CHAPTER SEVEN

I. THE VICTIM

Celes silently counted the seconds the moment she heard Morgan leave. After four minutes, she could wait no longer. She pushed the lock pick out of her mouth with her tongue, held it with her teeth, and stretched up high enough to get it onto her right hand. She rubbed it for a bit to wipe off the saliva, then got to work.

This was inevitable. At least I have a few things to feel lucky about. First, I'm no more injured than I was an hour ago. Second, he seems to enjoy the threat of violence more than carrying it out.

I can't wait to see the look on his face when I kill him.

She smiled slightly, contemplating her escape route while at the same time listening very intently to whatever might be behind the door. She would not make the same mistake twice.

She probably should have felt vulnerable. She probably should have felt violated. But she felt neither. She felt in control.

He won't expect this. I have the upper hand now.

Her work with the manacle was slow. She was never quite as talented as Locke was, though he trained her off and on. She had assumed having a means to pick locks was more important than the skill required, which might not have been such a good strategy. Also retarding her progress was the fact she was missing half of her equipment and could only use one hand at a time.

My dignity does not lie in my clothing. He cannot make me ashamed. He has not made it any harder for me to kill him.

With a metallic click, the manacle securing her left wrist popped open. She immediately got to work on the right one.

And his assault on me? All he has done was to arouse my anger.

Anger. Rage. Yes, she felt it. But it was not like some passionate fire in her, wild and uncontrollable. It was a white-hot blowtorch, focused and deadly.

No . . . it's not that at all. It's organized, cool, crystalline.

My fury is that of pure, cold, unforgiving ice. It always has been.

The other manacle released.

She stood on the floor, relaxed, rubbing her wrists. They were red and a bit swollen, but she had full movement in her hands.

Good. She would need that.

She scanned the room. There were numerous boxes around, but she hadn't time to pry open any. The few chests lying about the room seemed promising, though.

She glanced at her clothes. The soles were cut out of her leather boots, making them useless. Her pants and shirt were cut into numerous pieces. She couldn't find her socks. Morgan had even taken the time to carve holes in her underwear.

Two of the chests contained fortunes of GP, which she took no interest in. Fishing through another, she retrieved a Silk Robe. She put it on, tying it tight around her waist, and searched the rest of the room.

She nearly laughed out loud when she opened one chest and found it filled with a half-dozen Economizers.

Ten years ago, this would have been a steal at a billion GP. Without magic, they're utterly worthless!

One of the chests held five potions. She drank two and put the others in a pocket of the robe.

I'll probably need them.

The last chest was locked tight. She kicked it a few times with her bare heel, no longer caring who she alerted. The clasp snapped open and revealed a Break Blade.

She held the weapon in her arms, pleased with its weight and balance.

As she expected, the banging had already rousted the guards. One of the men who had been carrying the coffin into her home in Kohlingen burst through the door. He shouted, immediately drawing his own weapon.

Celes, still barefoot, ran to engage him. He blocked her first thrust, then swung at her. Her block was sloppy and the blade of his sword caught her robe, tearing a hole in the right shoulder. She gritted her teeth and stepped back, ducked down to miss a high swing that would have otherwise decapitated her, and drove her sword straight toward the man's chest.

He was fast - he blocked the blade, nearly knocking the weapon out of her hands. He swung low, giving her barely enough time to lean back. The tip of the sword swung in an arc only an inch from her stomach.

As he was about to attack again, a resounding explosion shook the room. There was the sound of impact, of twisted metal, and the sharp staccato bursts of sparks. The man hesitated for only an instant, but that was all Celes needed. She thrust her blade deep into his heart.

He gurgled blood, holding his free hand over the ragged hole in his chest, and collapsed against the wall beside the door.

Celes spat at the corpse and left the room, becoming ever more curious as to just where she might be.



II. THE INVESTIGATOR

Relm heard a banging on the door, arousing her from a light nap.

"I need to talk to you. Be up top in five minutes," Setzer ordered.

"Alright," she called back. "What's so important?"

No answer. Setzer had already left.

Relm got up, stretched, and smoothed out her clothes. She looked in the mirror, ran a hand through her hair, and retied her bandanna over her head.

Hell, I'm ready now. No use waiting.

She met Setzer beside the helm, who immediately handed her a package wrapped in paper.

"Here, eat. We're going into combat very soon."

She unwrapped it, finding it to be a sandwich filled with some meat she didn't recognize. She shrugged her shoulders and took a bite.

"Why combat?" she asked, her mouth full. "And why aren't we at Figaro yet? It's been a long time."

Setzer sighed. "I was hoping feeding you would keep you from interrupting me. I have quite a bit to tell you."

He straightened his jacket.

"The reason we're not at Figaro is because we just left there a short time ago. You've been below decks for a few hours now. I guess you were asleep when I touched down at the castle. I stayed there long enough to find that neither Edgar nor Celes was there, then turned around."

"Why would Celes be there?"

"It's a long story. I'm not sure what parts are correct myself. But it all comes down to one man. An evil, terrible man. His name is Morgan, and he resides in Zozo. He's very powerful, and very mysterious. I've never known anyone who came across him before. Usually, he deals with the scum of Zozo and doesn't do harm, at least not to anyone I'd call innocent."

Setzer shook his head.

"Hell, I'm just rationalizing. He's dangerous, and I should have done something about him long ago. I guess I was a bit too quick in giving up this 'saving the world' thing we had going when you were young. The fact is, I found from sources in Zozo that this Morgan killed Locke and is now after Celes."

Relm nearly gagged on her food.

"Locke! He's dead?"

"I'm afraid it seems so. He treasure-hunted from the wrong man. Somehow, he infuriated Morgan enough to go after his wife. I've heard that this isn't the first time he's employed the tactic."

"Locke," Relm whispered. "But - but if that's true, then we need to go to Kohlingen, pronto!"

"That's where I came from. There's no one there. Edgar went to Celes's house and left, and I made the rash assumption he came to get Celes out of there before Morgan arrived. But the more I think of that, the more ridiculous it seems. I don't see how Edgar could know as much about Morgan as I do."

Relm had already finished her food and crumpled the wrapper in her hands. "If that were true, then he'd bring her to Figaro Castle. It's the safest place, isn't it?"

"One would think so. But since neither of them was at the Desert Castle, or had been there for a while, I'm inclined to believe that Morgan captured both of them."

Relm nodded. "Alright, then let's get them. We should go to Doma first. Sabin and Cyan are sure to help."

"Sorry, Relm, but we can't. There's no time. We need to reach Morgan's airship before he gets to Zozo. Once they're on the ground, he's sure to get to work on her immediately, and I don't even want to think about what that entails."

She made a brief expression of revulsion.

"And Edgar?" she asked, hopefully.

"Given Morgan's taste, I find it very unlikely that he would keep Edgar alive for very long."

"You - you think Edgar's dead too?"

"I don't know what to think," Setzer sighed. "I still want to believe I'm overacting to a set of extreme coincidences, but . . . I don't know."

Relm grit her teeth.

"Let's get the bastard," she hissed.



III. THE PENANCE

Locke noticed with surprise a tiny black dot off on the horizon. It was getting larger.

He turned to Edgar, who seemed to be staring with interest in the very same direction. Locke furrowed his eyebrows. He was perfectly happy to continue the silence between himself and his ex-friend for eternity, but there was something childish in doing so. Once Celes was safe, and Edgar's help was no longer necessary, he would get what he deserved But until then, Locke would at least feign civility.

"Edgar?" he asked. "Is that . . ."

"I'm not sure. Only one way to find out."

Edgar pushed forward a few levers, and Locke felt the sensation of acceleration as well as heard the whine of the engines increase an octave. They advanced fast on the ship before them, pulling alongside within a matter of minutes.

"Okay, Locke, I'm going to pass him and come around. We ought to get pretty good look at him. Be ready."

The Terra Brandford circled around to a position far in front of the other airship, turned into its path, and headed straight for it. With both vehicles moving at such high speed, the distance closed very quickly. Edgar wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The ship's wheel was slick with sweat.

They had closed to about two hundred yards when Locke began to speak again.

"I can see into the cockpit," he shouted. "I see a man in black at the controls. He's . . . he's laughing, Edgar."

At that very moment, flashes of light burst from the strange cylindrical mounting below the other ship's cabin.

"Locke, get down!" Edgar shouted, at the same time swinging the wheel to the right and ducking beneath the control panel.

Locke barely had a chance to cover his head with his hands before the entire front windscreen burst inward in a wave of shards. The sound of shattering glass and shells whizzing over his head was quickly drowned out by the crash of the same shells tearing through the cabin.

Edgar glanced up, seeing that they had already passed the ship. He spun the wheel around, making sure to not get within the ship's line of fire again. They had been shot at for only about five seconds, but he counted more than fifty rounds during that time.

"You think it's him?" Locke muttered sarcastically.

Edgar paid no mind. He glanced at the holes in the wall behind him, most of which were around chest height. Putting his eye to one of the baseball-sized holes, he could see daylight. The shell had driven through the entire ship. Likely, most of the others did the same.

"Locke, come here and pilot for me. Stay behind Morgan, no matter what."

Locke took the helm, watching with curiosity as Edgar studied the small, short map table at the very front of the cockpit. Suddenly, Edgar tore the top loose and threw it aside. Then he ripped the sides off and threw those away as well.

Now Locke understood. There was something hidden inside the table. Some sort of weapon.

"What is it?" Locke asked.

Edgar was already working on it. "It's a Magitek cannon, slightly modified on account of the sad loss of magic. I haven't used it since I mounted it on this ship, but I'm sure it still works."

"You're going to shoot at Morgan's airship? Are you insane? Celes is on that thing!"

"I'm aware. I'm going to use a Mythril round - no explosives or anything. I'll just knock that motor assembly right off the back of his airship. Celes will be fine. Now just keep pointing us at their stern. As soon as he turns, I'll take a shot."

"Alright, I'll try." Locke paused. "Hey, what's this blinking red light over here mean?"

Edgar didn't bother to look up. "That means we're on fire."

"Oh."

Locke tapped at the helm nervously. Morgan's ship abruptly turned to left.

"Steady, Locke!"

Edgar, leaning over the cannon, his eyes glued to the viewsight, suddenly jerked his head away from the gun and pressed the firing trigger.

The deafening explosion shook the ship, popping both mens' ears and blowing out the few pieces of glass that were still in the cabin. Acrid white smoke filled the cockpit.

Locke coughed and wiped his eyes. When the room cleared slightly, he could see a good bit of the engine on Morgan's ship was completely missing. The entire propeller assembly was gone.

"Brilliant shot, Edgar!" Locke cheered, despite himself.

Edgar jumped up and ran to the controls.

"He's still turning, and I don't think he's happy."

Locke stepped away as Edgar turned straight toward Morgan's ship, immediately pulling upward. The airship rose slowly, and all too soon the rumble of gunfire shook the Terra Branford again.

"They won't hit the cockpit," Edgar said. "He's probably trying to blow us up."

"Swell."

They were just above Morgan's canopy, out of range of his gun, when Locke noticed a hissing sound.

"Edgar, is that . . ."

Edgar grabbed Locke's shoulder and pulled him toward the front of the cockpit. "We've a ruptured fuel tank. It's time to go."

"Goddess," Locke whispered.

"Yeah, she's a bitch, isn't she?" Edgar proclaimed. "Let's hope my airship is payment enough for Celes's life. Now jump!"



IV. THE PALIDIN Celes climbed up the stairs at the end of the hall and found herself on the main deck of Morgan's airship.

I knew it!

She looked around, studying the layout of her prison. It was a surprisingly large ship, but ugly as hell. The deck was of some dark, rough wood that hurt her bare feet and stained them carbon black. The railings and fixtures were of wrought iron. From everywhere there came the scent of sulfur and death. As she scrutinized the canopy above her, which was oily as tar and filth, she noticed an object not too far away. It only took a moment to recognize the distinctive shape of the Terra Branford.

Edgar's ship! He's come to rescue me!

Wait . . . what's all that smoke coming from it . . .?

In a blinding flash, a ball of flame burst from the rear of the cabin, engulfing the entire airship within a split-second. Flaming pieces of the Terra Branford rained down.

For a moment shock overcame her - Celes stared dumbly, her mouth open. That mouth quickly seized itself shut, and she pounded her sword into the deck.

Why must everyone die? Damn you, all you gods and goddesses! Damn you to the most wicked of hells! Damn you for taking away everyone I love!

She heard footsteps behind her and turned toward the noise.

Another one of Morgan's henchmen advanced on her with sword drawn. She pierced him with her cold, clear eyes, her face a twisted mask of beautiful fury. He stopped before her.

This one was big. He had at least a foot and a half and one hundred pounds on her. He wore heavy canvas pants, boots, and a tight tank top that seemed to advertise scars of battle. He was entirely bald except for the scruff of an unkempt beard, and though his face seemed twisted and misshapen, his eyes were clear and watchful. He wasn't overly muscular, but she recognized the definition of his arms and chest enough to tell he was an experienced swordfighter. The broadsword he carried dwarfed hers and appeared impeccably sharp.

He stood there, sizing her up. She knew that in the moment he stood there at ready, he had already studied her body shape, her musculature, her battle posture, her weapon, and her clothes. Surely he realized her lack of both footwear and armor, realizing her Silk Robe wouldn't protect her from even the lightest touch of a blade.

She knew this because she remembered the way she thought as a warrior. She hoped she remembered enough. She hoped she was far more skilled than she appeared right now.

"What are you waiting for?" she taunted. "Come fight me, coward."

In an instant, he had advanced and slashed diagonally at her left shoulder, intending to cleave her from shoulder to pelvis. She tried to block, but knew the moment her lighter sword contacted his that she could not arrest his momentum. Rather, she dropped to her knees and tilted her sword horizontally. Sparks flew as his sword continued moving diagonally, scraping against the length of her sword held inches above her head.

As he ended his swing, she could sense he meant to bring it right back and strike her leg. Acting on that, she dug her sword into the deck just beside her right leg and kicked him in the crotch.

Sorry to be so cruel, but I'm impatient. Every moment in which I'm not maiming your employer is one of supreme dissatisfaction.

At the same instant, his sword struck her block. Though her bare foot probably didn't deal much pain, he surely wasn't in much comfort. Sensing his distraction, she immediately pulled out her sword, spun right, and swept her sword in a complete circle, slashing the man's throat.

He stumbled backward, dropped his weapon, and collapsed on the deck.

Now came the heavy stomp of boots to her side, near the edge of the ship. Screaming, she threw herself at the man, looking but not seeing, registering only the man's arms and the weapon it wielded, not even thinking until the man started shouting her name over and over again.

"Celes! Celes! Celes, stop this!"

She paused, the hilt of her sword locked with the hilt of the man's Illumina.

"Edgar," she whispered.

She looked up, seeing the graying blond hair of the aging king of Figaro strewn about a lined face. Edgar's brilliant blue eyes peered through his too-often shadowed face. He wore his typical combat garb - heavy upper armor in Figarian blue, dark gloves, and heavy boots. A few of his combat tools were clipped to his belt beside his scabbard. His clothes were stained black in places, and she realized he must have climbed down from the canopy as she was fighting Morgan's goon.

"Yeah, it's me." He paused, placing a hand on her shoulder. For an instant, she thought he was going to cry. "What happened to you, Celes?"

She lowered her weapon and embraced him with one arm.

"I thought you were dead," she whispered.

"Yeah, there's a lot of that going around," muttered a man beside her.

She glanced up, her arm still around Edgar. Locke stood there. She hadn't even noticed him.

He looked as she always remembered him, though with a few recent cuts and scratches on his face. The bandana was not the worn one she recognized, though she felt familiar with the jacket he wore. He too was well-armed; the hilts of a dirk and several throwing knives were visible on his belt. Two dark splotches of grime on his thighs showed where he had wiped his dirty gloves after climbing down from above.

He stood with arms crossed, studying her.

Studying how much she loved Edgar.

Celes stared at Locke, not quite sure what to say. His cold blue eyes drilled into her.

"I know," he said simply.

Celes still had no response for him - she felt ashamed, hurt, and angry with herself. But given the incarceration, given the fact she had been so sure he was dead, she could not find it in her heart to cry or beg for his forgiveness, even though she had a feeling she owed him that.

Give him something. Fall on your knees and beg him to take your fickle heart back. Cry. Just a tear, Celes. Just an apology, muttered words. You don't even have to mean it. Give him something, Celes. If you love him, be humble. Even if you don't mean it. Even if you feel nothing but rage for Morgan right now. Give him something.

Celes would not look away from Locke. Not a submissive gesture of her body showed, not a hint of obedience or pretty doe-eyes. Nothing threatening, but nothing complacent. She wouldn't apologize to him. Not today.

"I know," he said again, "and I still love you. There is nothing you could do to change that."

She tilted her head slightly, weighing the words in her head for a moment.

And suddenly, like a burst of sun through storm clouds, she was smiling. A beautiful smile, a smile of perfect white teeth, dirt smudged lips, and the glacial sparkle of ice-blue eyes. Locke had not seen such a sincere token of pure happiness for a long time.

"I'm glad," she said simply.

Locke smiled back, more of a wry grin than anything else. He had hoped for more, and perhaps his dissatisfaction was evident.

She's a pure soul. A free spirit. I can't expect her to worry about my feelings the way I think about hers. Even when she hurts me I love her.

Celes took a step toward Locke and put a hand on his shoulder.

"And I love you as well. I want so badly to talk to you about what's happened, but I think we know this isn't the time, and it certainly isn't the place for it."

Locke nodded. "Is this Morgan's ship?"

"Yes. I've had some dealings with him. None were pleasant."

"We're going to kill him, aren't we?" asked Locke.

"Yes."



AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, this chapter was far too long in coming. I'm glad to see more people reviewing this story, as well as my older stuff. It helped motivate me to revise this as many times as it needed.

I hope everyone still enjoys my story.

- Scribe of Figaro