .

Celes shook her head, bringing up a swell of a headache.

Pull it together, Celes. That's crazy. Morgan's messing with your mind.

Breathing deliberately, she began to take stock of her situation.

Morgan had worked her over for nearly an hour, and his attentions were well-focused. The back of her shirt had been torn to shreds by the onslaught, causing the front to fall forward and render her naked above her abdomen. Her waist-length hair had been ripped away by the whip's sharp strokes, and she could see a small pool of golden tresses at her feet. Her back felt tight and bloody, and the scabs had formed around the tatters of her hair. Fresh wounds opened each time she turned her head.

I'm not accustomed to this level of pain.

Hope was with her, though. She had a plan. She had waited a while after Morgan left, wanting to be fairly certain she could work uninterrupted. She also wanted to wait until her back had stopped bleeding, knowing that what she needed to do would be frustrating and pain would hamper her progress. Now that the injuries had gone down to a dull sting, she felt certain she was ready.

She gripped the chains just above her manacles and lifted her feet, pressing them against the wall before her. Slowly, she walked her way up the wall. She released the chain with her right hand, supporting herself now only with the left. She clutched at her right boot, straining hard with her fingers. She couldn't reach.

Hissing through clenched teeth, she let herself down on the ground. After taking a preparatory breath, she kicked high with her right leg, managing to raise her foot almost to her head.

Not good enough, Celes. You need to get higher. Come on, now.

She tried several more times, the tendons in her legs straining against this uncommon abuse. Finally, she managed to bring her leg high enough to touch her hands.

Quickly, she rubbed her right heel kicked against her left leg, working the boot loose. One more kick and the boot was in her hands.

Alright, Celes, don't get too excited. You don't want to drop this.

Carefully, she picked at the seam between the immaculate white leather and the cloth lining. A nail broke as she picked one piece of thread loose. She bit her tongue but didn't slow down.

Finally she had them - a two-inch long, flat, hooked piece of steel, and a slightly shorter, sharp, pointed piece.

Her lock pick kit.

She had sewn the kit into her boot many years ago, back when she had expected recapture by the Empire and had numerous escape plans ready. She had feared their mission would fail, that the Empire would crush her friends and capture her for a more public execution. For a time, she had feared the Returners would incarcerate and interrogate her. And there were even a few days, brief though they might have been, that she expected Locke to bring her back to Vector for a bounty.

For so long I've treated him poorly. What good does he see in me?

She started as she heard the sound of someone unlocking the door to the storeroom.

Celes, you idiot! Why weren't you listening for footsteps?

This was not a good position to be seen in. On instinct, she turned her head up and dropped the lock picks into her mouth. One piece bounced off her lips and landed soundlessly on the rough wooden floor. The other fell on her tongue. The sour taste of sweat sickened her, quickly overcome by the acrid taste of metal. She worked the piece under her tongue.

Morgan entered, reading a look of shock and guilt off Celes's face that wasn't entirely faked.

"My, my. What have we here?" he chuckled, locking the door behind him. A small knife somehow made its way from his sleeve to his hand, and he held it defensively as he advanced on her.

She said nothing, slinking back only slightly when he ripped the boot out of her hand. He stepped back a bit and examined it.

"Clever, clever. I see you are resourceful, General Chere." He fingered the ripped seam. "What have you? A knife? A file?" Finished with his examination of the boot, he tossed it to the other side of the room.

He stepped toward her, pressing the knife to her neck.

"Show me your hands, General."

She unclenched her fists, and he was soon satisfied she concealed nothing there.

He glanced downward, admiring her bare chest for only a second, and saw the lock pick on the floor.

"Ah, I see." Keeping the knife at her neck - had he not done so, she surely would have kicked him - he picked up the metal piece and turned it over in his fingers.

"You're very sneaky, General. I made a mistake by allowing you the dignity of wearing clothes, and you immediately took advantage of that. It's a mistake I shall rectify presently."

Before she could so much as gasp, he had already pulled the remainder of her clothes down to her ankles. She nearly kicked him when he leaned down to pry loose her other boot, but held fast - if she hurt him, he might decide to start striking her about the face, and she could easily choke on the pick. She struggled slightly, as total complacency would tell him she was hiding something, but that was all.

He stepped back with the pile of clothes in his hands, then with his knife he began to cut every article into pieces. Even her socks were torn to shreds. Nodding with satisfaction, he tossed the rent garments behind him, strewing them across the room.

She was so shocked by this behavior - by the idea that stripping her wasn't enough, he needed to destroy everything that was hers - that she didn't realize he was walking toward her again until he grabbed her shoulder and threw her face first into the wall.

His hands worked their way through her hair. She grimaced as he searched for pins or any other items she might conceal. She had none of those, but he tugged painfully at her scalp regardless. Were that not enough, he tore out every ribbon she wore, painfully ripping out clumps of hair with them.

Apparently certain she hid nothing in her hair, his fingers reached around her, meeting at her stomach and sliding downward.

She tried to push away, but he had his entire weight against her back.

She nearly gagged when she felt him touch her, and felt tears come when he had removed himself. He wiped his fingers in her hair and she heard him walk away.

"You will stay like this for the rest of your life, Celes. When I am done with you, I will give you to my friends. When they are done with you, I'll have you tied up, just like this, on the outskirts of Zozo. When every drunken gambler and criminal in the town has had his way with you, I will bring you to the Serpent Trench, cover you in honey, and throw you at the most ferocious group of lizards I can find. Whatever pieces of you that are left will be placed in a barrel and sent to your husband."

He stared at her naked backside for a contemplative moment, then opened the door. Before locking her inside, he stated very clearly:

"And I am almost done with you, Celes."



AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm currently in the middle of writing Chapter Eight, which is good - it gives me time to revise Chapter Seven a few more times before I upload it. I feel that Chapter Five was a bit rushed, which is probably obvious in the confrontation of Edgar and Locke. I was trying to illustrate Locke's suppressed rage, but it seems a fight between the two would've been more fulfilling. Oh well. . .

I wish you people would give me more reviews. I like receiving both praise and critiques, and the more I see, the more encouraged I am to hurry up and get the next chapter ready.

Finally, if you want, you can send Email to my address at scribeoffigaro@hotmail.com and expect a response from me within a few days. I'm not sure if anyone here cares enough to send me Email, but I figure I might as well give you people a chance.

- Scribe of Figaro