Title: Island of Balamb
Author/s: Lord Seifer III and the_[a]colyte
Editor: the_[a]colyte
Disclaimer: We do not own Final Fantasy 8 nor its characters as well so don't sue us! :)
Warning: Rating may increase on the later chapters.
***Authors notes***
Lord Seifer III – we would like to inform you, that the last part would be eliminated…err..is that the right term
the-acolyte – uh..your hopeless…anyway, as what he had said, the last part would be "eliminated" due to unexpected circumstances…meaning…
Lord Seifer III – its because we can't think of any ideas how to continue it
The-acolyte – there he said it…I told you! Its juz a waste of time yah know
Lord Seifer III – yah..yah..its my fault all right. Sorry
The-acolyte – yah right..
Lord Seifer III – sorry..
The-acolyte – ok ok
Lord Seifer III – sorry sorry sorry…
The-acolyte – ALL RIGHT ALREADY!! IM NOT DEAF!!
Lord Seifer III – ok guyz juz enjoy your reading :)
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Chapter Two:Scene 1
The Lady and the Artist
Farmhouse
Although it was still early in the afternoon, candlelight glowed throughout the spacious granite farmhouse, a cozy shelter from the frequent storms that struck Balamb. Quistis settled into the huge horsehair sofa between the half-dozen cats that had started mysteriously appearing at her door the week of her return.
She saw nothing odd in this; the life of Quistis and her sisters had been highlighted with so many inexplicable events that the three of them had almost come to terms with their peculiarity. After all, their mother, dead thirteen years ago, had been renowned on the island for her healing powers. As for Quistis' father, well, one had only to look around his house to see evidence of a dedicated eccentric.
The housemaid could barely dust for all the artifacts and bits of ancient relics her father had collected. The talking stones by the door that, in Quistis' memory, had never said a word. The shrunken head of the Malay shaman above the kitchen sink that gave everyone a fright. The crystal-encrusted circlet that was believed to have belonged to Lady Edea and to which Quistis had formed a close attachment; she couldn't bear to part with any of her father's treasures, not with him gone only fourteen months, now. She missed him so much.
No Trepe had ever fit well into society, which was why after one year of living in Deling with Squall, the pair of them had escaped back to Balamb.
They both pretended that the research needed to finish her father's work was what had lured them home. The truth was, they had been dying in Deling, friendless and without funds.
For the first time since her return, Quistis wondered if she had made a mistake. She thumped her stockinged feet on the tapestries footstool and stared out at the misty coastline.
From a practical standpoint, the island supported more than one hundred people who depended on fishing and flower growing for there existence. This Eden would all come to an end when the President took possession. He had already ordered plots of land cleared for the hunting lodge he planned to build. Precious bulbs had been trampled by the carts of uncaring workmen.
All of which the Earl of Almasy could stop with a snap of his elegant fingers. Yet he chose not to.
"There wasn't an ounce of courtesy in the monster. Not one quality one would hope for in a knight." She wiggled her toes for emphasis. "I don't know why you asked to sketch him, Zell, you traitor."
The young artist smiled faintly, his blonde head bent over his sketchbook. He sat by the window to catch the dying light of the afternoon. His fingers moved nimbly even as he spoke. "He had the most magnificent face, Quistis. That jaw could have been carved from granite."
"His heart as well.." she said slowly.
"I could almost see the suppressed passion running in his veins."
"That was the ice water beneath a frozen pond," she said.
"And the emotions smoldering in his eyes," Zell said, shaking his head in admiration.
"Greed?" Qistis suggested. "Impatience? Oh." She gently removed the cat from her lap, rising from the sofa. "What on earth are you drawing now?"
He smiled, not looking up.
Quistis had known Zell for almost eight years now. She remembered the very day he'd approached her father in the street, a milliner's sweep-up boy, and had begged for a chance to illustrate Sir Alfred's book on the origins of King Cid.
At first, her father had laughed. But Zell had persisted, pushing his pictures under their door, following them to parties. And in the end, her father had been impressed by his talent and how seriously Zell took his own art—even to the point of practically abandoning his young bride of only a year to finish this last book.
At times Quistis almost felt sorry for the poor woman. Zell had been enchanted with his bride at first, drawing endless sketches of her, but now hardly mentioned her name.
Then he had lost the commission for the painting contest. Her father died, and Zell, in a moody depression that worried Quistis, had insisted on coming to Balamb to help her finish this last work.
"Your father have befriended me," he told her. "I must return the favor."
She gasped now as she peered over his shoulder. He was working on a rough sketch of a maiden in medieval clothing embracing a fallen warrior. The drawing itself was lovely, and she was accustomed to Zell using her as a model for his work. But the horror of it was that he had depicted Seifer as the wounded knight.
She felt an unexpected shock of pleasure at seeing herself locked in Seifer's passionate embrace. For a heady moment she experienced all the intense emotions Zell had managed to convey between the maiden and the wounded knight. Strong flurries of sensation burst inside her, weakening her before she pulled away.
Yes, Seifer was handsome in that dark way so dangerous to women, but how fanciful of Zell to sketch him with that look of loyal gratitude.
"That is the most awful thing you have ever done, Zell. Terrible. What were you thinking?"
He shrugged. "I liked the look of him. I'm going to use him as the inspiration for Sir Vincent and the Silver Knight."
"Are you mad?" she said in disbelief. "Bad enough that you played flatterer to Almasy this morning, but to turn around and paint him a hero while he's selling Balamb as an aristocrat's playground---"
"You might have tried a more tactful approach and a little flattery yourself," Squall said from his corner chair. "How many times have I told you that most gentlemen do not appreciate total honesty in a young woman?"
"Zell," she said, ignoring Squall's remark, "I absolutely forbid you to use that picture in father's book."
"Your father allowed me artistic license, Quistis." He said curtly.
"License, not lunacy."
"It's Almasy you're angry with, anyway," Squall pointed out. "Not Zell."
"Oh I give up." She sank back down onto the sofa, tugging a handful of pins from her hair so it fell in a commotion of golden hair to her back. The cats started to play with it, pulling the wavy ends until she shook herself free.
"You can't give up miss," a worried voice said from the door. "You're the island's good luck charm."
The speaker was Selphie Tilmitt, a good friend of Squall, bringing in a tray of tea and bread.
Together with nearly everyone else on Balamb, Selphie's great-grandmother, Raine Loire, belived that Quistis' return was preordained to save the island. No one understood that she had come home only to finish her father's book on the Legends of Sephiroth.
Still, she couldn't sit by and watch her childhood friends evicted from their homes.
Quistis and her two sisters had lived on Balamb with their parents until her father had taken it into his head to travel the world on a quest for mystical secrets.
Their mother had been the one the islanders had turned to for help in troubled times; from the letters Quistis received from her sisters, both residing with elderly aunts, all three of them had apparently inherited their mother's penchant for taking up lost causes.
"I failed miserably," she said, shaking her head. "The man's mind is made up."
"But his brother was such a gentle soul," Sephie said as she cleared the table to make room for her tray. "He adored the island."
Quistis sighed. "He and Almasy could not be more unlike, it seems. I don't know what to do."
"Everyone is counting on you, Quistis," Selphie whispered. "The pellar is offering to help, but at a price no one can pay, so we're all believing in you. Many's the folk only alive today because of your mothers power."
Quistis stared into fire, her thoughts in turmoil. The most evil man she knew, possibly next to Seifer, was Martine, the island's pellar, a self-proclaimed warlock who took Quistis' return as a personal threat to his power.
Martine sold fruitless and ill wishes for a living; he had appeared on Balamb the day of her mothers death, like a toadstool that sprang up when the sun vanished behind the clouds.
"If the people turn to the pellar," Selphie said softly, "there's no telling what evil the man will wreak upon us. You're going to have to take him on, Quistis, both him and Lord Almasy, if this island is to be saved."
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Chapter Two: Scene 2
Less than three hours later, Quistis was bracing herself for another battle with evil. The pellar lived on the dark side of the island on Fire Cavern, where lilies never grew.
Plants of evil association flourished in his garden. A one-eyed crow sat on the cottage windowsill, watching Quistis approach with malice. She paused, wondering why she, of all people, had been chosen to take up the island's cause. She didn't feel brave or hopeful of a good outcome against the all-powerful Almasy.
She felt desperate.
"Come on," she whispered over her shoulder to the white cat that had followed her, but the animal refused to come any farther. Quistis could see the creature pacing before the gate, its back arched in displeasure. Her pony waited in the shadows of the wind-stunned yew woods.
"at least keep me company," she whispered to the cat.
"You desire company, Quistis?" Dear child, you need only to ask—to link your untapped powers with mine. Well, we could conquer the world."
She grimaced at the irritating voice in her ear.
Turning slowly, she looked up into Martine's grinning face and felt a chill go down her spine. His prematurely blonde hair sprouted like wings from his head. Mystical symbol in red silk adorned his short purple cape, and he wore a moon-stone pendant with a matching ring.
He brought her hand to his lips. "To what do I owe this honor, young enchantress?"
She snatched her hand away as his lips brushed her skin. Quistis despised his dealings with darkness; the atmosphere of evil even in his garden made her soul cringe. "Isn't it obvious? I am desperate."
He stroked his chin, guiding her down the garden path to a stone bench. "You did not charm the beast Almasy?"
She sat as far away from him as possible. "You know?"
"My dear, I know everything, which is, of course, why you have come to me today. You need my supernatural wisdom."
"It is your island too, Martine. You have as much to lose as the others."
He glance at his crude granite cottage. "Do you think so?"
"Surely you don't believe the president will allow a ninnyhammer warlock to squat on his land?"
Martine's high forehead wrinkled in a frown. "I had thought I might become his personal adviser. I—"
"Don't be an idiot," she said. "A man of his position isn't going to associate with a lowly nodcock like you."
"Insults will hardly buy my assistance, Quinie."
He blinked.
"Quistis, I meant. Ever since that illustration of you as the enchantress, I cannot help thinking of you as she."
Quistis sighed. Zell had immortalized her with his illustrations, and her dubious fame as an ancient Sorceress had hardly helped her find a respectable place in society.
"What am I going to do, Martine? Almasy is the coldest man I've ever met."
"Go back to him in person."
"No—he was hideously rude, to all of us. He wouldn't receive me anyway."
His pale eyes glinted as he drew a black velvet pouch from his pocket.
"Burn this in his presence, and his mind will open to whatever you suggest."
She stared down at the pouch in distaste. "What is or shouldn't I ask?"
"That is my secret. Know only that it is powerful enough to make him yours."
"Make him mine?" she said in horror. "I don't want Almasy—I want him to leave Balamb, that's all."
His lips flattened in irritation. "Charms do not come in specific little packages. Shall we discuss my fee?"
"What fee?"
"You will spend Midsummer Night alone with me in my cottage."
She jumped to her feet. "Oh, Martine, you are disgusting! As if I would sell my body for a pack of twigs that probably won't work anyway."
He stood beside her and gave her a bonk on the head.
"Hey! What was that for?"
"Did I say it was your body I desired?"
She took a step back, noticing a sleek white shape sitting on the path. The cat had followed her and was sniffing the dank pool at the bottom of the garden.
"Don't drink!" she cried. "The water is probably poisoned!"
Martine grinned. "How thoughtful of you to bring a present, Quistis. My stock of cat's eyes is almost depleted."
She grabbed the black velvet pouch and threw it in his face. "I should have known better than to come here. You are repugnant, Martine."
"Just remember that we need each other," he said, smiling faintly. "Even a rainbow cannot exist without a storm."
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