Emerald Tears 7/?
By Nix Winter
Chapter: A little Magic
Disclaimers: I don't own FF8, but I think my Seifer muse owns me.
Author's Note: This is a small update. I haven't been writing a lot lately, and well, I guess I'm just warming up for the weekend.
Three weeks passed. Seifer was not in Esthar. Squall was in the room that Seifer had painted. Laguna had bought the hotel. Past things that couldn't be taken back, wrongs that could never be paid right, went around in the air between them, circulating through the presidential palace's recycled air, wafting out into the city even. In the three weeks since Seifer had been found, treated, and lost again, the season had turned colder. Leaves had fallen, the breeze sharpened.
Squall Leonhart sat in the middle of the room, cross legged on the decades old linoleum. Seifer's bare feet had walked across this, Squall reasoned, trying to see those feet, trying to imagine them and which path they might have taken. His eyes were closed to the present though, lost in images of the past as his mind sorted through what memories he could find, searching for clues to where Seifer Almasy might have gone.
Sunlight could turn Seifer's hair to gold, dark gold. There was one memory, of Seifer spinning, the ocean crashing blue in the background, sunlight flashing over blond hair, sparkling on the water, and green eyes, crinkled, narrowed against the same sun that made Seifer look like an angel. That had been a young Seifer, before he'd learned weapons and war, before something had eaten into his mind like an acid laced spider web. There had been no scar on Seifer's face then, only laughing green eyes, teasing and daring, full of potential and challenge. Squall wanted to somehow fall through time, compress time again and fall through, reach out and pull that young Seifer to him, hold him until all the bad things would never happen.
A tear dropped from Squall's chin, landing on his wrist, then slipping under the edge of one worn black glove. //So where are you,// he demanded from the Seifer in his memory, //Where did you go?//
He'd been sitting there for nearly four days. Growling and yelling at anyone who had the nerve to come near him, he'd found some quiet, some privacy, and alone with his memories, he'd found this one that was so real. It was almost a ghost. Did people go back to the best state of their life when they died? //Are you dead?//
The image of a dead Seifer sprung from his imagination, fueled by hunger and sleep deprivation. He looked at it, clinical, at the still lips, the closed eyes, dulling hair, and rejected it. Seifer was not dead. He'd know. He didn't know how he'd know, but he knew he would. He wondered about his sanity, as his mind skipped over what memories the GF's had left him, looking for times there had been such a vivid, undeniable connection between Seifer and him. Insane. He didn't know who had said, 'War does not make one sane,' but he agreed with them. There was magic in the world. It wasn't so hard to believe that there could be some empathic, telepathic connection between them. Magic didn't have to make sense, did it?
"Seifer," Squall whispered, all his heart in it, even though he couldn't find the strength to conjure up the young Seifer on the beach, "Where are you?"
//You know where I went. I'm almost there. It's a fucking long walk.// Seifer's voice whispered in his mind, but Squall could feel warmth against his ear. //You're nuts, Squally. What are you doing wasting all this time on a fuck up like me?//
Squall opened his eyes, furious at the words spoken in Seifer's voice. He did not understand everything that Seifer had done, but he knew, if the reasons came out, Seifer was not a fuck up. Seifer. Seifer was all that really mattered. Maybe it was a kind of insanity, but on the other side of Seifer, there was nothing, just a great big alone. Seifer. Squall thought, sorting through his own inner puzzle. Seifer had become the key to Squall's own soul. Irritated still with the words his mind had dredged up, he pressed his middle finger against the scar between his eyes, rubbing against the burning. And then he knew. Seifer had gone home to Balamb, back to where they'd always sparred. He'd gone back to as close as he could get to before the SeeD exam and the distance that had screamed in between them when Squall had become a SeeD and Seifer hadn't.
Shaky, Squall got to his feet. All around him, like his life passing before his eyes, Seifer's fractured memories of the past, painted out on the hotel wall, these images scrolled by as he turned. Maybe it was these paintings that made the magic. Maybe something of the sorceress' power lingered in Seifer. If he was right about where Seifer was going, as long as nothing had happened to him on the way, he'd be there now. Squall would get there as soon as he could. He was going home.
By Nix Winter
Chapter: A little Magic
Disclaimers: I don't own FF8, but I think my Seifer muse owns me.
Author's Note: This is a small update. I haven't been writing a lot lately, and well, I guess I'm just warming up for the weekend.
Three weeks passed. Seifer was not in Esthar. Squall was in the room that Seifer had painted. Laguna had bought the hotel. Past things that couldn't be taken back, wrongs that could never be paid right, went around in the air between them, circulating through the presidential palace's recycled air, wafting out into the city even. In the three weeks since Seifer had been found, treated, and lost again, the season had turned colder. Leaves had fallen, the breeze sharpened.
Squall Leonhart sat in the middle of the room, cross legged on the decades old linoleum. Seifer's bare feet had walked across this, Squall reasoned, trying to see those feet, trying to imagine them and which path they might have taken. His eyes were closed to the present though, lost in images of the past as his mind sorted through what memories he could find, searching for clues to where Seifer Almasy might have gone.
Sunlight could turn Seifer's hair to gold, dark gold. There was one memory, of Seifer spinning, the ocean crashing blue in the background, sunlight flashing over blond hair, sparkling on the water, and green eyes, crinkled, narrowed against the same sun that made Seifer look like an angel. That had been a young Seifer, before he'd learned weapons and war, before something had eaten into his mind like an acid laced spider web. There had been no scar on Seifer's face then, only laughing green eyes, teasing and daring, full of potential and challenge. Squall wanted to somehow fall through time, compress time again and fall through, reach out and pull that young Seifer to him, hold him until all the bad things would never happen.
A tear dropped from Squall's chin, landing on his wrist, then slipping under the edge of one worn black glove. //So where are you,// he demanded from the Seifer in his memory, //Where did you go?//
He'd been sitting there for nearly four days. Growling and yelling at anyone who had the nerve to come near him, he'd found some quiet, some privacy, and alone with his memories, he'd found this one that was so real. It was almost a ghost. Did people go back to the best state of their life when they died? //Are you dead?//
The image of a dead Seifer sprung from his imagination, fueled by hunger and sleep deprivation. He looked at it, clinical, at the still lips, the closed eyes, dulling hair, and rejected it. Seifer was not dead. He'd know. He didn't know how he'd know, but he knew he would. He wondered about his sanity, as his mind skipped over what memories the GF's had left him, looking for times there had been such a vivid, undeniable connection between Seifer and him. Insane. He didn't know who had said, 'War does not make one sane,' but he agreed with them. There was magic in the world. It wasn't so hard to believe that there could be some empathic, telepathic connection between them. Magic didn't have to make sense, did it?
"Seifer," Squall whispered, all his heart in it, even though he couldn't find the strength to conjure up the young Seifer on the beach, "Where are you?"
//You know where I went. I'm almost there. It's a fucking long walk.// Seifer's voice whispered in his mind, but Squall could feel warmth against his ear. //You're nuts, Squally. What are you doing wasting all this time on a fuck up like me?//
Squall opened his eyes, furious at the words spoken in Seifer's voice. He did not understand everything that Seifer had done, but he knew, if the reasons came out, Seifer was not a fuck up. Seifer. Seifer was all that really mattered. Maybe it was a kind of insanity, but on the other side of Seifer, there was nothing, just a great big alone. Seifer. Squall thought, sorting through his own inner puzzle. Seifer had become the key to Squall's own soul. Irritated still with the words his mind had dredged up, he pressed his middle finger against the scar between his eyes, rubbing against the burning. And then he knew. Seifer had gone home to Balamb, back to where they'd always sparred. He'd gone back to as close as he could get to before the SeeD exam and the distance that had screamed in between them when Squall had become a SeeD and Seifer hadn't.
Shaky, Squall got to his feet. All around him, like his life passing before his eyes, Seifer's fractured memories of the past, painted out on the hotel wall, these images scrolled by as he turned. Maybe it was these paintings that made the magic. Maybe something of the sorceress' power lingered in Seifer. If he was right about where Seifer was going, as long as nothing had happened to him on the way, he'd be there now. Squall would get there as soon as he could. He was going home.