TAKE IT IN!
Written by: Sixto L Limiac III
Sxith_mon@yahoo.com
*Author's Note*
I penned this down after five short hours of gameplay with no knowledge of what would later transpire. This short story follows after Montblac gives comforting words to Marche in Cyril's pub after he found Ritz. I hope this doesn't interfere or twist up the plot in some sort of way. But I will find out because after I e-mailed this, I pick up where I left off in the game. Enjoy! And much more fanfics are on the way.
"Get a grip. Take it in, Marche. For this has to be real. You can see and touch it. I know," he laughed light-heartedly, "you can. You can! You are somehow thrown into this, this. . . dream world. Set before you, and you still want to return home. To a worried mom, to an unwell Doned. But wait a minute, you wanted this, you wished for this. Hoping to be dressed in a soldier's uniform. Your mighty sword in your scabbard and in anticipation to exchange blows in the name of all that is good. You imagined yourself taking on the super evil, only to heroically slay the unforgivable monster. To live a hero's tale. And for some untold reason it has been granted for you. You are now cast into it. Here it is. Take it, Marche. Please, take it. I know it sounds impossible, but look around," after he blocks the sunlight in his view with a hand, he tries his best to fully register the scenery. His gaze shortly followed an approaching figure. "you are caught in its brilliance." Awing, he whispers, "Final Fantasy."
Invigorated and astonished all the same, Marche sat one of the many hills rolling and spreading before him. In the Giza Plains serenity within oneself could be achieved. And Marche was overwhelming by it.
Marche pondered and tried to tap the mystery of this incredible world. Sun-drenched, the boy embraced the presence of a powerful sun over the all too cruel winter. His dying smile fought on in full force as he hugged his knees tighter. If he could rock back and forth on the grassy mound, he most certainly would. Anxious to see the ending of this story, he thought this occurrence was far more exciting than any role playing game he had ever experienced. Even the eager wait for the sequel to Final Fantasy VII, Advent Children, could not begin to compare his surmounting excitement. But his true concern was whether he departs this realm alive, or possibly if his name may actually spread throughout the lands of this new world.
Marche the knight, the slayer of evil, the savior, the chosen one, the savior - he kept out picking imaginary titles for himself and savored each and every one.
The identity of the figure, cloaked by the pounding sun, began to materialize through. Glints of fantastic golden glimmer were warded off by the collective passage of clouds.
"Here is your proof, Marche. Just look at him. Look at it."
It is Montblanc.
Days ago Marche was stuck in the wintry town of St. Ivalice. New to such spiteful cold, he found himself on the streets rubbing his hands together and fighting to find warmth to no avail. He was forced into a daily battle against the endless wrath of blizzards. The howling winds pricked at his ears, numbed his cheeks, and soon he was gnashing his teeth. He cursed the town, the unforgivable weather, and soon his own mother.
Her decision was not only what he called dumb but completely selfish. His mother had pulled him out of the car and dragged his rebelling form into the daunting first day, the lack of friendly faces, and a prevailing insecurity. It was his first day of class in the middle of the second quarter. All new kids thrown into the middle of the school year always had it hard.
Marche, growing bitter, slowly withdrew from his mother. No longer did he verbally thank her when she prepared tuna casserole. There was no second thought when he was watching his cartoons and he pretended not to hear her when she asked inquired about his day. Each day worsened for him. In the middle of class he struggled to figure why he was there. IN that school, in St. Ivalice altogether. Why did his mother order him to pack all of his possessions and ride in a car doomed to freezing Hell? First dad, now this. He screamed his head off during History.
Every student turned at his direction, their eyes were probing him like a genie pig of one ghastly experiment. Two students looked at him in sympathy, Ritz and Mewt. Mr. Leslaie, his teacher, had instructed Marche to remain seated after class. At the end of that day Mr. Leslaie advised Marche that his stay in St. Ivalice would be what he makes of it.
St. Ivalice may be his mother's hometown, but it was a demon hunting Marche. It was relentless, biting him while he walked to and from school. It stung him day by day and Marche curdled. Alienation was his answer. In his brief seclusion from his mother and strangers, he decided to put an end to the prolonged privacy. During recess at school. Ritz and Mewt offered their friendship and Marche took it.
The old warmth of self-assurance had momentarily propped up from the shadows and replaced his timidity. Could the alter Ivalice, Final Fantasy, bid the same? Will this world grant him his wildest dreams and happiness he longer for? He considered it more than likely. His next thought came without warning, it tried to dissuade him. His hears proliferated. Buddies from his former home may have been thousands of miles gone, but now a greater weight assailed him. He was stripped of his family, and would this dream ultimately become a nightmare?
"No. . ."
"What was that, Kupo?" The moogle asked as he pulled on two bags of crimson Muscmaloi. While treading up the rise, the hanging whisker on his head bounced back and forth with the red ball of fur at the end of it. Tired of carrying the bags, Montblanc surged his lasting sap of energy to lash out his wings. It was enough for him to reach the top. Panting, Montblanc looked closely at Marche. He thought he saw high spirits, but it was now swapped with the vacuum of space. Marche had gone shaky, like a child who discovered the boogieman. The boy had shut his eyes.
"Picking up these flowers sure felt like being a real younger mog again."
The medical herbs were sought often. The sharp tip of battles have increased and cut deeper against the Nutsy Clan.
"I know we'll probably have to return here every so often, but it just has to be enough for now, Kupo!"
Other clans of Ivalice were nicked by a different kind of weapon. Alarm.
"Hope my poor, battered wings will heal rightly. That wizard at Lutia Pass was crazed, Kupo!"
And it stemmed from Marche's scabbard.
"Kupo, there now is quite a stir of activity."
Challenges rung about. Marche's acceptance within Montblanc's clan resulted in an unexpected escalation of formidable foes everywhere.
Concerned about Marche's awkward silence, Montblanc sat next to him. "Hey!"
Marche shrieked, regaining his focus. "I'm sorry. I've just been thinking. First, it was fine and then I went deeper," he paused, "realizing I just wanted to be left alone, but at the same time I really don't. You know?"
Despite being young, Montblac was no stranger to his share of solo days. Conclusion of a mission usually meant trotting back to Cyril's pub keeper. Because of his rather small height, he sometimes had trouble getting the keeper's attention. After raising his wispy accent or hovering above the deck, he asked for a current listing of assignments. Always amused to hear the moogle tongue, the keeper spoke to him as if he rehearsed his greetings. He looked like a man of gossip. His overgrown goatee screamed for a shave and the perfect teeth he pompously showcased didn't help Montblanc confide in him. The moogle paid for the report, concurred to the terms, and advanced to duel with whomever. It was done with a sunken heart. His solicitude was genuine but even in this world sincere camaraderie was fading. He didn't fancy the kindness laced with gil. Nor did he desire the recognition fellow mercenaries proposed after defending them. Out the pub and back in the pub. Out the pub and back in the pub. Behind the gaiety, Montblanc was lonesome and on the verge of something dark and possibly eternal. Marche's appearance had drastically change Montblanc. A hidden courage stormed pass the palpable gloom. It emanated from Marche. The young stranger was not defiled by money nor was he enigmatic. Honest, youthful, and pure. It was instantaneous friendship.
"Yes," Montblanc finally returned. Marche didn't notice the small, furred hand on his arm. "You are brooding. It can sometimes be bad. Misleading. Too much can bring unwanted things, Kupo. For instance, mistrust. We don't want that. If it's that much to you, you have to free yourself of all that is in here." The moogle carefully positioned his head, so his ball of fur touched Marche's forehead. "Unravel your problems, Kupo." Montblac saw Marche's powerful, almost hypnotizing eyes. Big, blue gems of innocence. "It's the red-head from NubsWoods that's bothering you, Kupo?"
Shrugging, Marche smiled joylessly. "Yeah and a little more to it. She did manage to shatter my hopes of home though. And, I know you don't understand me but this place should not exist. It's a freaking game. An adventure, where I secretly wanted to voyage. So I could," Marche returned his stare to the distant plains, "be a hero."
Montblac allowed the silence to settle in.
"My first encounter with the Bangaa, I was scared to the bone. I told myself to run, but I couldn't. Then the urge to cry was smothering me. That ugly, scaly face looking inside of me. He knew I was terrified, weak, and just a stupid kid. He snorted at me. Underneath all the fear, I wished I had asked him what was so funny and do something worth doing. To fight him. I failed. Until you came, Montblanc. You gave me the strength. I - I," he stuttered, "never defended myself before."
The confession of helplessness was so recognizable to Montblanc. Marche was being consumed by something horrible. His emotions were feasting on him. Self-doubt and anxiety were crumbling his wits. Montblanc dared not to jeopardize his friendship with the boy. Excessive queries may trigger one of many defensive reactions from such a confused child. Not yet would Montblac question. As they would advance to various journeys, Marche would soon extend his hand as much as Montblanc was willing to give it. When the time comes, Montblanc will pry the wound and force Marche to bleed out the poison.
"Kupo, I can see why the girl - what did you say her name was -- oh yes, Ritz. I know why she remains here. She is tough. She demands it from herself, and is out to prove herself. " Montblanc spoke with a hardened voice. "She is dogged, Kupo."
"Huh? Dogged?"
"It means she only cares for herself. She does not simply give up. It may cost her something, but she doesn't mind. She is far too cunning, Kupo. You, Marche, are vigilant and careful. I admire you, Kupo. I've watched you fight. Its obvious you will be a Kupo of a warrior."
It was soothing to hear he was respected. Without a father figure, Marche was ready to cling on someone to look up to, and allow someone else to carry his burden. He wanted a father or at least a big brother to turn to. Doned was younger and as much as it hurt to say it, fragile. Here, before him was a moogle. It seemed as cute and harmless as a doll. Heavily furred and adorable, Marche was afraid to hug him, for the reason that he may squeeze the life out of it. Marche almost laughed at the idea. He accidentally lit up, his face smug.
"There, Kupo, always look for the shine in every woe."
Could Montblanc be that big brother? Although the moogle kind were benevolent in nature, Marche knew they were not to be underestimated. His observations in battle informed him how destructive their magic is. Foreign and deadly. Skilled in the black arts, Montblanc amounted to an utterly valuable asset to the forefront. Marche also accounted how much he himself learnt from the short course of days. The roots of confidence have sprouted and he grew stronger. Maybe he could be the enkindling light for those who are left in the pervading darkness. He could help others as Montblanc had done for him. If anything, Marche owed the moogle that much.
I can take it. I am here in Final Fantasy, Marche thought. I will fight to help others in need and ultimately recover my family. Forgive me, mom. I promise I will make it up to you. Especially you Doned. I know you need me. I can feel it. Something tells me that I will meet you two again. As for Mewt and Ritz, they have to be here too. I have a tale to live up to. My tale. Take it in, Marche.
Worried about the debates taking place in the boy's mind, Montblanc reached for his hand. "Marche," he wanted to speak words of healing, instead he asked, "why did you name the clan 'Clan Nutsy?'"
Quelling the last trace of apprehension, Marche was ready to embark on his new role and opened his eyes.
"Well, what can I say," his voice regained in spirit, "it was pretty 'nutsy' to be thrown in this place. I mean it isn't often to see a man-sized lizard confront you, then meet a talking stuffed animal who knows magic, and if that all weren't enough I was accepted in a fighting clan. The only thing I could think of when you asked me was, 'nutsy, nutsy, nutsssssyyyy!"
They laughed together.
Marche sighed, stood up and checked his scabbard. Touching the hilt, the sword was still there.
"I have taken it in," he whispered.
Before Montblanc got on his feet, Marche picked up the bag of herbs and hunched them over his shoulders. Walking ahead and without looking back, he pledged an allegiance to himself, Marche now focused on which missions were principal as he pulled out a list of them. While debating which the next one, he reflected at how Clan Nutsy was going to be an unforgettable legend. Montblanc, content that Marche was glad as ever, took off after him. Working with his legs and healing wings, he hovered at Marche's side and cursed the oppressive sun.