Meeting Love, Finding Despair
By Quis
Chapter Thirteen
Sonnet of the Mind
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy and registered trademarks associated with it belong to Square-Enix, 2003.
Copyright: Shira Trepe, Seluna Armanti are mine, don't pinch 'em.
Quistis stood on the balcony overlooking the ocean, watching the sun set behind the huge white clouds billowing overhead. They had arrived in Dollet some weeks ago by ship. Shira had been excited the whole way, running up and down the deck of the huge cruise liner.
The lovely scene before her did not escape her attention. She could see Seifer hand a box to one of the men in black suits, as he lifted Shira, running the length of the grand boulevard. She was kicking out at Seifer playfully, squealing with laughter.
This will change, a little voice warned her in the back of her mind, having the child would kill you, do you understand? Quistis shoved the voice out of her mind, resuming her watch on the activity that was bustling around her.
She wanted to go on living after her death; and she knew she would. Shira and Seifer would assure her of that. In fact, Seifer had commissioned an artist to paint her likeness onto a canvass, so that she would live forever in paint, if not in spirit.
Smiling, Seifer squinted up at the ethereal beauty that stood upon the balcony, looking, if anything, as though she was a marble statue. Never had there been any moment when he had wished for a different life. His 'true' Romantic Dream had come true—seeing how he failed the first one miserably.
He saw on the balcony, everything he had ever wished for, dreamt about, envisioned in his angel, Quistis Gosia Trepe. Quistis was the epitome of bliss for him. Even ten years of separation could not change that fact.
"Who's that?" One of the removalists asked, glancing upon what he thought was a statue wearing peach battle gear.
"You dolt! That's my fiancée," Seifer said, giving the man a light thwap on the head. "Get back to work, and stop ogling my property!"
A slight glance up at Quistis told him that she was laughing at the antics displayed. Her mouth was turned up ever so slightly in a tiny smile, and the eyes were laughing, joyously.
Seifer walked up the granite steps that led to their opulently furnished living quarters inside the palace. It held Louis XVI furniture, a state bed that was easily the size of a small room unto itself, with the brocaded curtains that hung from the canopy. The Grandfather Clock was there, with Piccadilly Weepers painted elaborately onto the face of the clock. The artwork upon the walls was from men and women of the eras long gone, one even slightly starting to crumble in its ancientness.
There was one painting, however, that caught Seifer's attention, the painting of a woman in a red ball gown. Its name was written on a brass plaque in the long-unused tongue and translated into "Red Dress."
Quistis wandered the rooms, soon growing bored of watching the men unpack. She opened a door that led to the armoury, taking a good look at the dust that had settled. It was lit only with a dying oil torch, which Quistis grabbed from the holder before venturing any further. One foot placed uncertainly in front of the other as she stepped into the armoury. She sneezed. The dust was everywhere, and she had obviously unsettled it.
She ventured further into the armoury. The walls were lined with swords, Gunblades, whips, revolvers, nunchakus, and flails. Suits of plate armour were lined up with precision; each suit gleamed in the light, as though they had been recently polished.
The palace hasn't been used for years, she thought, this is definitely odd. She shook her head, clearing it from silly thoughts as such, continuing her exploration of her new home. Venturing out of the armoury, she came across a flight of stairs, leading to a towered room, housing a large organ of great magnificence.
She had always wanted a giant piano, and now it seemed as if her childhood wish had come true. Not many people knew she could play the piano, her fingers quick, assured as she walked towards it, before wiping the dust off the stool. Sitting down, her fingers sought out the notes to the melody she knew and loved so well.
The simple, haunting strains of music could be heard from the courtyard below the tower window. Servants glancing up could see through the unshaded window, a solitary figure at the organ, playing the tune that would forever haunt them in their dreams.
You let your heart fly
To the limits of the sky
Because you have no one
By your side
As I strain my ears
In the sound of the rain,
Words, kept inside,
Are buried.
Staring at the empty skies,
These glassy eyes
Won't reflect my heart.
I'm waiting for you
Please--
Notice me soon.
One day, surely,
You'll open the doors
That had been locked,
Though I'm at a loss.
When I locked
The box of memories,
Something broke and scattered.
The voices that call out,
Even the songs you loved--
They don't reach you now.
One day, surely,
You'll lead the boat
That's sinking into the darkness
Into the light
She finished the last note before making a glissando of notes that could be heard from the palace to the centre of the CBD. Passers by could hear the voice, see the long golden hair and white dress, but never looking for the identity of the singer and pianist.
To many who heard her sing that day, it seemed like she was a legendary figure. The lady imprisoned in the tower, day after day. Kind of like the Lady of Shallot, who eventually committed suicide because of the unrequited love she held.
Seifer heard the organ from the large grounds, as it played the notes precisely. Smiling to himself, he shook his head, before heading up to the tower, to where the sound originated.
Unconsciously, he retraced Quistis's steps as he wandered the palace, heading wherever his feet led him. As he pushed open a door, he saw, to his utter disgust, a torture chamber, which had been recently used. Rotting corpses still strung up to various torture devices, one of which seemed still to be breathing.
"Is anyone alive there?" Seifer asked, half-heartedly, but scared shitless.
"Help," croaked a dry, parched voice, from the stone prison, its sound listless, devoid of hope, as though it had been waiting for far too long for a saviour.
Seifer took cautious steps towards the origins of the voice in the far left corner of the room. He was surprised at the sight that greeted him.
In the cell, along with several skeletons, stood a weak, shivering, reeking of body odour, Martine. He had changed quite drastically since the Second Sorceress War, since losing his job and position of Garden Master of Galbadia Garden.
"Martine?" Seifer said, surprised, "How the hell did you manage to get here?"
Martine looked up, seeing a scar that was no longer that visible, jade green eyes that betrayed nothing of the thoughts he was thinking. He had seen this man before, he knew that.
"You're Seifer Almasy," Martine said, in shock.
"So? Who were you expecting? The fairy godmother?" Seifer retaliated, before turning serious, "I'll get you out of here, Martine, just hang on."
Martine nodded gratefully, before pushing against the cold iron bars of the cell. Seifer fumbled with the old padlock, before grabbing the nearest small file off the table, and picked away at the lock.
It came open in a few minutes of trying. Martine was relieved to be out of the dank hole that had been his nightmare for months on end. "How long have you been here, Martine?" Seifer asked.
"A few months, maybe. I don't know! The bastard who claimed to be the Duke came to Fisherman's Horizon twelve months ago, wanting to offer me a position in his staff as a military trainer. He double-crossed me, he did!" Martine said, his voice ranging from annoyed, to angry to despondent within a few minutes.
Seifer shook his head. "I'm the true Duke of Dollet, Martine, and as my first official duty, I release you." His voice was steely, determined not to let this sort of torture occur any longer.
Quistis stopped playing her organ, deciding to let her hands rest on her lap, before wandering into the parlour. The parlour was furnished in the modern style; it was painted a lovely lilac shade, and mauve and fuchsia cushions adorned cream leather couches. A single photograph hung on the wall, framed in a black frame, with gold trim around the photograph itself. Quistis took a closer look at the photograph, meeting eyes that were azure as the sky itself, framed with dark brown- almost black, hair, and smiling lips. It was Alyeena, Seifer's mother.
As Seifer wandered through the grand estate, towards the kitchens to see about some nourishing food for Martine, he looked upon an angel. Only, it wasn't an angel, it was her.
Quistis.
But she, that rose the tallest of them all,
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque and chafed his hands
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, like the wither'd moonTennyson, Morte d'Arthur
Seifer quoted the immortal words of the poet, as he gazed upon her slender figure, thickness only just showing at the waist, where his- no- their child grew within her.
"It is good to see you, Seifer," Quistis broke the silence that had fallen on the two as they linked hands, strolling through the long avenue in the front of their bedroom. The garden was before them now, and he paused there, lingering with her.
"Shall we?" Seifer asked softly, in a tone he only ever used with her, "We'll marry in this garden."
She turned to him, eyes full of happiness, "Indeed, Seifer, we shall." Her calm voice spoke volumes, as she pushed open the door that led to the garden.
There, under the peach blossoms, the two lovers found solitude was not as lonely as it seemed, the sweetest honey, lonesome in its own deliciousness, was something that this magnificent solitude could be compared to. To them, it was their Utopia, their Eden; their Avalon. It was bathed in sunlight that trickled down through the tree they stood under, it's willowy branches an umbrella.
Seifer reached out to her, placing an arm around her waist as he drew her closer for a kiss that neither of them would forget.
A/N. So, I lied? The wedding won't be until at least chapter 15, so that means that there's still seven chapters left. And I was tempted to keep going with this chapter, but decided to end it here. Blame Jane Austen, LM Alcott, LM Montgomery, and Alfred Tennyson for this chapter's fluffiness and utter lack of plot. Kudos to everyone who has reviewed so far, especially to Quistis88 for reasons that she alone knows ^_ ~