Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated ^_-
I have no idea what took this part so long. Sure, I have way too many AP courses for my own good, and college applications are always a nightmare, but I usually write anyway. I just wasn't in the right mood. "In the zone, if you will", to quote a friend. Thank goodness I got back into it; I was starting to seriously worry about this little ficcy. But my batteries have been recharged, and things are settling down to become organized chaos- emphasis on organized- so I'm fairly sure we're back on track.
Lesse... I reposted the last two chapters because I noticed some truly boneheaded mistakes... like spelling Naltaeri wrong (oops) and a few idiotic word choices... like noble young nobles *whacks forehead* dunno what I was thinking... but that's beside the point.
Not mine!
----------------
_In Dreams_
----------------
//////////
It's painfully obvious neither of them has a clue.
I was watching, closely, the few minutes I see them anyway. The weekly update for A-rank SeeDs fell the second morning after. I was looking for something, anything. Nothing. Squall delineated world happenings as concisely as possible and Seifer was the epitome of superior indifference, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the conference table.
I'm equal parts relieved and dismayed. Relieved, because they won't launch a crusade to sever the dreamband. Dismayed, because even now I'm not sure it's real, not sure I can trust myself. There is nothing to bridge the gap except me; sooner or later I'll be torn apart and then what will happen to us all?
What will happen to us, regardless?
//////////
The third day of winter.
The third day after their arrival.
Tonight is the Kirifest, traditional celebration of the colder months. Its roots lie in a dance to tribal gods, so that fallow fields would be made fertile by spring. Even now such things are no longer believed. It is kept merely as an excuse for celebration, to show the latest fashions and jockey for power. It is known by now that my father doesn't play favorites., but lesser and more unscrupulous nobles will always compete amongst themselves.
My gown is exotic by Lihallan standards, colors- deep forest green and gold- bright, unusually so. Winter colors of black, blue and violet will dominate tonight, and silver jewelry. Everything seems slightly out of phase. I am too used to electric lighting, harsh and constant- shadows shade most things here, blurring edges, highlighted by brilliant flashes of metal on the capricious whim of flame.
A slim, woven gold band on my right wrist; another around my neck, with a heavy, beaten gold-and-silver charm shaped like the glyph the writing system here uses to represent my name. And the rings. Rings here denote status, and I have one for every finger on both hands, excepting only my left thumb. Signet, naming, set with precious gems in the hereditary colors of my lineage- paternity on the right, maternity on the left. I began wearing rings even at Garden, disliking the phantom absence I can feel when they're not there.
I could find the grand hall blindfolded; the musicians are audible clear down the hall. The music is nothing I recognize, unfortunately, nothing that can help me pinpoint the date. It's vaguely baroque, which tells me only that the Lihallan Kingdom hasn't fallen yet. Helpful, that.
I am not looking forward to this. A night filled with dancing, drinking, and lords jockeying for my favor.
The moment my figure becomes apparent in the entryway there is a literal stampede towards me. In an instant I am surrounded by lordlings offering me drinks and men discussing loudly amongst themselves their many charms and holdings. I can't take a step, and I can feel the headache settling in. No such thing as aspirin, here.
Music strikes up again, and I find myself besieged with demands for a dance. Accepting any would create bitterness among other suitors, but choosing none is impossible. They can't expect me to choose now, yet they act as if they have only to press hard enough and they will win.
I try to step back, but I only hit the wall; they've blocked the entryway and anyway I certainly can't lave.
Now what?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The glass in Syran's hand was still half-full of amber liquid, despite the wait that had stretched over forty-five minutes. Around him, established couples dance to lively strains; young children remain clustered near the food table under the care of an elderly matron; nobles who thought too highly of their own importance preen and posture in overbred groups.
Hyne, he hated this sort of thing.
But he had a reason, a very good reason, to be here.
Who had just stepped through the door.
For a moment, he just stood there and watched her. Beautiful, yes, and a strong caster, a fluke of birth which had come as a surprise to her father, scion of a magically barren line. But she was so much more and so much less than that. The lust for power and position had turned Naltaeri li'Halla into a symbol, a shadow. Only a step through the door she was surrounded by supplicants whose greedy eyes showed plainly that they cared little for her beyond surface desirability and royal heirship.
If for no other reason than that, they did not deserve her.
Of course, neither did he, for he wanted it just as much as they. Did wanting it out of the wrong hands make his any more the right? Did the ability to view Naltaeri as a person make her any less a path to power?
In the end, perhaps, he was little better than they. But he needed her- needed the power- to hold his land together. Naltaeri's father was a good man, but a peaceful one. In such times that was dangerous. None of the inbred fops that called themselves nobles knew much more of fighting than that the pointy end of a sword went into the other man. Tempest could only do so much with the army without the king's approval.
He had fought long and hard with himself, but in the end it wall came down to one simple fact. Lihalla was dying and vulnerable to attack. And, all modesty aside, he was just about the only one who could save it.
It would mean war, bloodshed, death. It would mean using Naltaeri as a symbol, and it was a mercy that childhood memories of friendship had blurred far enough he could do it. It would mean sacrificing happiness- his, Naltaeri's, Tempest's- in exchange for survival. Not just theirs, but an entire nation's.
He couldn't just walk away.
Pushing through the crowd, he made his way towards his intended.
//////////
She'd been having trouble breathing, it seemed, lately; it was becoming harder to keep her head above water, harder to get things straight. Events piled up on each other into she couldn't tell which way was up anymore. She felt all out-of-sorts, confused, mind aching in a perpetual headache with the effort of suppressing things she didn't want to think about, didn't want to believe.
It hadn't been that way before.
Syran had changed everything.
//////////
He'd found her- sought her out, really, it must have been, for no casual unintentioned stroll could have come upon her, hidden amongst a copse of poplars and furls in the royal forests four klicks from the castle walls. She had no horse to betray her, made no sounds to draw attention; quite the contrary, she strove to keep her presence here hidden. In all truth she shouldn't have come here, should have known she would be missed, but she'd needed so desperately to break free and breathe. For the first time after opening her eyes to see stone walls instead of a dryboard she had wished to remain in Garden.
She heard him approach, pinpointing it not from sound, for me made none, but rather by the lack thereof. Quistis had trained Seifer, and Naltaeri's ears remembered the absence of footfalls that marked Syran.
"I thought you might still come here," his voice broke the silence, rich and resonant and with here yes closed he could easily have been Seifer, except for its tone. Syran sounded... resigned. Regretting. Sympathetic, yet sorry.
She opened her eyes to him, half-leaning against a tree and watching her closely. He half-smiled, reaching up to touch a low-hanging branch. "We'd be out here for hours... we used to play house... you never liked it all that much, though..."
Drawing her knees up to her chest and leaning against a tree, Naltaeri watched closely. They had played here? When? She didn't know; had none of those memories. But the haunting familiarity of the place lent a sad credence to his words.
His hand dropped, and he sighed. "I'm sorry, Naltaeri. I'm going to have to ask you to play again."
She met his gaze levelly, hopelessly, knowing as well as he did his meaning and his reasons.
"Naltaeri-" he shook his head in frustration, then pushed off his tree and came to crouch before her, taking her right hand in his. For a moment both their gazes caught on the ring encircling her thumb. First Child. Heir apparent.
Then jade eyes flicked upward to pierce her sapphire. "I won't lie to you, Naltaeri. I respect you. I know you're more than a beautiful, empty-headed symbol." His other hand brushed her cheek, and the sudden intimacy of the gesture was not lost on her. "But that's what I have to ask you to be.
"How long do we have left? A few years? Less? Before the Galbriands make strip steak of us? You know it's coming. You're not stupid. Your father is blind, too willing to believe the best of everyone. None of those silly nobles can stop it. I can. I will."
He raked bangs out of his hair and regarded her regretfully. "If it makes any difference, I'm sorry it had to be this way. Princess or not, you deserve a little happiness. You'll have all of it I can give you, but precious little I fear it will be, and there's scant time for it anyway. I'm asking you to marry for survival, not for love. I don't want it to be this way any more than you do. Please don't think I'm heartless, Naltaeri. I remember what your laugh used to sound like, and I want to hear it again, but it won't do you any good as a Galbriand captive." He stopped there, afraid he'd said too much. Afraid he'd been too sympathetic. Afraid he'd given her some hint he cared as more than a friend. It would be too cruel. He couldn't afford to love, not when his every waking minute would be devoted to war. If he died on the battlefield, he would leave her a widow, but [/please Hyne/] not inconsolable.
She tilted her head back to brace against the tree, closing her eyes slowly, and twin tears slipped from her eyes. She wiped them away impatiently, but not before he saw them, and guessed what they were for, and hated himself that he couldn't offer her love or contentment. But the needs of the many would always outweigh the needs of the few- [/or the one/]- and when he spoke his voice was firm.
"Lihalla is dying. All I'm asking is that you help me save it." All he was asking. Her life, her happiness, her freedom. What was too high a price for survival? At what point did it simply become too much?
Such thoughts would drive him mad.
"What say you, Naltaeri?"
Behind closed eyes, she wept.
"Yes, Syran."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Aaaaand that's a wrap! Yay! A chapter! And it's fairly long, too! *proud of self*
Quistis88: *hands a band-aid* sorry about that, it's all in good fun. And so far there's really only been one clue... everything else is just out there in black-and-white. :)
Ripley: Wow, a fellow HR lover! Awesome :) And thanks, too, for the nice words... I was really trying to make it different. So, when will we be seeing more of "Get Off My Cloud"? :p which rocks so much more than this...
DragonLadyKira: Clicking is good... this is going to be one of those fics where, after you've read it all and figured it out, you'll look back and say "It's so obvious! Why didn't I get it right away?" If you've got it already, you're waaaay ahead of the curve. ^^v
seyanaidi: Yes, different names. Funfun, ne? And I've got another test tomorrow... cross your fingers.
Vanilla Tiger: I can easily picture Quisty living two lives, because she's insecure enough to become dependent on both... and she's got that frame of mind that's deep and wrapped... can't really describe it better than that... if you've ever experienced it you'll know what I mean.
Dragon Princess Isis: Thank you very much! ^^v
Cyrell: Yay! You're back! And you're stroking my ego! Wai! I do hope I'm keeping her in character... it's not always easy. Writing in first person means putting a lot of me into Quistis... sometimes I think too much, but that's the price you pay.
*cue Squall!*
Squall: "...whatever."
[a stagehand runs quickly onstage and hands him a new script.]
Squall: *yawn* "...review."
Lyaka: --;; "Could you maybe sound a little more interested?"
*sigh*
Lyaka ^^
|
|
\/
I have no idea what took this part so long. Sure, I have way too many AP courses for my own good, and college applications are always a nightmare, but I usually write anyway. I just wasn't in the right mood. "In the zone, if you will", to quote a friend. Thank goodness I got back into it; I was starting to seriously worry about this little ficcy. But my batteries have been recharged, and things are settling down to become organized chaos- emphasis on organized- so I'm fairly sure we're back on track.
Lesse... I reposted the last two chapters because I noticed some truly boneheaded mistakes... like spelling Naltaeri wrong (oops) and a few idiotic word choices... like noble young nobles *whacks forehead* dunno what I was thinking... but that's beside the point.
Not mine!
----------------
_In Dreams_
----------------
//////////
It's painfully obvious neither of them has a clue.
I was watching, closely, the few minutes I see them anyway. The weekly update for A-rank SeeDs fell the second morning after. I was looking for something, anything. Nothing. Squall delineated world happenings as concisely as possible and Seifer was the epitome of superior indifference, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the conference table.
I'm equal parts relieved and dismayed. Relieved, because they won't launch a crusade to sever the dreamband. Dismayed, because even now I'm not sure it's real, not sure I can trust myself. There is nothing to bridge the gap except me; sooner or later I'll be torn apart and then what will happen to us all?
What will happen to us, regardless?
//////////
The third day of winter.
The third day after their arrival.
Tonight is the Kirifest, traditional celebration of the colder months. Its roots lie in a dance to tribal gods, so that fallow fields would be made fertile by spring. Even now such things are no longer believed. It is kept merely as an excuse for celebration, to show the latest fashions and jockey for power. It is known by now that my father doesn't play favorites., but lesser and more unscrupulous nobles will always compete amongst themselves.
My gown is exotic by Lihallan standards, colors- deep forest green and gold- bright, unusually so. Winter colors of black, blue and violet will dominate tonight, and silver jewelry. Everything seems slightly out of phase. I am too used to electric lighting, harsh and constant- shadows shade most things here, blurring edges, highlighted by brilliant flashes of metal on the capricious whim of flame.
A slim, woven gold band on my right wrist; another around my neck, with a heavy, beaten gold-and-silver charm shaped like the glyph the writing system here uses to represent my name. And the rings. Rings here denote status, and I have one for every finger on both hands, excepting only my left thumb. Signet, naming, set with precious gems in the hereditary colors of my lineage- paternity on the right, maternity on the left. I began wearing rings even at Garden, disliking the phantom absence I can feel when they're not there.
I could find the grand hall blindfolded; the musicians are audible clear down the hall. The music is nothing I recognize, unfortunately, nothing that can help me pinpoint the date. It's vaguely baroque, which tells me only that the Lihallan Kingdom hasn't fallen yet. Helpful, that.
I am not looking forward to this. A night filled with dancing, drinking, and lords jockeying for my favor.
The moment my figure becomes apparent in the entryway there is a literal stampede towards me. In an instant I am surrounded by lordlings offering me drinks and men discussing loudly amongst themselves their many charms and holdings. I can't take a step, and I can feel the headache settling in. No such thing as aspirin, here.
Music strikes up again, and I find myself besieged with demands for a dance. Accepting any would create bitterness among other suitors, but choosing none is impossible. They can't expect me to choose now, yet they act as if they have only to press hard enough and they will win.
I try to step back, but I only hit the wall; they've blocked the entryway and anyway I certainly can't lave.
Now what?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The glass in Syran's hand was still half-full of amber liquid, despite the wait that had stretched over forty-five minutes. Around him, established couples dance to lively strains; young children remain clustered near the food table under the care of an elderly matron; nobles who thought too highly of their own importance preen and posture in overbred groups.
Hyne, he hated this sort of thing.
But he had a reason, a very good reason, to be here.
Who had just stepped through the door.
For a moment, he just stood there and watched her. Beautiful, yes, and a strong caster, a fluke of birth which had come as a surprise to her father, scion of a magically barren line. But she was so much more and so much less than that. The lust for power and position had turned Naltaeri li'Halla into a symbol, a shadow. Only a step through the door she was surrounded by supplicants whose greedy eyes showed plainly that they cared little for her beyond surface desirability and royal heirship.
If for no other reason than that, they did not deserve her.
Of course, neither did he, for he wanted it just as much as they. Did wanting it out of the wrong hands make his any more the right? Did the ability to view Naltaeri as a person make her any less a path to power?
In the end, perhaps, he was little better than they. But he needed her- needed the power- to hold his land together. Naltaeri's father was a good man, but a peaceful one. In such times that was dangerous. None of the inbred fops that called themselves nobles knew much more of fighting than that the pointy end of a sword went into the other man. Tempest could only do so much with the army without the king's approval.
He had fought long and hard with himself, but in the end it wall came down to one simple fact. Lihalla was dying and vulnerable to attack. And, all modesty aside, he was just about the only one who could save it.
It would mean war, bloodshed, death. It would mean using Naltaeri as a symbol, and it was a mercy that childhood memories of friendship had blurred far enough he could do it. It would mean sacrificing happiness- his, Naltaeri's, Tempest's- in exchange for survival. Not just theirs, but an entire nation's.
He couldn't just walk away.
Pushing through the crowd, he made his way towards his intended.
//////////
She'd been having trouble breathing, it seemed, lately; it was becoming harder to keep her head above water, harder to get things straight. Events piled up on each other into she couldn't tell which way was up anymore. She felt all out-of-sorts, confused, mind aching in a perpetual headache with the effort of suppressing things she didn't want to think about, didn't want to believe.
It hadn't been that way before.
Syran had changed everything.
//////////
He'd found her- sought her out, really, it must have been, for no casual unintentioned stroll could have come upon her, hidden amongst a copse of poplars and furls in the royal forests four klicks from the castle walls. She had no horse to betray her, made no sounds to draw attention; quite the contrary, she strove to keep her presence here hidden. In all truth she shouldn't have come here, should have known she would be missed, but she'd needed so desperately to break free and breathe. For the first time after opening her eyes to see stone walls instead of a dryboard she had wished to remain in Garden.
She heard him approach, pinpointing it not from sound, for me made none, but rather by the lack thereof. Quistis had trained Seifer, and Naltaeri's ears remembered the absence of footfalls that marked Syran.
"I thought you might still come here," his voice broke the silence, rich and resonant and with here yes closed he could easily have been Seifer, except for its tone. Syran sounded... resigned. Regretting. Sympathetic, yet sorry.
She opened her eyes to him, half-leaning against a tree and watching her closely. He half-smiled, reaching up to touch a low-hanging branch. "We'd be out here for hours... we used to play house... you never liked it all that much, though..."
Drawing her knees up to her chest and leaning against a tree, Naltaeri watched closely. They had played here? When? She didn't know; had none of those memories. But the haunting familiarity of the place lent a sad credence to his words.
His hand dropped, and he sighed. "I'm sorry, Naltaeri. I'm going to have to ask you to play again."
She met his gaze levelly, hopelessly, knowing as well as he did his meaning and his reasons.
"Naltaeri-" he shook his head in frustration, then pushed off his tree and came to crouch before her, taking her right hand in his. For a moment both their gazes caught on the ring encircling her thumb. First Child. Heir apparent.
Then jade eyes flicked upward to pierce her sapphire. "I won't lie to you, Naltaeri. I respect you. I know you're more than a beautiful, empty-headed symbol." His other hand brushed her cheek, and the sudden intimacy of the gesture was not lost on her. "But that's what I have to ask you to be.
"How long do we have left? A few years? Less? Before the Galbriands make strip steak of us? You know it's coming. You're not stupid. Your father is blind, too willing to believe the best of everyone. None of those silly nobles can stop it. I can. I will."
He raked bangs out of his hair and regarded her regretfully. "If it makes any difference, I'm sorry it had to be this way. Princess or not, you deserve a little happiness. You'll have all of it I can give you, but precious little I fear it will be, and there's scant time for it anyway. I'm asking you to marry for survival, not for love. I don't want it to be this way any more than you do. Please don't think I'm heartless, Naltaeri. I remember what your laugh used to sound like, and I want to hear it again, but it won't do you any good as a Galbriand captive." He stopped there, afraid he'd said too much. Afraid he'd been too sympathetic. Afraid he'd given her some hint he cared as more than a friend. It would be too cruel. He couldn't afford to love, not when his every waking minute would be devoted to war. If he died on the battlefield, he would leave her a widow, but [/please Hyne/] not inconsolable.
She tilted her head back to brace against the tree, closing her eyes slowly, and twin tears slipped from her eyes. She wiped them away impatiently, but not before he saw them, and guessed what they were for, and hated himself that he couldn't offer her love or contentment. But the needs of the many would always outweigh the needs of the few- [/or the one/]- and when he spoke his voice was firm.
"Lihalla is dying. All I'm asking is that you help me save it." All he was asking. Her life, her happiness, her freedom. What was too high a price for survival? At what point did it simply become too much?
Such thoughts would drive him mad.
"What say you, Naltaeri?"
Behind closed eyes, she wept.
"Yes, Syran."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Aaaaand that's a wrap! Yay! A chapter! And it's fairly long, too! *proud of self*
Quistis88: *hands a band-aid* sorry about that, it's all in good fun. And so far there's really only been one clue... everything else is just out there in black-and-white. :)
Ripley: Wow, a fellow HR lover! Awesome :) And thanks, too, for the nice words... I was really trying to make it different. So, when will we be seeing more of "Get Off My Cloud"? :p which rocks so much more than this...
DragonLadyKira: Clicking is good... this is going to be one of those fics where, after you've read it all and figured it out, you'll look back and say "It's so obvious! Why didn't I get it right away?" If you've got it already, you're waaaay ahead of the curve. ^^v
seyanaidi: Yes, different names. Funfun, ne? And I've got another test tomorrow... cross your fingers.
Vanilla Tiger: I can easily picture Quisty living two lives, because she's insecure enough to become dependent on both... and she's got that frame of mind that's deep and wrapped... can't really describe it better than that... if you've ever experienced it you'll know what I mean.
Dragon Princess Isis: Thank you very much! ^^v
Cyrell: Yay! You're back! And you're stroking my ego! Wai! I do hope I'm keeping her in character... it's not always easy. Writing in first person means putting a lot of me into Quistis... sometimes I think too much, but that's the price you pay.
*cue Squall!*
Squall: "...whatever."
[a stagehand runs quickly onstage and hands him a new script.]
Squall: *yawn* "...review."
Lyaka: --;; "Could you maybe sound a little more interested?"
*sigh*
Lyaka ^^
|
|
\/