Purgatio

by Marcus1

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13. Resurrectio

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Chapter 13:
Resurrectio
The search was entering its third day when Laguna and Rinoa left. Balamb garden, dented, damaged, but still afloat, acted as the command center for the flotilla of SeeD assault boats and Estharian fast destroyers and light corvettes they had spared from their own search-and-rescue operations; all scouring the waters for any sign of Squall Leonhart and the SeeDs who had fallen or been dragged overboard when G-Garden sank and the boarding cables snapped.

Zell was pacing nervously back and forth across the walkway leading into the infirmary. At first, there had not been enough beds to hold all the injured and the less urgent cases had been relegated to waiting on bedding and chairs—for those with only minor injuries—in the hallway circling the rebuilt central elevator column. However, now, after three days of frantic work, Doctor Kadowaki had patched up and discharged all but the most serious cases. One of those cases was Iris Deen. The blond SeeD practically jumped out of his skin as the door to the infirmary slid open. A student temporarily assigned to act as one of Doctor Kadowaki's aides stuck her head out the door. "You can come in now, Zell. She's awake." Silently, with a worried expression, the SeeD hurried inside.

The normally empty infirmary was unusually crowded. A dozen temporary partitions had been rigged around the main room and the doctor's desk had been moved out into the hall to make room for the new beds. The aide pointed to one of the curtains. "She's in there." Just before pushing through the partition, Zell pasted a big grin on his face, though worry still picked at his mind. "Heey!" He tried to be enthusiastic and quiet at the same time as he burst through the curtain. He paused, arms spread in a 'Here's Zell!' sort of manner, the grin on his face becoming a bit wider as he looked down upon the bed's occupant. What a relief! She looks okay! Other than a bit of paleness, hair spread out on her pillow instead of bound in two pigtails, and the paper operating gown, Iris seemed no different than when the SeeD had last seen her—at the entrance to the elevator four days ago. "Zell!" Iris couldn't help but smile at the appearance of the lively SeeD. "I'm so glad to see you!" He voice was quiet but strong. "Me too!" Zell quipped as he bounced over to the side of the bed. It seemed as though a giant weight had been lifted off him. "I-I mean, I'm glad to see you too." "I know what you meant, silly." She laughed lightly. The blond SeeD knelt down by the bedside. "So, how do you feel? Are you... okay?" Iris's smile faded. "I feel... okay. I think I'm still on some drugs or something." She paused. "Zell, Dr. Kadowaki is going to tell me how the surgery went in a minute. I... I sort of wanted you to be here..." She didn't move her head, but her eyes turned to the martial-artist. "Is that okay?" Zell nodded vigorously. "Of course!" Just then, the curtains rustled and Doctor Kadowaki stepped into the small room. Zell was taken aback by the doctor's appearance. The woman seemed to have aged several decades since he had last seen her. Not only did she look older, but the rings under her eyes and slope of her shoulders spoke of a weariness not just of late nights or long hours. Without much preamble, the doctor began to speak. "Good, I'm glad you're both here. Iris, are you ready?" The student didn't nod. "Yes." "Okay." The doctor took a breath. "As I told you before you went in to surgery, the cable that hit you damaged your vertebrae, ground bone and debris into your spine and severed several tendons in your back. The debris, for the most part, was lodged in your pia mater meninx." Zell blinked, but—instead of scratching his head, he placed his hand on Iris's. Unperturbed by the SeeD's look of confusion, the doctor continued. "It was easy to remove and I don't believe there will be any long-term damage. We were able to reattach all your tendons and operate on your spine. I placed a brace on your vertebrae to stabilize them and I think everything should heal up just fine. Most of the breaks were just simple fractures." Zell gave the girl's cool hand a squeeze. The doctor paused for a moment before continuing. "Unfortunately, a splinter of bone has cut one of your lower anterior roots." She sighed slightly. "There's no known way to repair the damage." Iris's fingers tightened around Zell's. "What does all that mean?" "You can move your arms and head now. With therapy, you'll be able to move your back and trunk again. Over the next week or so, you should begin to regain feeling from your waist down at least to your hips." "And my legs?" Iris asked. "You may regain feeling in them. We will know in a month's time, but I'm afraid you won't have any motor control—you won't be able to move them." "Ever?" It was evident from the look on the woman's face that she had seen more tragedy than she ever cared to in the past few days, still, the doctor couldn't meet Iris's pleading gaze. "I don't believe so, no." Doctor Kadowaki turned her head. "I'm sorry."

Iris didn't say anything as the doctor left. She didn't say anything for a very long time after that either. She just sat in silence, clutching Zell's hand.
...

Clouds of orange and pink cotton candy rolled, as the waves on the ocean below, across the baby-blue vault of evening. The swollen red globe setting in the West bleached the air and water until their paleness matched that of the SeeD's skin.
Zell sat with chin in hand, staring blankly into the setting sun. Though his features betrayed nothing but calm, inside, he struggled to keep a thousand terrible thoughts from overwhelming his fragile peace.
It was obvious that things were over. It could be felt in the air of the fighters in the Garden as they went about the business of reconstruction and training and in the tone of the newscasters yammering over the newly restored radio communications. The war was over. The great navies of the world's two superpowers had spent themselves in one last orgy of destruction and now all that remained was to pick up the pieces.
But Zell wondered how many pieces were left for the SeeDs—no, for him, for them, for all of us...—to pick up. It didn't seem real. After their fairy-tale defeat of the incredibly powerful Ultimecia, nothing should have been able to stop them. Squall, Rinoa, Selphie, Irvine, Quistis, and Zell, they were the world's greatest fighters, they had triumphed against impossible odds, and all come through alive. How could something so trivial as a war take away so much? But it did, and we have to face facts. Zell's sigh felt deep and cleansing, but still the world and it's cares remained. The headmaster is dead, so is Edea, so are dozens of our own. Quistis is missing... And... And Seifer is dead. There was no question about it this time. He had seen the final act with his own eyes. It was no longer an abstract concept discussed in the waiting room of Galbadia Garden. It was for real. I watched my... friend strike him down. It was too much to take in, but it did help distract him. It helped him keep from thinking about the pain in her voice when she had asked—after holding his hand for so long—to be left alone.
The sun was nothing more than a bright spot on the lips of the ocean when someone behind him spoke. "Zell?" It was Selphie. "Zell...? How is she?"
The sun was gone. Behind him, the first stars would be appearing in the empty sky. The great watchful eye of the moon had not yet risen. Two heavier footfalls alerted the SeeD to the fact that Selphie was not alone. Good for both of you. It's times like these that we need companionship. That the need extended to himself, for once, did not occur to Zell.
Selphie persisted. "Zell? Is Iris okay?" A very long silence fell before the blond SeeD finally spoke. "No. She's not okay, Selphie. She's paralyzed." Irvine's other hand dropped onto Selphie's shoulder as she took a step backward. Oh, Seph, please don't say 'you're kidding!' The sharpshooter had never seen Zell so serious. He had never seen the excitable martial artist brood. Well, maybe once. To his relief, Selphie's reply was quiet and cautious. "Oh, Zell, I'm sorry." She backed up again, bumping into Irvine a second time, indicating that they should depart. A moment later the Trabian and Galbadian SeeDs were huddled back up on the steps leading to the quad, engaged in a hushed conference, careful to keep their voices below a level audible to the martial artist. "Darlin' are you sure we should tell him?" Irvine cast a furtive glance at the figure hunched on what was left of the unfinished stage on the damaged Quad—ravaged now, by a total of four fierce battles. "That boy's got a lot on his mind." Selphie nodded. "I know, Irvine, but I'm sure he'd want to know. Maybe it'll even help him forget what he's thinking about now for a little bit." She nodded toward Zell. "He looks like a big blond Squall right now." "Now there's someone I wouldn't mind seeing right about now. Even if he was bigger and blonder than I remember." Irvine grimaced. "Well, okay. If you think we should, let's get this over with. It's not going to be nearly as hard to tell him as it will be to tell Rinoa." Selphie only sighed. "HE WHAT!?" Zell rocketed off of his perch. "No way! Laguna would never do that!" "I'm sorry, Zell, but he did." Selphie looked about, keeping her voice down and trying to quiet Zell as well. Not surprisingly, Zell refused to be quieted. "No way! No freaking way!" Irvine frowned. "Zell, saying that isn't going to change facts. And please, be quiet! We need you to help—" Zell's maddened hopping and arm-waving pre- empted Irvine's finished sentence. "Look, you guys, I may not have been around Laguna much, but I know that he would never, ever, ever do that!" The mercenary stomped a foot on the deck for emphasis. Selphie began to speak. "Zell, please—" Irvine cut her off. "Man, why are you being so difficult!? We're tellin' you, it happened and now, we need your—" Irvine was speaking loudly to keep from being interrupted, but it made no difference. "And I'm telling you right now, that—" Abruptly, Zell's eyes widened and, amazingly, his mouth snapped shut. Irvine took advantage of the unexpected silence. "Wouldja let me finish!?" Irvine ignored Selphie's insistent tugging on his sleeve in favor of finishing his sentence. "We need you to shut up, and help us figure out how to tell Ri—YI-YOW!!" The sharpshooter bellowed as Selphie stomped down hard on his toes. In the silence that followed, Irvine froze as a quiet voice spoke from behind him. "Tell me what?" The amber lights of the stairway framed Rinoa's delicate features with a soft aura of gold. The sorceress was clothed in a long plainly cut dress of soft fog-gray material. One long sleeve was pinched slightly by the thin band of a black ribbon tied lightly around her arm. Her lips were drawn up slightly with the smallest hint of quizzicality set over an expression of a peaceable wistfulness. Her dark eyes didn't seem to focus on anyone of the group, instead, she seemed to be gazing thoughtfully into another time or place. Rinoa wore such a peaceful expression, yet it frightened the three friends so much. At last, Zell spoke in a much-diminished voice. "Rinoa, I told them it's not true." One delicate eyebrow rose. "Oh, Rinoa, I'm sorry. President Laguna... he left. He and the Ragnarok are gone." Selphie said. Irvine hastened to add. "But the other Estharian ships are still searching. I'm sure the president had his reasons, Rinoa." Selphie stepped forward, reaching out to the distant-eyed girl. "He'll come back. I know he hasn't..." ...hasn't given up on Squall. "I know." Rinoa didn't move, yet somehow Selphie found her far out of reach. The shorter girl dropped her arms to her sides. "What?" Zell blinked. "Oh yeah. I know he'll be back. The Ragnarok's so fast, you know..." He trailed off at the slight shake of Rinoa's head. "No, I already knew Laguna had left. I spoke with him a few hours ago." It could have been their imaginations, but it seemed that the glow of lights around the sorceress had faded. "He knows that Squall's not here." Her dark hair hid her face as she turned her head. "And now, I know it too." She sighed. Her comments elicited negative shakes from everyone. "No, no, Rinoa. I'm sure we'll find him." Irvine said. "We just have to keep looking." Zell added. Selphie stepped forward again. If only she could touch her friend, she knew things would be okay. "Rinoa, there's no reason to give up." But the sorceress remained as distant as the look in her eyes. As the last light of the day fled the sky, so too did the light drain from Rinoa's figure. For a moment, her gaze did fix on the three SeeDs. "I'm sorry all of this had to happen the way it did." One hand turned upward. "I wish I could do something to change things, to set things right." Even as another chorus of protests, that Rinoa had done everything she could, were vocalized, the sorceress seemed to sink a little deeper into the night than did the rest of the group. A ghost of a smile flitted across the somber girl's lips. "You all are the best friends I could have ever asked for." She continued, not allowing anyone a chance to speak. "I just wanted you all to know that, whatever happens next, I always knew you would be here for me, for him, for us." Slowly, the sorceress's eyelids closed. "He knew it too." Zell tried to reach out, to place a restraining hand on the girl's thin arm. He wanted to cry out, but the words froze in his throat. He could not move, nor could anyone else do anything to stop Rinoa. "Thank you." The sorceress's eyes opened, but one could barely tell, for she was hardly more than a dark silhouette now. "Thank you all so much." The whisper hung in the air as the gathering darkness surrounded, then enveloped the fading shadow of the girl. Almost inaudibly, a breeze rustled through the trees surrounding the warm dim lights of the quad. "My friends..."
"...farewell."
And the spell was broken, they could move once more. But no one did, for Rinoa was gone.
...
For the first time in his life, Laguna had to resist the urge to shrug off someone else's concerned hand. "What are you doing, my friend?" Kiros's voice, ever quiet, maintained its reserved tone. Gripping the controls unnecessarily—the Ragnarok was under the steady hand of the ship's advanced computerized autopilot—Laguna steeled himself. "He wasn't there, Kiros. He won't ever be there." "Mister..." No, he's not the president now. He hasn't been since we destroyed the Lunatic Pandora. He's been... "...Laguna, there's no way you can know that." ...just a father. Kiros paused, looking over to Ward for support but the large silent man turned his head away. "When" If. "Squall comes back, it's most likely that he'll return to the same spot—in this timeline—that he left." He swallowed. "I'm sure of it." In truth, he was sure of no such thing, but it was the only hope they had; no matter how tenuous it was, he was ready to seize it and hold on with both hands for the sake of his friend. Laguna shook his head—or continued to shake his head, since he had been doing it since Kiros had begun to speak. "I do know, Kiros, and Rinoa knows it too." Laguna spoke quietly. "That's why I'm leaving." Not for one instant during his friend's campaign to divert so many ships from their duties to his own personal search-and-rescue usage had Kiros so much as contemplated reminding Laguna that Squall was just one lost man, among thousands. He valued their friendship—and incidentally, his life—far too much. But the pressure was mounting. Back in Eshtar, the revelers had not even left the streets before the three echelons of congress had began screaming for demobilization and an end to the emergency-driven direct executive control over the armed forces. During the days of the search, Kiros had been forced to spend more and more time on the Ragnarok's communication's suite requesting, begging, cajoling, and threatening dozens of political figures in order to maintain Laguna's authority over the fleet he had commandeered for his own private usage. So far, the soldier-turned- politician had been successful. But he knew he couldn't keep the dogs at bay forever. Sooner or later, word was bound to get out, and then, congress would want Laguna's head on a silver platter. He could get the fact that the president had saved all of Eshtar, not once, but three times now, to carry his friend far, but his powers of political manipulation were not limitless, and he was fast running out of maneuvering space. With things as they were, Kiros was glad Laguna was finally calling off the search, but still concerned about what his next move would be. Laguna's response to his inquiry did nothing to allay his fears.

"You'll see when we get there." The president took the time to glare at his cabinet member. "Sit down, and shut up." Kiros complied, strapping himself into the navigator's seat with a sigh. He wasn't sure, when this was all over, if Laguna would still be president. He didn't bother bringing the topic up with his old friend however; he knew what Laguna's reply would be. Doctor Lowery smiled twice and frowned once as three men—arguably the most influential men in all of Esthar—stepped into her office. Ward, and especially Laguna were graced with the smiles. Kiros's appearance garnered him only a disapproving frown. It's Doctor Lowery, thank you very much. The scientist thought to herself, remembering her last encounter with the dark-skinned cabinet member. The beginnings of a foul mood vanished, however, as she turned to Laguna. "President Loire, again, it is an honor to receive you." And to what do I owe this honor? Felicitations for the flawless performance of my atomic bomb, no doubt. Dr. Lowery smiled happily to herself. She had spent the past week playing and re-playing the tapes of the nuclear fireball she had wrought. Still, each time she saw it, the raw power and terrible beauty of the explosion thrilled her to the core. Much to Linda's surprise, Laguna did not even mention the weapon. "Doctor Lowery, as the late Doctor Odine's assistant, are you familiar with his experiments in the fields of paranormal research?" The doctor's heart fell. Oh no, not this crap again. Resignedly, she answered the president's query. "Yes, Sir, I am indeed familiar with my predecessor's research into magic, para-magic, sorcery, witchcraft, and voodoo hocus-pocus." She threw in the last two in a vain attempt to forestall the question she knew would come next. Quite different from the bumbling ignoramus he had seemed on his last visit to the research complex, Laguna now was all business. "Good, then you are aware, no doubt, that Odine was in the process of designing a machine that would allow a person to send themselves back in time by—" "—Projecting their consciousness into the mind of a host body living in the past." Sighing, Doctor Lowery finished the sentence for the president. Why do I feel so disappointed? I knew it would come to this sooner or later. Nobody ever wants to talk about real science. All they want is magic this and magic that. "Yes, I know of his designs, though I never took any real interest in them. I judged such pursuits as not nearly worth the trouble for such unpredictable returns." From her expression and tone of voice, Linda tried to make it very clear exactly what she would think of being ordered to work on any such project. Laguna's laugh was short and bitter, as all ironic exclamations are. "I must agree with you there. Doctor Odine's research no doubt has caused much more trouble than it was worth, and it has certainly had some unpredictable returns." That caught the doctor's interest. "Really, Sir? What kind of returns?" Could it be that her late, largely unlamented mentor might not have been quite the crackpot that he seemed? As the door to Doctor Lowery's office swung silently shut on its well-oiled hinges, Kiros finally spoke. "Laguna, what did you just do in there?" Laguna didn't even turn his head. "I don't know, Kiros. I hope that I helped him." The dark official shook his head. "Your meddling, Laguna. You're doing exactly what you know you're not supposed to. We have no idea what's going on in the future, and we have no idea what your orders could lead too." Now, Laguna did stop and face his two old friends. "Kiros, Ward, I..." He stopped as both men held up a hand. "Mr. President, I know. You think you have to do this. If I were in your shoes, old friend, I would do the same thing. But I have to remind you that you could be endangering us all. I have to tell you that this might not be the right thing to do, that this might not work, that we all need to be prepared for that eventuality." Kiros paused for a moment. "But there is just the slimmest chance that it might, isn't there." It was impossible to tell whether the president's question was rhetorical. As any friend would, Kiros answered. "Yes. There always is." A quiet clicking filled the tidy little office as Doctor Lowery sat, chin in hand, absently clicking the mechanical pen. It was time to make a decision. What the president had asked her to do would take an entire lifetime of research—if it was even possible. She had paid almost no attention to Odine's idea for a magical time machine, sure that it was pure fancy—like a great number of his creations—and of little practical use. And now I'm supposed to finish his work? She shook her head. No, not just finish. I'm supposed to alter it, improve upon it, and then keep it a secret from everyone. Her eyes misted as—in her mind, all the papers she had intended to publish, all the real research she had been planning; everything—spiraled down an imaginary drain. No more recognition, no more accolades, no more journal articles. I'll disappear from the face of modern science if I stay here, if I build what the president wants. Unconsciously biting a nail, she turned toward her computer terminal. No, I won't do it. I can't just throw away my entire career on one impossible project. Her hands descended on the keyboard. If I fail, I would have thrown away my life for nothing. Midway through her letter of resignation, Doctor Lowery stopped. But... what if I succeed? She would be the greatest scientist who ever lived. For a full hour, she sat, indecisive, until all her fingernails were gnawed to the quick. At last, the researcher made her decision. Reaching forward, she snapped off power to the computer. Her words echoed in the empty office. "Time to get to work."
...

Squall Leonhart, below these words are instructions
on how to use this machine to travel through time.

I can never explain why I left you and your sister
alone so long ago. I can never make amends for how I
hurt you. I can only ask for your forgiveness. I love
you, my son. Come home soon.


Laguna It was all Dahyte could do to keep from snarling with rage as she read the words over again. What makes him so special? Why is he granted salvation? She couldn't deny it now; the rage burning within her; she wanted to kill him. She bared her teeth as he spoke from behind her. "Fate, what happened to her?" Squall had regained his feet. Dahyte did not turn, instead, she kept her eyes locked on the instructions engraved on a copper plate nestled within the hidden compartment on the time machine. "She died saving your life." You bastard. But he wasn't even that. He wasn't even that! The words she had just read proved it. Damn you.
The knight's gloves fell upon the monster's shoulders. His grip was weak, weak but desperate. "How!? Tell me how to stop it! Tell me how to save her, Fate!"
He fell away—a feather before the hurricane—as her wings unfolded with a leathery snap. The monster whirled on the knight. "You can't save her! You can't go back that far!" Dahyte screamed inside the mask, her voice tearing at her own hearing diaphragms. "I buried her with my own hands! She would let me do as much, but she would never let me save her!" The monster pointed an accusing finger at the knight. "And it's all because of you! Quistis died for you, Squall Leonhart!"
Dahyte hated the look of relief that flitted across Squall's face—no, that was not enough—the emotion ripping through her was much more than hatred. She despised him, she despised the world for spawning him, she despised the entire universe for every conspiring to allow such a thing, because he didn't even care. He doesn't care. He only cares about one person, and it doomed her! She shuddered with anger. He murdered her. As surely as he tore out her heart, he murdered her. He wasn't even worthy to look upon her! Only an ancient whisper kept him alive now. If I could wish for one thing to come out of this... it would be that, Dahyte. It was so damned unfair, but she had promised. Friends keep their promises.
The fate had turned away from him. It was doing something to Norg's time machine. Slowly, its wings folded themselves against its back. It had told him something important—but it had not told him what he wanted, what he needed to know. "I can't feel her." Norg had been stopped from killing Rinoa, but she still was gone. She still did not exist in this time. That meant— "Please tell me, Fate, please. Tell me how... tell me..." Squall choked on the words. "Tell me how Rinoa died!" Speaking her name set fire to the deep burns around where his heart had once been. "Tell me how to stop it!" Dahyte's finger stabbed forward, completing a final connection. As if in a physical manifestation of the monster's rage, the time machine exploded. Bits of metal and plastic showered against her mask. Debris pricked against her leathery skin, but the explosion had not been dangerously violent—it had not been designed that way. She stared into the swirling emerald pool that had taken the place of the destroyed time machine. "Never." She whispered so quietly, the old mask's microphone failed to pick up her words. His hand was on her shoulder again. Incessant, demanding. "Tell me what happened to her!" Her friend's blood was on that hand, and he didn't even care. Razor-sharp teeth ground together. The spikes on her shoulders and forearms stood erect, shivering with her rage. He knows he's going back. He knows the word has bent to accommodate him. He knows his friends have fought and died for him. Yet, he only cared about one thing, only thought about one life. How she wished she could kill him. Slowly, she turned to face the knight. Underfoot, something clanked quietly against the tiled floor. It was the tiny plaque, the message engraved years ago by a hopeful father. The words that couldn't be spoken, set in copper, to be delivered by the passing of time. I love you, my son. Come home soon. Long ago, after Dahyte had discovered the legacy President Laguna Loire had hidden for his son to find, she had resolved to show him—to help him understand—to tell him how his father had ruined himself. She had studied how Laguna had destroyed his presidency, lost his friends, driven himself to the point of infirmity—to an early grave; pushing, pushing, always searching for—fighting for—the way to bring his son back. She had learned it all, in the hopes that Squall would see, and forgive. It was what Quistis would have wanted her to do. But you were wrong, Quistis! He was never worth this! She had spent decades laboring under Norg for the boy that now stood before her. She would spend uncountable years more ensuring that he survived while letting her friend—her only friend—doom herself. And here he was, detestable in his ignorance. His concern for that other girl written across his face as plainly and openly as the full moon. She looked down at the words again. Come home soon. His life could be perfect, no doubt, if only he could read it, if only he could understand his father. Gently, she kicked the message away. He didn't even notice. Where was the harm in saying it? "I hate you, Squall Leonhart."

She was back. Oh, thank God! She was back! Somewhere through that doorway of ivory mist, Rinoa lived. His chest tingled and his ribs drew tight around the fist of coal lodged there. Hesitant, lightly as a butterfly flexing its wings, his heart dared to beat, once, twice. It still trembled. She's in danger. "Tell me what happened to her!" He knew he would go back. He knew he could save her, if only the monster before him would tell him how. The fate turned to face him. For a moment, it said nothing. Then, in a low grinding hiss, it spoke. "I hate you, Squall Leonhart." He did not remember retrieving the gunblade, but now—as if by magic—it appeared in his hand, and that wondrous portal—that sweet soothing sense of her drove the lightning from it. The knight was whole again, he could wield his gunblade once more. "Please tell me how to save her, Fate..." his fingers tightened around the broken trigger. "...or stand out of my way." The monster seemed not to hear him. It's eyes, gray, flat, and dead, were distant behind the scratched Plexiglas. "I hate you, Squall Leonhart." It said again, in wonder, as if it could hardly believe the words. For only a few moments, he had been dead. It had seemed like an eternity. His emotions had melted like candles in the furnace of the loss that had struck him, now they stirred again. "I don't care." A hint of anger crept into his voice. Rinoa needed him. She needed him now, she needed him years ago, why did the monster prevaricate? His battered gunblade rose, not threatening, but ready. "Tell me, or go. I won't let you stop me from saving her." "But you will stop me from saving her!" She could not stand it any longer. To see his anger at being kept from his sorceress, to know that Quistis had been right. His determination tore at Dahyte with unbearable cruelty. One good thing to come out of this... In his eyes she could see perfection, and it filled her with sorrow and a distant longing. Is this a shadow of what you felt, Quistis? Did you wish for that kind of love in your life? "Damn you, knight Leonhart!" Faster than the dance of lightning, her arms shot forward, disarming him. You were right; this kind of love is worth dying for... Bitterness kept her from caring as her claws sank into the knight's shoulders. ...even if it is not ours. The knight was strong, he was incredibly strong, but the monster was a thousand time stronger. She pulled him toward her. One set of claws remained firmly embedded in his shoulder, the other bit deeply into his back. If only... Somehow, he had retrieved his blade. The weapon gleamed dully in the flickering lights of the smoky laboratory as it traced an arc above the monster and knight. Dahyte easily dodged the blow. Then, with graceful strength, she flung him into the jade well of time. Standing before the glowing green misty, the monster spread her leathery wings. Reaching out gently, hesitantly toward the portal, she spoke quietly to the uncaring future. "If only." A brilliant flash filled the empty room, reflected brightly in the dead man's glassy eyes. When the flash dimmed, nothing remained in the laboratory but a few smoldering bits of plastic and metal and a disfigured corpse; the legacy of something that never was.
...
The business the street-front shops were enjoying was as brisk as the chilly air of late winter in Dollett. Small groups of shoppers drifted up and down Main Street, wrapped in colorful sweaters, chatting amongst themselves and enjoying the fine cool weather. The icy sun was bright, but not so bright as to be spring like. The light it cast was sharp and hard, etching the shadows of the buildings in brittle relief against the walls of the narrow streets and alleyways. An errant breeze, having wound its way down from the frozen peaks, which guarded the entrance to the tiny dukedom, kicked up a few dead leaves and sent them skittering between the legs of the shoppers. A cloud passing over the hard sun abruptly plunged the city into shadow. Those on the streets drew their cloaks and jackets a tighter against the chill wind and many chose to duck into the welcome warmth of a bistro or café. and glow of the lowering sun and began making preparations to close up early. In the dimness of the cloud shadow, the alleyways seemed less charming and a little more forbidding. Those still out on the street clucked their tongues as their gazes drifted to the thickening clouds gathering in the snowcapped mountains or to their watches as they marked the lateness of the afternoon. Not too much later, the streets were nearly deserted. Shopkeepers—poking their heads out into the chilly afternoon—also marked the clouds and made preparations to close up early. Most of the shops were empty, and most of the taverns were full by the time the sun dropped below the deck of clouds sweeping out to sea. As the glowing orb was unmasked, it repainted the buildings in tall shadowy caricatures of themselves. Like one of the shadows brought to life by the brush of the cold sun, the girl in the gray dress seemed to appear out of nowhere. She was not at all dressed for the season. Though her dress was soft and long-sleeved, its material was far to light for the biting wind now whistling down the steep streets and driving chop across the dark waters of the harbor. She seemed not to notice the cold, in fact, she seemed to notice very little at all. The few unlucky souls still out that evening might have noticed the far-away look in the girls eyes, as she slowly traced a path down toward the sea, had they not been too preoccupied with getting out of the cold before the gathering storm hit. The girl made her way down the water's edge. Slowly, ignoring the wind that plucked at her hair and clothes, she walked out along one of the breakwaters. The old man was pleased with his catch. The bucket full of fat fish nearly made up for the rheumatism that had been bothering him all day. "Yep. These old bones know when the fish will be biting, by god." He remarked to himself. He placed a finger, hardened and blunted by the passage of years of labor, against the cold stone wall of the jetty. "And this old man knows when he needs to get himself in out of the damned weather." With an audible creaking of joints, he straightened. Once he had secured his pole, lure, and hook he struggled up a set of storm-worn steps chiseled out of the rock. As he neared the last step, the wind whipping over the top of the breakwater made him squint and blink away the tears the cold brought to his eyes. When his vision cleared, he started. The machine was relentless. Hunched and ugly, like a stubby steel spider, it charged after the fleeing student. The young man threw himself from the embankment, tumbling down onto the dry sand. For a moment, the device paused, it's single red eye scanning back and forth, searching for it's prey. No sooner had Squall regained his feet then the machine charged after him. Rinoa's fists were clenched, her shoulders tensed with fear. But he's going to make it. She was sure. He always makes it. Squall leapt the last few feet to the waiting transport. There was a whir of hydraulics and a flash of blond hair as the turret atop the SeeD vessel powered up. A moment later, Quistis depressed the twin triggers and the cannon spat a stream of armor-piercing bullets at the mechanical monster. Still, the machine pressed in. The rounds tore through its armored hide, but the machine was solidly built. The concussion of the shells impacting slowed it's advance, but it still clawed forward. Finally, a bullet severed a critical system, and the metal beast sagged backwards. A moment later, Rinoa sighed in relief as the transport backed away from the machine's fiery demise. "Miss? Please Miss, there's a storm coming, you need to get inside." The old man repeated his pleas. Still, the girl remained unresponsive as she stared unseeingly at the small bay. "Please miss, snap out of it. We have to take shelter." He looked worriedly up at the darkening sky. It was a bad blow that was coming, and there was no way an old man like him would be able to carry this catatonic girl off the wind-swept rocks by himself. He cast about for help, but the streets—seemingly miles away across the long, narrow breakwater—were empty. Gingerly, he reached forward to tug at her sleeve, worried that she might start and knock them both into the turbulent waters swirling around the stone jetty. "Miss?" Abruptly, the girl turned, her sightless eyes tracking some phantasm across the bay and out into the open ocean. The old man gasped and pulled back, nearly losing his balance. Still, she said nothing. The first drops of a stinging, freezing rain began to splatter on the cold stone. Where are you going, Squall? Rinoa sighed as the transport sped off into the setting sun. Didn't you sense me here? Didn't you know I was looking for you? It was silly, she knew that. In her heart, Rinoa realized what she saw were merely scenes from the past. She had as much effect on what happened here as did moviegoers at a motion picture show. Still, she couldn't help but feel a little disappointed as the SeeD ship disappeared over the horizon. Where are you going, Squall? Then, she remembered. Like a match flaring to life, light appeared in the girl's eyes. "He's going to see me!" She exclaimed to the old man, delighted. "Yes, yes, that's wonderful, child." He was too relieved to be shocked at her animation. "But we must get off of these dangerous rocks. The storm is already upon us." Rinoa nodded. Strange. How long have I been here? What day is this? What year? She didn't know. Have I really been in the past, or was it just my mind? Is it the present? In truth, Rinoa was held only a passing interest in what time or place it really was. All she cared for was where she was headed; To find him! A secret smile danced across her lips as she picked her way across the icy rocks, following the stumbling old man.
"Whoop." The old man's arms windmilled as he lost his footing, only to regain it a moment later. Forcing an encouraging smile, he turned back toward the girl. "Be careful, young miss. These rocks're slippery, I nearly dropped my fish." Though he put on a brave face, he was worried. Hard pellets of sleet pelted his face, and a thin sheen of ice covered everything. His fingers and toes had gone numb. That poor girl must be chilled to the bone. It's so far back to the streets. As he picked his way across the rocks, he prayed fervently that the girl behind him wouldn't stumble or fall.
The old man would have been better advised to pray for himself. For, a moment later, the toe of his old boot caught under an uneven slab of concrete. His other boot, sole worn smooth, skidded on the ice and he tumbled over the edge of the breakwater with a strangled cry.
The fish smelled delicious. It lay, steaming, upon the cracked flatware surrounded by a small pile of green beans, a thick slice of buttered bread, and four quarters of an orange. The old man started as he looked up. His gaze traveled over the pictures on the wall—stopping, as they had a million times before at the smiling face on a faded photo of his wife, ten years since departed for worlds better than this one. For a moment, he lost himself in the washed-out color of her eyes. Then, shaking himself again, his eyes finally fell upon the clock. But that's impossible. Hadn't he just been out on the breakwater fishing? Hadn't he—no wait, there had been a woman there, a girl. Had they spoken? He shook his head and looked out the window. Sleet pelted the window panes and the wind whistled at the top of the chimney. "But how?"
The roaring fire drove heat into the room as surely as it kept the frigid winds of the storm at bay. But he was sure he had not built it—or had he? The sink was dry, the pots and pans washed and put away, but he remembered doing none of this. Then, the smell of the meal laid before him pricked his senses. "This old brain of mine..." He chuckled, almost shrugging to himself as he prepared to dig in. It was not the first time this had happened. "Still, I wonder what happened to that girl...?"
As his fingers, trembling with arthritis grasped at the fork and knife, they brushed a slip of paper lying under the silverware. It was a small, handwritten note. Fumbling with the thin sheaf, the man held it up to the light.

Enjoy the fish.

All my love,
Rinoa.

The man frowned. "Rinoa?" Had she done all this? He scratched his head. Somehow the name seemed familiar. Where did he know the name? "The only Rinoa I know of is the Sorceress Rinoa Heartilly." When he spoke the words to himself, a little thrill ran down his spine. He paused for a moment, squinting at the sheet of paper. "Naw... it couldn't be."
Whoever this Rinoa had been, she certainly seemed like a nice girl. He nodded to himself as he set the note down and picked up his silverware. Maybe I'll hang on to that note. Put it in a nice box or an old frame "Just in case... maybe after supper." He decided. The old man fell asleep in his chair long after the fish had vanished from the plate, but long before he could fulfill his resolution.

...

Knight Almasy.
"..."

Knight Almasy.

"Leave me alone, demon."

Knight Almasy, what would you give to be with your sorceress again?

"I have nothing left to give." Is this to be my hell? Am I never to be at peace?

Do you know who I am, Knight Almasy?

"You are the prisoner God." Seifer snarled into the darkness. Why couldn't he be left alone? "You are Hyne the weak and powerless; forever destined to be defeated by your own creations. Now shut up." He was already dead, he was already in hell. What other harm could disrespect do?

The voice was silent for a long while. And you, Knight Almasy, are the failed knight. Forever destined to be tormented by visions of the one you
loved and could not protect.

"I am."

It doesn't have to be this way, Knight Almasy. You will see her again.

"I know what you will ask. No."

But Hyne had already won. Release me, Knight, and live again. Live to see
her again.

"Never."

Take a part of me into your soul. As I was for the Sorceress Sera, so shall
I be your source of eternal life, eternal youth.

"I will not betray my sorceress, not even for that."

But you already have, Knight Almasy. Or have you forgotten her words so
soon? Seifer could not forget. She had sobbed into his chest. "It really is you." She had clung to him, like a soul—lost at sea—clings to the dying hope of rescue. "I thought I would never see you again."

You will be my vessel, knight. You cannot refuse. "I will not do this thing!" He was screaming. "Do you hear me?! I WILL NEVER DO THIS!!" He cast about in the darkness. Though he could see nothing, feel nothing, he still tried to find the source of his torment. He tried to silence the voice of the god. He could not succeed.
Yes you will. He awoke to the quiet wash of gentle waves on white sand. The sun was hot on his neck, and his clothing was already dry. His cheek pressed against the gritty grains. He was sore, empty, tired and his joints creaked as he sat up on the deserted beach. To his right, the black blade rested—point down in the sand. On his left, the sapphire rested in a small depression. The pain of his loss still tore at him. She was gone.
But she will live again. Suddenly, Seifer was seized by rage. Springing to his feet, he scooped up the Sapphire. "Damn you, Hyne!" He screamed as he threw the gem with all his strength. The jewel sparkled in the tropical late-morning sun, arcing down and disappearing into the azure water with barely any splash at all. The sand of the beach fused into molten glass as the knight raised his hand and Ultima magic boiled the sea where the sapphire had vanished. But something he had not felt in a very long time sapped the strength of his fury. Beneath the anger and despair, beneath the guilt and loathing, hope began to seep back into Seifer's frozen heart. The knight fell to his knees, breath coming in quick gasping sobs. He felt as though he had run a marathon with god, and lost. Still, still, though he hated it, he could feel the fluttering in his chest. He could feel the tingle at his fingertips. I could see her again? "NO!!!" He wrenched his black gunblade from the sand and reversed the weapon. Placing it pommel-down in the sand, he leaned forward, pressing the blade against his chest. This is my duty to her. I will die before I will give her to Hyne. The weapon pricked his skin. Blood began to trickle down the polished black steel.
See her again. The whisper of the water on sand was not at all disturbed by the tortured scream. The ocean received, with open arms, the black gunblade as Seifer flung it as far as he could out into the water. His eyes wide, Seifer stared down at his open hands, as if not believing what he had not done. Without another sound, he fled into the forest.
...
The only sound was the tread of boots muffled by carpet and the quiet clinking of cartridges in his gun belt. "Open the door, Squall." Rinoa's voice shattered the silence. She startled herself with her own exclamation. His gloved hand rested on the knob, then he turned away again. "No!" Rinoa ran after him. "I'm waiting right inside for you! I've been waiting all night!" She reached forward to grab his arm, but her hands passed right through him. The knight froze. Beneath his jacket, his skin prickled with Goosebumps where Rinoa's hand had been. Suddenly, he turned, eyes almost hopeful. Rinoa smiled at him, but his searching gaze passed her by. Her face fell. A moment later, the knight resumed his pacing the hall of the Extrêmement Coûteux Hotel. "Dammit! You know he's out there! Go to him!" She shouted at the pale girl lying facedown, making a shallow depression, in the massive bed. Rinoa felt ready to tear her hair out. "Stop crying, stop feeling sorry for yourself and think!" She had passed through the walls as easily as a ghost. She had made no impression upon the bed when she sat next to the person quietly crying into the giant quilt, nor had her quiet words made any impression upon the blue-clad girl. "How can I be so stupid?!" She exclaimed to herself. Kneeling, she dropped down as close to the ear of her past self as she dared. "You know he loves you. You know he would never, ever leave you. He's yours as much as you are his! You two can never be... can never..." She stopped, a lump suddenly appearing in her throat. Sagging slightly, the sorceress in the gray dress tried to blink away the moisture in her eyes. "You can never be..." Her tear vanished the moment it hit the bed. "...apart." Never be apart. Rinoa didn't think she could remain kneeling any longer. She leaned forward to the side of the bed. Never be apart. Her eyes burned as she put her head down in her arms. Beside herself, she began to sob.
...
Ms Marcy Colfax shivered as she listened to the sleet pelting against the window at the end of the hall. Ooh. If only the storm had held off a little longer. She only had one more room on this floor to clean—since the hotel was nearly empty of guests due to the war and the winter weather—and she wasn't looking forward to walking home through the nasty weather. Pushing just a bit harder with her right hand to accommodate for the squeaky right wheel on her cart that always wobbled and pulled, she made her way down the hall. Suddenly, a noise not born of the storm outside or her squeaking cart reached her ears. "Ah, me! Whatever could that be?" She looked about a bit nervously, but of course, the hallway was empty. The sounds were coming from behind the closed door of one of the luxury suites near the end of the hall. "Oh my." Marcy wrung her hands. None of these rooms are supposed to be occupied. She thought, briefly, about reporting the noises to the bellman or the clerk at the front desk but decided against it. They would, no doubt, be cross because of the storm and say she was simply hearing things. No, the only thing to do would be to investigate herself. Gathering up her courage, and a sturdy wooden broom handle, in case courage was not enough, Marcy advanced on the room from which the sounds were emanating. Broom handle at the ready, she slowly turned the knob... only to find the door still locked. It took a moment of fumbling with her keys before she had unlatched the door. On pins and needles, she pushed the door open with the broom handle. "Oh dear. What are you doing here?" At the gentle touch of hands on her shoulders, Rinoa looked up. The past vanished, replaced by an elderly woman. "There now, child. Don't trouble yourself so, the world's not come to an end." Marcy's voice was calm and kindly. At her words, the girl's eyes misted over again and she sniffed. Marcy had the strangest feeling that she had seen this girl before, somewhere. "Now, now. Dry your eyes, my dear, and tell me; what's this all about?" The girl in gray seemed to fight with her emotions for a moment, then dissolved into tears again. Marcy, as she must have done a thousand times before with her own daughters—before they became mothers themselves and (she sighed) 'too old for that'—held her as she cried. "He's gone." Rinoa could barely gasp out the words. She had not shed a single tear since the day he had vanished, and now that the floodgates of her emotions were thrown wide, she felt her heart aching as if it would burst. Perfectly miserable, she cried until she thought she would faint, completely unaware of the world around her. "Oh god... he's really gone." The empty place inside of her seemed to pull at her sides. She felt as if she would collapse inward on herself, so she bore down, squeezing out the waves of sorrow until the fabric beneath her chin was soaked through. Marcy was grateful she still had a fresh towel thrown over one shoulder, for now she placed it across her lap as the girl sobbed inconsolably. After what seemed like an eternity, the sobs wracking the small girl's body subsided. "There, there, my dear, he was never worth a pretty girl like yourself anyway." Marcy spoke quietly but firmly.
Her words sent Rinoa into a new paryoxm of sniffling. "No, no, it's not like that at all." She shook her head, to sorrowful—and a little embarrassed—to look up.
Marcy tried to speak with the wisdom of her sixty-two years. "Oh, gone off to fight, is he?" This time, the girl nodded. "Don't worry then, child, he'll come back." She tried hard to sound like she believed what she was saying.
At last, Rinoa did look up again. "But I don't know where he is. I don't know where to find him." Her deep brown eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted.
The corners of Marcy's mouth crinkled with her reassuring smile. "You will." She nodded sagely. "I know you will." She shifted. "Now let's get up, and get you cleaned up."
Sitting up, Rinoa wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry... I..."
Before she could say anything else, Marcy shooed her toward the bath room. "Don't let it trouble you. Go on. Wash yourself up." Wordlessly, Rinoa complied and the sound of running water soon issued from the sink in the adjoining room. "You can help me finish up here." She spoke loudly so as to be heard over the sound of the faucet as she straightened up the bed. On a whim, she continued. "Then, if you like, you can come home with me. It never hurts to have company during these bitter, stormy, winter nights." It would mean extra work, true, but it had been so long since anyone had been over for more than just a quick visit... and there's something so familiar about this girl...
Rinoa's voice was subdued. "You're very kind." Her hair was a bit tangled, her eyes still red, but they were dry, her words clear with only a touch of a quaver.

So it was that Ms Marcy Colfax had a helper to clean and straighten the last room on the third floor of the Extrêmement Coûteux that evening, albeit a quiet one. Rinoa worked quickly and deftly in silence while Marcy hummed whatever struck her fancy, her thoughts already filled with plans for something of a special dinner. Perhaps I'll fix her one of my girls' favorite dishes... Without even noticing, she began humming to the tune of a popular dancing waltz.
At the sound of the melody, Rinoa froze, her hand flying to her heart. Marcy noticed her sudden stillness and paused. "What's the matter dear?"
"You said I would know where to find him..." Marcy was startled to see a smile on the girl's face as she turned toward her. "...and now I do." Rinoa rushed forward, clasping the startled woman's hands in her own. "I'm sorry I can't stay, but I must go." She stepped back.
Marcy held up a hand. "But, my dear, where will you go? There is a storm and..." suddenly, the thought that had been nagging at her since she had first met the girl bubbled to the surface. I have seen her before! She's...
Rinoa smiled softly as she raised a hand. "Goodbye Marcy." The air before her shimmered. "Thank you for everything!" She exclaimed as she stepped into the rippling air and vanished.
Stunned, Ms Colfax sat down suddenly on the bed. "...the sorceress Rinoa!" Her voice was a silent whisper in a silent room at the end of a silent hallway. Outside, the storm howled in response.

...

The night was old and so bitterly cold that the frost had advanced up the very trunks of the forest's trees. Even the tangled piles of rotting logs, usually wrapped in the warmth of their own decomposition, were rimed with fingers of ice. Overhead, the moon was a gigantic dark disc, itself frosted with just a hint of a cold silver crescent. In so dark a sky, the stars looked down through the brittle air. Each pinprick of light so brilliant that the star shine seemed almost to chime as it rained down upon the snowy fields. At this small hour, not a creature stirred. Even the night hunters were motionless, cocooned in the tiny pockets of warmth captured by their fur and flesh.
Far away, but brought near by the thinness of the winter night's air, the mountains stood in jagged relief. The snows of the high crags and glaciers glittered faintly. Drifts deep as the tallest city buildings, piled up by the howling winds of the storms that swept the rocky range, settled in the absolute stillness of the night lying over the entire island continent of Balamb.
Higher and colder still than the mountains, the blackened and scarred remains of an Estharian military satellite tumbled through the silent spaces between the stars. Over the past few weeks, the feathery touch of the solar wind had gradually pushed the bit of metal and plastic into an elliptical orbit around the planet. As it orbited, the features of the planet passed below in stately progression. For a moment, sunlight glinted off the bit of broken solar panel—reflected from the brilliant white clouds swirling about the coastline of Dollett. A few moments later the terminator passed beneath and the debris sailed into a spectacular orbital sunset as the limb of the planet blocked out the sun. The horizon began to stretch and flatten as the broken satellite neared its orbit perigee. The surface of the solar panel began to warm slightly, as the ethereal upper wisps of the atmosphere brushed against its surface. As it delved deeper into the atmosphere, a nitrogen tank aboard the spacecraft flexed and burst silently, sending its regulator valve plunging toward the planet in a jet of released gas. Boosted by the thrust from the tank, the Satellite continued along it's decaying orbit even as the small bit of metal it had shed was welcomed by the atmosphere's fiery embrace.
Legs dangling over the edge of a broken block of concrete, Rinoa watched the shooting star streak across the sky, holding her breath until it disappeared. She turned, and history painted the scene all over again, just for her.
So intent. She could practically feel the seriousness in his gaze as he stared at her. For some reason she couldn't explain, she felt a thrill race along her bare arms as the young scarred man looked her way. It was automatic; the tilting of her chin, the peaceful smile. She nearly laughed. How had she known that his brows would draw together like that? After turning his head to the side, he frowned and looked away.
And he'll keep looking away. He'll pretend he isn't watching me walk over to him.
The girl in gray hopped lightly down from her perch on one of the shattered blocks of B-Garden's blasted foundation. Beneath her feet, the snow melted away with the memory of a warmer night of dancing and intrigue. "Dance with me?" The girl's voice chimed through the clear air, carrying over the frigid plain. There was no one there to reply, but that was not the time that Rinoa saw.
The girl in gray danced with her memories, sometimes stumbling, sometimes gliding. The air rippled with witchcraft as her feet threaded the steps of a waltz in the brittle air over a bomb crater. A crack like a cannon shot rang out as a slab of cement split to make way for the sorceress while she courted the past.
Rinoa's world spun as she twirled away, and then back again to place her hands, almost—but not quite—against his chest. He was so close her heart stopped, and she could see—in his eyes—that his had as well. Fireworks thundered and he hid his embarrassment by looking toward the sound. For an instant, Rinoa's eyes left his. When she looked back, nothing was there but a splinter of stone.
Suddenly, the sorceress's breath became visible in the sharp air. Rinoa felt the crackle of frost beneath her feet and the bitter bitter cold surrounding her. He was not here either. It was all just a memory.
Clouds of breaths drifted within the crystal goblet of the night as the sorceress's silhouette shivered in the starlight. Rinoa wrapped her arms around herself, fighting back the ice that pricked at the corners of her eyes. The chill became more pervasive as she shook her head. "No...." the ghost of the word condensed before her. "Not here..." Something colder than the icy night gripped her. Are memories all that are left of him? Ice tipped the shuddering breath she drew. Is he really gone? The thought was unbearable. She felt her knees turn to water. Her eyes squeezed shut. "Take me away from this place."
...

Blinding light poured in through the tiny armored view slit. A moment later the interior of the Galbadian tank resounded with the sound of the explosion, followed by the rattling of a hail of steel shrapnel beating against the sides of the war machine. "Damn them!" Landcruiser squad commander, Cale Deom, screamed, sick with helpless rage. The men in number seven had been good people. "Fall back!" He shouted into the headset microphone even as his own tank ground to a halt and then began to back up, treads tearing up the asphalt of the hamlet's main road. "Did anyone see where that rocket came from?" Of course they didn't, everyone's buttoned up. He thought angrily as negative replies crackled in from the three tanks remaining in his squad. Snipers in the town's buildings would be quick to pick off any landcruiser captain foolish enough to open his cupola for a better view. He would to have to order the battered infantry platoon attached to his squad forward to clean out the buildings. "And this is only a goddamn suburb!" Will there be anything left of us by the time we push into Timber City?
Interrupting the commander's reverie, a panicked shout rang out from below. It sounded like Yoshi, the driver. "Enemy tank on the right! Oh Jesus! They're pointing right at us!"
How the hell?! Commander Deom felt a shiver of dread crease his spine. "Gunner! Traverse right! Load SABOT!" He squinted through his viewing slit... There! Sitting in hull defilade, the enemy tank had been concealed behind a pile of rubble that had once been a house. A clang rang out from below as the gunner discarded the loaded high-explosive HEAT round in favor of an armor-piercing shell. Even as Cale watched, he saw blue smoke spurting from a poorly-tuned engine at the rear of the bulky design. We've got a chance! It was a IRT tank—one of the outdated Galbadian models the insurgents had seized when the province declared independence. "Driver! Reverse left tread, forward right! Get us turn—"
The Independent Republic of Timber landcruiser fired. Despite its slow traverse mechanism and the inexperienced crew manning the tank, the shot was dead-on. The lead casing surrounding the core of the round liquefied as it impacted on the side armor of the Galbadian command tank. Excess kinetic energy was channeled into the hardened steel tip of the round, causing it to drill a hole straight through to the inside of the tank. The shaped-charge explosive behind the steel tip unleashed a blast of fire and destruction into the interior of the Galbadian tank. All this happened in the blink of an eye.
"HIT!" Victor Gaborini exclaimed as he watched the hatches on the Galbadian command tank pop open from the force of the explosion. "Great shot!" Smoke poured from the stopped tank. "That's a kill! Two more at one and three o'clock! Get us out of here, Don!" Standing exposed in the cupola, he had to duck back into the hot smoky interior of the old tank to give his crew a chance of hearing his orders. He grimaced as he stood back up. The two other Galbadian tanks' turrets swung toward the retreating IRT landcruiser. Only twenty meters behind them was a ditch deep enough to hide the entire tank from enemy fire. The fallback position had been planned out days ago. Victor had no illusions that they would make it. At least we got two of them.
A shot screamed across the narrow space between the three tanks. Surprisingly, it fell wide of the IRT landcruiser; blowing a gaping hole in the sole remaining wall of a bombed-out and burned post office. The other Galbadian tank did not miss.
...

Rinoa stared up at the thin fleece of white clouds backlit by the enormous moon. They seemed to create a thousand-foot-high ceiling to the cathedral of the outdoors. Beside her, she could sense that Squall was still asleep beside her. Closing her eyes, she let the feeling of peace envelope her. This was home, this was where she belonged. Timber had won its freedom, her knight was beside her. As the sounds of the ongoing victory celebration in the demolished railroad station drifted on the night air, she slipped into a peaceful rest.
But something was amiss. Something was tugging her back to wakefulness. Someone wanted her to return to the present.
"Rinoa! Holy cow! Rinoa!" Zone couldn't believe his eyes. One moment, he had been crouched behind a pile of fallen bricks and wondering where Zone had gone, and the next, he had found himself staring at the gray-clad girl that had suddenly appeared, lying in the broken bowl of the fountain in the middle of the square. He had almost stood up, so great was his astonishment, but another bullet ricocheting from the rubble inches above his head had put an end to that notion. The last Galbadian push into Timber had been repulsed, but dozens of sappers—from both sides—still sniped at anything and everything that moved in the streets of the battered city. And now Rinoa was sitting out in the open, unprotected, almost appearing to be taking a nap. "Rinoa! Wake up!"
Abruptly, what had previously appeared to be a pile of discarded clothing hopped up, and sprinted in a zigzag pattern toward the fountain. Zone felt his stomach drop as he realized what Watts was trying to accomplish. "No!" He dared not speak above a whisper, and even as he said the word, a shot rang out. Even as Watts staggered and fell, Zone leapt up. "NO!!" This time he screamed it. The pistol he was carrying roared and bucked in his hand as he sprinted for the fountain, firing wildly at the unseen sniper.

The scream, at last, drew Rinoa back to the a present that was too confusing to comprehend. Someone—"Zone?" Rinoa tilted her head to the side—was sprinting toward her. In his hand, so uncharacteristic of how she remembered her friend, a firearm barked as he fired at something. What's going on? She was about to ask her friend the very same question, but suddenly he pitched backwards as a bullet struck him. Rinoa was too confused to be horrified. "That's not right." She turned her head.
The Galbadian sniper was sure the girl was looking right at him. Even as he centered the cross-hairs of the rifle's scope on her forehead, he could feel her eyes boring into him. She had the strangest expression of puzzlement on her face. His finger tightened on the trigger. Brought close by the telescopic sight, her lips whispered to him. "Stop."
Time obeyed. In fact, not only did time stand still, but—like a rewinding video—it ran backwards for the sorceress.
...
A panicked shout rang out from below. It sounded like Yoshi, the driver. "Enemy tank on the right! Oh Jesus! They're pointing right at us!"
How the hell?! Commander Deom felt a shiver of dread crease his spine. "Gunner! Traverse right! Load SABOT!" He squinted through his viewing slit... There! Sitting in hull defilade, the enemy tank had been concealed behind a pile of rubble that had once been a house. A clang rang out from below as the gunner discarded the loaded high-explosive HEAT round in favor of an armor-piercing shell. Even as Cale watched, he saw blue smoke spurting from a poorly-tuned engine at the rear of the bulky design. We've got a chance! It was a IRT tank—one of the outdated Galbadian models the insurgents had seized when the province declared independence. "Driver! Reverse left tread, forward right! Get us turned, now!"
Dirt and asphalt fountained from beneath the tanks treads as it rotated to face the new threat. "Target! Firing!" The gunner shouted.
Commander Deom didn't bother plugging his ears this time. He was still trying to figure out why the IRT tank hand not fired. They can't be that slow.
CLANK!! The noise of the firing hammer slamming into the chambered shell echoed through the inside of the landcruiser. "Holy shit! It's a dud!" The gunner screamed in panic.
"Load another one, Hyne damn you!" Commander Deom would have muttered a prayer, but he was sure he wouldn't have time to finish. "Driver, full reverse! Get us moving!"
The silence that filled the tank was so complete that Cale thought they might have taken a hit. Then Yoshi shouted: "The engine's dead!!"
CLANK!! Again, the firing hammer made contact with a shell, but the round failed to ignite.
"Bail out! Everyone out now!" Commander Deom screamed, popping the hatch over his head. He harbored no hope of clearing his incapacitated vehicle before the IRT tank destroyed it, but to his surprise, he made it out onto the top of the turret without being killed. Even more surprising, no sniper rounds snuffed him out, nor did any flutter overhead. In fact, not a single sound of combat could be heard as he dropped to the ground.
Yoshi, the driver, was right ahead of him, sprinting away from the tank and—at the same time—trying to keep low. Gradually, his sprint slowed to a run, then to a walk, then he straightened. "What are you doing!? Keep going!" Cale shouted.
"Look" The driver pointed.
Across the piles of low rubble that stood between the two tanks, the crew of the IRT tank was standing fully exposed beside their vehicle. One man, who had been pointing a sidearm at the Galbadians threw down his weapon in disgust. Cale fumbled for his own pistol, but Yoshi's words stopped him. "I don't think it will work either, Commander."
What in the world? Commander Cale Deom couldn't figure out what to do next. As he stood in the middle of the blasted street, staring at his IRT counterparts, a few men drifted up behind him. Vaguely, he realized that they were the crew of the other two tanks remaining in his squad.
The silence left by the departed noises of war was deafening. The sound of shuffling feet was loud as gunfire.
"So... what now, Commander?" One of the men ventured, ducking his head slightly at the volume of his own words.
"I don't..." Then the answer came to him.
Go home.
It was almost a compulsion. He struggled against the feeling. He had duty to attend to. "We should..."
Go home.
Suddenly, a vision of Deborah, his wife, appeared. He shook his head, trying to clear it. "What...?" A pang of something so strong it brought tears to his eyes swept him. "I wish I could..."
Go home.
Spreading his hands, he turned to his men. "We can't..." But they were already gone. All that were left of them were footprints in the dust of war that coated the road. All the steps lead...
Home.
Duty had to be performed, there was honor to uphold. Cale turned back around, but the crew of the IRT tank was nowhere to be seen. He stood swaying, held to the spot. A moment later, he too, was gone. The street was silent and empty, with no one left to fight.

... The sniper smiled. He knew it! That wasn't just a pile of rags! He drew a bead on the running man and squeezed the trigger. The firing pin made contact with the shell, and nothing happened. Cursing, the sniper worked the bolt, ejecting the dud and loading a new round. The camouflaged rebel was almost to the scant cover offered by the fountain. He pulled the trigger. Again, his rifle clicked as the round failed. "Shit!" His whisper was quiet and angry. The dead round clinked as it hit the floor and the sniper chambered a third round. Using the sight on the rifle, he scanned the fountain... and froze. A girl, dressed in gray, was staring right at him. Where did she come from?! Though she was across the square, the sniper heard her words as clearly as if she had been standing right next to him. "Go home." He held his breath. She continued to stare at him. Impossible, there's no way she can see me. Still, she continued to look at him through the scope, waiting. Without really realizing it, the sniper released his grip on the rifle. It fell from the second story window, hitting the cobblestones below with a muted clatter. Zone watched the sniper stand up, and then walk away, with disbelief. Slowly, he too stood, holstering the revolver he carried. All across Timber, an unbroken silence reigned. It was into this cathedral silence that Zone whispered. "...Rinoa?"



...
Tick...tick...tick... It was a gold-rimmed clock face, set into a large, remarkably clear, quartz crystal. Two black hands inlaid with patterns of gold denoted the hour and the minute. A slender finger of silver traced out the seconds, slowly stepping around each minute. Every day, Delphi Matchgar spent a little more time staring at it. He was beginning to feel as though the ornamental timepiece was marking the seconds he had left. The recent series of events had not instilled in the former Secret Police Chief any confidence that he could hold on to the country he now controlled. President Matchgar, like President Deling, was a president in name only. Though he had purged the most vocal of his opponents and used the military might at his command to crush any dissenters, he was well aware of the fact that the longevity of his rule was directly proportional to the strength of his armed forces. That strength was now faltering. Gone were the glorious early days after his coup. He had laid his plans so perfectly then. Caraway was under his control—set to be executed once he had signed the necessary documents, those in the military loyal to him had been sent to the far corners of the empire. With the help of the Sorceress Sera and her associate, Caraway's daughter and that other hero of the nebulous conflict they were now calling "The Second Sorceress War" had been set up to be discredited and then assassinated by SeeD mercenaries—or at least it would have appeared that way. Though the assassinations had failed—one of a few minor sticking points of those early days when his forces swept him to power—he had thought his military and the sorceress could keep Caraway's daughter from staging any further insurrection. He had made it explicitly clear that he would not tolerate another fiasco like the one she had created during Timber's bid for independence. The Sorceress Sera and her associate—the man from the future possessing General Caraway's body—had assured him that they could control the young witch. Matchgar cursed as he thought of the resources poured into that venture; the funds to dust off a launch vehicle for the lunar mission, the military operation to chase after Caraway's daughter and Squall Leonhart, the submarines pulled from patrol duties to mount an assault on the Estharian carrier group that had pulled them to safety. What did he have to show for all that? The lunar mission had stopped transmitting after reporting an attack by some strange form of monster. The return vehicle was still parked in a useless lunar orbit, waiting for a shuttle most likely destroyed months ago. The mechanized infantry he had sent into the mountains after the sorceress and knight had been ravaged by rebels in the foothills, the sever winter weather that had descended upon the mountains themselves, and then the Estharian holding action along the coast. In the end, Caraway's daughter had escaped and the forces he had sent chasing after them returned broken and demoralized. The only successful operation had been the naval battle between the Estharian carrier group and his own forces. Every Estharian vessel had been sunk and he had hoped, for a time, that the sorceress had been eliminated. The recent events in Timber dispelled that hope. The sorceress Sera had not been heard from since she requisitioned a yacht and a helicopter. The man from the future disappeared after commandeering a submarine on coastal patrol. Matchgar could only assume they had either both been killed or had fled forever. In truth, Matchgar was almost relieved. A lifetime in the Secret Police had taught him to recognize the games within games that people played, and he had no doubt that the Sorceress Sera and the man from the future posed just as great a danger to himself as did Caraway and his daughter. Damnation! He slammed a fist down on top of a pile of reports denoting troop movements near Galbadia's southern border. If all had occurred as he had planned, he would not be required to worry about either Caraway or his daughter. As it stood, both remained major concerns. The fact that a single SeeD could compromise his highest-security facility and play havoc with his carefully laid plans galled him to no end. Matchgar had already issued orders to eliminate Zell Dincht and his family, but his core group of Secret Police assassins was now in disarray. He no longer had the time to manage every detail of the death squads, and he dared not appoint a successor to the position of Secret Police Chief, lest he suffer the same sort of coup as he had wrought. Of course, had the antics of the Sorceress Sera not caused him to siphon off so many of his available resources, he might not have been worrying about SeeD at all. As it was, troop shortages forced him to pull his marines occupying Balamb Garden off to more important duties, allowing the reversal of his brilliant invasion of B-Garden by a SeeD counterattack. Placing his head in his hands, Delphi Matchgar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the massive desk. There were simply too many factors at play. Galbadia Garden had been retaken by the rebels under the command of General Caraway and its current whereabouts were unknown. All of his offensive thrusts, attempts to subjugate the rebellious southern provinces had been turned back by stiff resistance—orchestrated, no doubt, by Caraway himself. The Lunatic Pandora had been lost, destroyed by some spectacular form of new weapon the damned Estharians had constructed. President Matchgar had hoped that a second Lunar Cry might knock the Estharians out of the war for good, instead, he had only managed to strengthen their resolve to fight. His navy was now pulling back to defend essential ports along the Galbadian coast from the Estharian counterattack. Matchgar could only pray that the technocrats from across the ocean wouldn't attempt to use a second nuclear device on the Galbadian homeland. His own engineers were working feverishly to duplicate the new weapon, but no matter how many examples he made, by executing those who worked too slowly, his scientists continued to tell him that it would be at least three, maybe as many as five, years before Galbadia could hope to field a nuclear weapon of its own. "And now, this!" Matchgar could barely contain his rage. At thirteen hundred hours—Deling daylight savings time—yesterday, every piece of military hardware in, over, and around Timber had suddenly ceased to function. As if that were not bad enough, after their weapons ceased to work, entire divisions had simply melted away from the frontlines—walking back to Galbadia. Some reported in to command posts at fallback positions, but enormous numbers simply disappeared. It was the largest single mass desertation in the history of Galbadia, and probably the history of the world. There was no doubt in President Matchgar's mind that the event was the work of the Sorceress Rinoa. Apparently, the weapons of the resistance fighters had ceased to function as well, but with so much hardware left inside of Timber's territory, there could be no doubt that the insurgents would take advantage of the involuntary cease-fire to capture massive quantities of abandoned arms. If the guns ever worked again in Timber, the advantage would go overwhelmingly to the resistance fighters. Despite the seemingly endless bad news, a few hopeful notes had come through. His operatives in Esthar successfully destroyed Dr. Odine's laboratory and the researcher himself. The sorceress, Edea Kramer—former ruler of Galbadia—had been killed in the invasion of B-Garden, though most of the mercenaries had escaped, rumors abounded that her husband, Cid Kramer—leader of SeeD—was dead as well. Now, Matchgar decided, was the time for another powerful symbolic victory. Though he had purged anyone with any power from his government, there were still dangerous rumblings, brought about by the spate of recent defeats. He needed another high-profile success, like the capture of Balamb Garden, to garner support in the Secret Police forces running the country for the next round of murders that would be necessary to maintain his power. Fortunately, he had been planning just such an operation for quite some time. He glanced at the clock a second time and nodded. He had kept the man waiting long enough for there to be no doubt about who held the power. President Matchgar depressed a button on his intercom. "Patricia, send mister Samuelson in." He turned his high-backed chair toward the presidential office's large window. After a moment, the doors to the office opened, admitting a stocky, slightly balding man. Though he appeared to be middle-aged, the man exuded a sense of controlled power. His movements were smooth and effortless. The man was not large, but something about him gave the impression that he could break bones as easily as toothpicks. After entering, the man stopped before the desk, standing at ease and facing the back of the chair, waiting to be recognized, but not willing to make the gesture of asking for attention. Something of a silent contest of wills ensued; Matchgar pretending not to notice the newcomer, and the man waiting to be acknowledged. Eventually, the president could pretend to contemplate the scenery no longer. "Tell me, Gregory, are your men assembled?" "Mister President, they are at the heliport now. We can be in the air in five minutes." The man's sentences were uttered with a clipped precision. Slowly, Delphi Matchgar allowed his chair to rotate until he was facing special agent Gregory Samuelson. "And have you collected the equipment you will require?" He gazed unblinkingly into Agent Samuelson's eyes. Gregory met the soulless gaze unflinchingly. "The last of the tools smuggled in from Esthar were checked out last week. It is all genuine Odine brand material." He paused. "If anything can penetrate the sorceress's magic, it is this equipment." "Are you and your men prepared to use it?" Delphi Matchgar allowed his eyebrow to raise a fraction of an inch. "We are all prepared to do anything necessary for the greater glory of the Galbadian Empire, mister President." Agent Samuelson's reply was chilly. A long silence fell. President Matchgar let it fester. Let him sweat a little. Let him know that he cannot play these games with me. You may be good, Mister Samuelson, but I am the master of this domain. In his mind, Special Agent Samuelson was already a dead man. A dusting of poison in his drink, a needle concealed in a handshake, even a bomb under his bed—if it came to that—for Gregory Samuelson was far to dangerous to be allowed to live once he completed his mission. At long last, President Matchgar spoke. "Very well then. Deploy your men. You know where to start your search." Woodenly, Special Agent Samuelson saluted. "Yes, Mister President."
...
"Bless your heart, Child, this is the second time you've saved Timber." Ferrin Sosare bustled about the steamy kitchen, her activities belying the fact that she was actually the leader of a small nation, and not just a grandmotherly figure. "I don't know how we're ever going to repay you." Despite the brief smiling glances she sent Rinoa's way, despite her compassionate manner, the elderly woman was using her activities in the kitchen to hide something; she was just the slightest bit uncomfortable. No, that wasn't all. In truth, she was almost a little afraid of the silent girl in gray standing at the door to her battered—but still standing—home. "I wish that we could sit down to a nice dinner and chat for a while, my dear, but I'm afraid the troops have to be fed." Hauling a large wooden spoon out of a truly massive cauldron of steaming broth, she banged the utensil on the rim of the pot. "But make yourself at home, child. I'll serve you up supper as soon as it's ready. Flanking Rinoa, Zone and Watts traded uncomfortable glances. "Prelate Sosare, perhaps I could find someone else to take over here?" Watts ventured. Shaking the wooden spoon at him, Ferrin made her next point quite clear. "Oh no, boyo! Not in MY kitchen!" She waved a hand over her shoulder as she pulled the squeaky stove door open. "I'll put up with your grand-high- whatsit business only as long as it doesn't interfere with my cooking." She paused to wipe her brow. "I may have been elected into this Prelate nonsense, or whatever, but that doesn't mean I can't quit whenever I want." Zone leaned over to whisper in Rinoa's ear. "Sir, she's been going like this since the fighting started. I don't know how she does it. Between strategic meetings and feeding a better part of the army... I don't think she's slept in days." Rinoa nodded distantly. She glided forward, placing a hand on the aging woman's shoulder, she spoke softly. "Please sit down, Ms Sosare." Ferrin avoided Rinoa's eyes. "Oh dearie, please excuse my rudeness, I just can't leave all this—half of it will boil over if I take my eyes off it, and the rest will burn." She gasped slightly as she suddenly found herself seated at the table facing the sorceress. A shock of eerie discomfort flitted through her chest. "Oh, my pots!" She began to rise. Rinoa held up a hand. "They will take care of themselves. I've seen to it. Please, Ms Sosare..." "Dear, stop with all this 'Miz Sosare' business. You can still call me Ferrin, child!" Even as she tried to make the words as friendly as possible, she felt her own insincerity. Yes, it was still dear little Rinoa sitting there across from her, but something had changed within the girl. Ferrin had endured invasion, famine, war, and nearly every pestilence on the face of the world, but never had she come so close to such powerful witchcraft. It did something she had long thought impossible; it frightened her. "Ferrin, please, I can't stay long." Rinoa's voice was soft, but clear. "Listen to me; you have to slow down. You can't keep this up." She sees something. The leader of the Independent Republic of Timber immediately thought. She can see into the future. Rinoa smiled sadly as she shook her head. "It's not what you think, Ferrin. It's just that, I can see the strain you are putting on yourself. Everyone around you can see it too. You have to listen to us. You have to take it easier. Timber needs you." Slowly, Ferrin sank back into her chair. "I know, dear. I know." She sighed. "But, Rinoa, my boys and girls are getting killed out there," she waved a hand tiredly toward the door, "every day. Shouldn't I, we—those that send them out to die—give just as much?" Rinoa leaned forward, placing her hands over Ferrin's. The prelate was shocked at how cold they felt. "Ferrin, you've given your entire life to give them freedom." Rinoa shook her head. "No one can fault you that." The revolutionary leader's eyes dropped. She was silent for a moment before speaking. "Except me, child. Except me." Slowly, Rinoa reached over to embrace the older woman. "I'm sorry. When I started, I never knew it would be this hard." Fighting back the tears that had suddenly sprung to her eyes, Ferrin whispered as he hugged the slender sorceress. "I did." The poor girl still felt distant, but Ferrin no longer harbored any fear of the sorceress Rinoa. "Thank you for this little peace you've given us, dear." Sincerity strengthened Rinoa's voice. "I only wish I could do more." A sad smile creased Ferrin's features as she leaned back. "Don't feel bad, child, I know why you can't stay." She nodded. "You go. Go find him." Rinoa swallowed and had to avert her eyes. "I'll try." Her voice was almost a whisper. Standing, she turned to face her two oldest comrades—still her friends, no matter where their allegiance had once lain. "Sir...?" Zone began to speak. He nearly said: 'are you sure you can't stay?' Of course she's sure she can't stay. Saying that will only make things worse. He bit his tongue and accepted the sorceress's brief hug. "Zone, Watts. I'm going to miss you guys." Rinoa stepped back. "You take care of Ferrin now." "Don't worry about us." Watts tried not to sound to unhappy. "We'll see you later." Rinoa nodded wordlessly, and stared at the floor. With one hand, she traced a small oval in the air. Inside the line drawn by her finger, the air began to ripple and shimmer. Rinoa looked up, offering one last sad smile, then she stepped through the portal and was gone.
...
It was the hour of nervous awakenings. The slightest noise in the rooms of light sleepers could send them into a waking panic. They would sit bolt upright in their beds, wondering if that had been a knock at the door. Or was someone picking the lock? The clock on the wall would tell them to go back to bed, and with trepidation, the would, only to sit back up as the sound of boots crunching on the dirty snows of Deling's late winter passed beneath their windows. Hearts pounding, the wakening souls would wait for the thunderous knocking on their door. Only after they could not stand to hold their breath any longer would they let out a breathless gasp. Eventually, they would dare to inhale again. Only after the clock marked another few minutes would the fear subside; they would not be among those included in tonight's purges. Throwing pillows over their heads—as if to hide from the world outside—they would spend the few hours left before dawn trying in vain to capture a few more precious minutes of sleep. Beneath the arch, a single unbroken bulb cast a pale glow over the crusted piles of grimy ice pushed up by the passage of the snowplows. Compacted by the tramp of hundreds of feet, the miniature glacier sat locked to the pavement by it's own melt water—frozen back into ice by the night's chill. The heel of the girl's boot brushed against the pile of snow, and came away dirty. Rinoa failed to notice. Instead, she traced out the scrawl of graffiti with her eyes, her lips marking the name as she read it. "Caraway." A puff of breath hung in the still air. To speak that name now in Deling was dangerous. To write it, deadly. Rinoa slowly turned. For a moment, her eyes lingered on the pathway through the grassy mall, back to the old mansion where her father had once lived. A flood of memories waited there, but like the stream that ran across the mall, they were frozen by something much more important—something as sure and inexorable as the turning of the seasons. The sorceress's eyes traveled to the front gates of the presidential mansion. President Delphi Matchgar rolled over again, then finally gave up his battle with wakefulness. Three times during the night he had been sure he heard footsteps approaching from the hall outside the room. Three times, he had pulled the pistol from beneath his pillow and waited silently behind the doors. Three times, nothing had happened. Lowering the weapon, he sighed and rubbed at his grainy eyes. I need the sorceress dead, and I need it soon! He wasn't sure how many more days he could keep up his current state of watchfulness. He had been forced to rotate the mansion guards twice in the last week alone. He had seen the looks they had given him, the whispered conversations when they thought his back was turned. Someone was plotting something against him, and they seemed able to get to his guards—randomly pulled from assignments with the Galbadian military—as quickly as he could cycle in new ones. But it is all worth it! Matchgar smiled to himself as he walked to the window. Throwing back the heavy curtains, he gazed out across the glowing cityscape of nighttime Deling. The man's icy stare blended perfectly with the cold radiating from the giant panes of bulletproof glass. Everything I see before me... if I were to climb to the top of this mansion—to the top of the highest building in Deling, I could turn a full circle. Everything that I could see, and a hundred miles beyond that; it's all mine. He had spent his entire life attaining this position, he'd be damned if he would let a handful of insurrectionists take it from him! Slowly, Delphi Matchgar let his gaze drift, from the sparkling spires of the downtown skyscrapers in the distance, to the snow-covered mall and its scattering of monuments to the greatness of his Galbadia. Suddenly, President Matchgar froze. Impossible! Normally expressionless, his mouth dropped open in a silent gasp of horror. Impossible! The word kept repeating over and over again in his mind. He stifled an impulse to rub his eyes and blink at the apparition standing beneath the dim lights illuminating the gateway monument—some primal instinct told him to remain motionless in the hope that she would not see him. She sighed. The walls around the presidential mansion were topped with twisted razor wire. Piled around the base of the massive gates, sandbags provided cover for the guards manning two heavy machine guns. The smooth snow cover lying atop the great circle of pavement before the mansion was wrinkled and marred by crusty drifts that wrapped around the giant iron tank jacks, concrete barriers, and more razor wire. If she closed her eyes, the sorceress could feel whispers of the pain and sorrow the civil war was bringing to the peoples of the Galbadian continent. The silent pain of the sleeping cities mingled with her own sense of loss but could not dilute it. Only for an instant did she allow the thought to cross her mind. Give up. He's not coming back. Stop searching, help your people. Rinoa shook her head. Without him, she could no longer care about the plight of Galbadia, Timber, or anyone. Selfish as it might be, she would not be distracted from her quest. Except... Something—a flicker of intuition—caught the sorceress's eye. Looking up, her gaze traced over the reinforced gates of the presidential mansion, up over the balconies with gilded rails, and to a window at the top floor where it met with the stare of... a murderer. The flashes of memory—not all of them her own—struck at her heart like the stab of a dagger.
... "Oh God...!" The man turned away, stumbled away, the tears of loss that had been held back by that last, tenuous, hope that it might not be her; that someone was mistaken, broke free at last. The wall before him swam in an ocean of pain that seemed ready to drown his heart. His hand grasped the cold cinderblock, but its support gave him no comfort. He had thought he was hardened. He had seen the bodies of comrades, friends blackened and disfigured by the horrors of war. He had written the letters of condolence, so many that he was sure no sorrow could remain in him. He had faced death, and seen the worst ways in which it came. He had thought he was strong. He was mistaken. For never before, and never in his darkest nightmares, had he ever imagined it could happen to her. And still, the coroner stood, dispassionately gazing down at the battered shell of his love. No! "Get away from her!" His voice was a low growl, tearing at the back of his throat. No one will see her like this! "So, General, you can identify the body?" The examiner's voice was cool. Don't call her—don't look—don't be! In a flash, Caraway was across the room, his sidearm appeared in his hand. The medical examiner did not even have time to cry out before the general struck him across the face with the weapon. Richard Caraway swayed as rage and pain vied for control. He wanted to kill the man lying on the floor before him. He wanted to kill Deling. But the pain would go away fastest if he... Slowly, Caraway turned the pistol toward himself. He could stare down into the muzzle of the weapon, but his eyes dared not stray to the form lying on the table beside him. Closing his burning eyes, he pressed the weapon hard against his temple. But he could not pull the trigger. A single thought intruded on the heartache he so desperately wanted to escape. Rinoa... And Richard Caraway knew, no matter how he longed to, he could not succumb to his cowardice. No matter how afraid he was of a life without ...her..., he could not leave his daughter behind. "Oh God, Julia!"
... The world swam in a pink haze before her eyes. She could barely breathe, something was pressing into her chest, and the air smelled strongly of fuel and hot metal. She coughed weakly. What happened? Where am I? Slowly, she realized she was staring at the dashboard of a car, no—it was her car, but something was wrong. There was glass everywhere and the smooth plastic of the automobile's interior was wrinkled and torn. She tried to move, but the steering wheel—shoved forward by the force of the collision—pinned her to the seat. The door had crushed around her left arm and a searing pain shot up from her legs—trapped beneath the crumpled dashboard. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard the slam of a door, and footsteps crunching on the gravel shoulder of the road. As she looked up, her eyes squinted against the sun and the lancing fire from a huge bruise that was forming where her forehead had hit the rim of the steering wheel. A shadow blocked out the sun. Shards of glass fell from her hair as she reached out toward the dark figure. "Help me."
... He glanced down dispassionately at the woman as he drew the silenced revolver. Behind him the troop transport sat at the side of the road, its forward contact guard dented, scratched, and streaked with the paint of the woman's car. In the silence after the collision, it muttered quietly. Before him, the demolished engine of the small automobile hissed as a last burst of steam escaped the mauled radiator. Through the broken windshield, the bloodied arm of Julia Caraway reached out toward him. She said something, but he was not listening. What she said made no difference to him. She was nothing more than one more stepping-stone on his way to greatness. He leveled his weapon. He waited just one second—for that look of horrified recognition, for the widening of the eyes, signaling that she knew that he was in control, that he was about to end her life. He pulled the trigger ever as the thrill her terror gave him raced down Delphi Matchgar's spine.
... Rinoa's eyes snapped open. The emotions coursing through her were indescribable. Whether it had been her imagination, or a true glimpse into the past, what the sorceress had just experienced defied all categorization, all rationalization. She was lost again in the terror of her past. The same horrible mix of sorrow, confusion, and pain she had experienced—during the silent somberness of the rapid funeral; then while weeping outside the locked door to her parents', now just her father's, room; and at last on the long lonely train ride to Timber where she had finally found some comfort in her grandparents' arms. She had managed to lose herself there, in Timber, to hide her hurt and let it slowly turn to resentment, to anger, and to the tireless energy she would eventually tap to fight for that nation's independence. When she was a little girl, it had taken weeks for the sorrow and confusion to turn. Tonight, in the smallest hours of the Deling morning, the pain of the Sorceress Rinoa flared into anger with the blink of an eye. She took one step toward the presidential mansion. Beneath her feet, the compounded layers of snow and ice melted away, afraid of the touch of the sorceress's hatred. "Samuelson! Where the hell are you?!" Crouched behind the curtain, President Delphi Matchgar hissed into satellite phone. "She's here!" The volume of the voice that erupted from the speaker made Matchgar cringe. "Mister President, we know. We are currently in the air over downtown. Odine's detectors indicated she was somewhere in the city a little less than an hour ago." "No, damn you! She's right here! In the middle of memorial mall!!" Matchgar risked a glance around the corner of the heavy curtain. He gasped and pulled his head back. "Shit! She's seen me!" The voice crackling over the phone sounded confused. "Sir?" "Damn you, Samuelson! Get your men to the Presidential Mansion right now!" President Matchgar was amazed to find that his hands were shaking. "You must stop her! All of Galbadia is counting on you!" In truth, most of Galbadia might not be so disappointed if the sorceress turned the Presidential Mansion into a pile of smoldering rubble—as long as she got Delphi Matchgar as well, but the President was not about to admit as much. Private Cory Malberger yawned and stretched, then immediately wished he had not. As he extended his limbs away from his body, the frigid night air seemed to suck away what little warmth he had managed to keep trapped with his too-thin winter fatigues. Grumbling, he kicked at the recalcitrant heater. As uncomfortable as he was, however, Cory could not be too critical of his post. Guard duty in the heart of Deling beat getting shot at on the frontlines any day—no matter what the temperature. Blinking, he squinted out across the dull snow, toward the gateway. He frowned at what he saw, and rubbed his eyes. When the scene did not change, Private Malberger reached the conclusion that someone really was crazy enough to brave the cold out there, and they were walking this way. He reached for his radio. "Zone one. Are we expecting any visitors?" He released the transmit button and waited for a reply. None was forthcoming. "Zone one, anyone awake up th—." Suddenly, the calm of the night was broken by a tremendous SPANG! The guard watched in amazement as one of the five-ton tank jacks leapt into the air—seemingly of its own volition—and then fell back to earth, tearing up chunks of concrete and making an incredible racket as it cartwheeled across the street. A moment later, another of the giant iron jacks erupted—like a kernel of popcorn—and tumbled aside as a dark figure approached the gate of the Presidential Mansion. "Who goes there!?" The shout rang out from the machine-gun nest situated opposite Cory's. A muted whining filled the air. Seconds later, Private Malberger saw the other guard dive over the wall of sandbags around the gun. Immediately, a green flash erupted behind the fleeing figure. Sand, boards, dirt and metal fountained toward the dim morning stars. "Fuck this!" Cory hesitated only long enough to grab the walkie-talkie sitting next to the heater before vaulting over the sandbag barricade and sprinting away from his post. He threw himself facedown into the crusty snow moments before an explosion eliminated his guard post. Once the rain of debris ceased, Cory rolled over, looking back toward the gate. A diminutive girl, dressed all in gray, was walking slowly but determinedly toward the mansion. Her expression was grim, but that was not what caught the private's attention. His gaze locked to the girl's eyes, pupil-less and seeming almost to glow with flat amber light. Before her, a concrete barricade cracked, then crumbled to dust, the barbed wire topping it melting into golden-red streams of molten metal. Cory's firearm pressed against his side, but he did not dare—even for an instant—to consider drawing it. The sorceress reached the massive iron gates of the mansion even as shouts rang out from the grounds inside. She raised one small hand as if to knock. With a crack that shook the windows of the mansion, the two enormous gates tore free, taking a ten-foot section of the wall with them. Inside the mansion's grounds, the twenty-foot tall doors crashed to the ground, raising a cloud of concrete dust. It is amazing how different everything looks from the air. Despite the heavy parka, the wind howling in through the chopper's open door chilled Special Agent Gregory Samuelson to the core. Beneath him, the snow-covered grounds of Deling's monument mall spun, adding to his sense of disorientation. He had walked through the grounds below countless times, and flown over them on other occasions as well, but now he was performing a tactical operation from the air. That changed everything. Agent Samuelson had served in the Galbadian Secret Police long enough to automatically identify every good sniping position, to check for good fields of fire and low-profile, minimum-exposure hideouts. However, he was new to airborne operations, and hovering out in the open, aboard a noisy obtrusive helicopter, cut against the grain of his experience. "I'm bringing us in over the front gate. Get ready, sir." The voice of the helicopter pilot over his headphones was barely audible in the rush of wind and beating of the chopper's blade coming in through the open door. Gregory shook his head, trying to reorient himself. Beneath him, The Deling Gateway was a large block surrounded by yellow sulfur floodlights rather than the sturdy arch he was used to seeing. The chopper swung sideways as the pilot slewed the aircraft parallel with the front wall of the Presidential Mansion. The machine descended, and the features of the monuments around the mall took on their more familiar faces. There. Former Galbadian General, Richard Caraway's mansion's spires provided him a reference as he looked left. Gregory then shifted his gaze forward. Now he could recognize the barricades and wire thrown across the road outside the presidential mansion. A straight finger of black—for a moment, he mistook it for open water—threw him off for a moment, until he realized that some of the snow covering the road had melted and what he was seeing was bare pavement. The line melted into the snow sliced through the barriers and entanglements, between the demolished gates of the mansion, and ended inside the mansion's grounds. Standing at the end of the thread of blacktop was a figure dressed in gray. Agent Samuelson raised the rifle. A round was already chambered. That must be the sorceress. The helicopter continued to crab toward the mansion, the downwash from its blades kicking up miniature tornadoes of ice pellets. Agent Samuelson peered through the scope on the rifle. For a moment, all he saw was blank wall, then, he corrected his aim and a head of dark hair—blowing in the helicopter-driven wind—came into view. Yes, that's her. There was no hesitation, no moment of drama. He simply pulled the trigger. The rifle kicked against his shoulder as the magical round winged toward its target. She did feel the wind from the helicopter, she did hear its approach. She simply chose to ignore these things—just as she chose not to listen to the shouts of guards running along the walls of the mansion, or the ringing of alarms around the grounds. Rinoa was completely focused on a single goal; killing Delphi Matchgar. She could see him. She could sense his mind—see him hiding behind the wall and curtains, as if they were as transparent as air. She could even see his thoughts, probe his memories. So she did. Ignoring all else, she looked for one single remembrance; she had to be sure. The gun fell from President Matchgar's nerveless fingers. She sees me... Behind the curtain, he sank to his knees. She knows where I am... Abruptly, a memory flashed to the surface of his consciousness. It was nothing, meaningless. Just another one of a thousand assassinations performed long ago, yet he couldn't banish it. What is this? The memory of killing that woman—he didn't remember who she had been—kept playing and replaying itself. You. Who said that? "Wha...?" He couldn't form words, his mind rebelled against him. A single thought managed to force its way to his lips. "The sorceress!" Suddenly, it became so important that he had not known her name, or anything about that woman he had assassinated. Another of his own thoughts died before it could form words. "Aauugh!" His hands dug into his scalp. Get out of my mind!! "...gerrr ouuu..." He focused on her face, on the streams of blood that had run into her pleading eyes. A snap of recognition, not his own, jolted his brain and he heard an anguished cry. "GERR OUUT OF MAAE M-M-MII—" Blackness descended before he could finish. The darkness lifted, and he was himself again. The full weight of his terror was unmitigated by anyone, for the sorceress was there—before him—eyes glowing amber, hand upraised. Sobbing in silence, Rinoa wrenched him from his hiding place. Overhead, the sky rumbled with impossible winter thunder as she held this vile thing suspended in the air before her. He could not even remember her mother's name, just as he had he had discarded the names—the lives—of thousands of others, all in the indulgence of his own lust for power. She couldn't stand him, she couldn't even stand to touch him through witchcraft. I would give anything so that you would never have existed. Instead, she would do the next best thing. The sorceress raised a hand. Even as she gathered it, she recoiled at the power she would use. Did all this really come from Hyne? Is that why it is so hard to save life, but so very easy to kill? She shivered, but the memory of what this thing hanging before her had done drove the thoughts from her mind. Something sparked at the edge of her vision and she turned her head for an instant. The bullet whined by, so close she could feel the shock of its passing. Agent Samuelson cursed and re-sighted. "Hold it steady, goddamn it!" He shouted into his microphone. As he squeezed the trigger, the helicopter dropped again, the jolt sending the round wide of the sorceress. The smoking semi-automatic rifle cartridge hit the floor of the chopper, silent in the hailstorm of noise. Gregory sighted again. Only three enchanted rounds remained in the clip. Behind her, Delphi Matchgar landed on the snowy ground with a thud as Rinoa's attention turned to the helicopter hovering less than two hundred yards away. No sooner had his feet hit the ground, than the President was scrambling madly away from the sorceress. Without looking, Rinoa pointed her left hand at him, her sorcery holding him frozen in place. Without thinking, she made a sweeping gesture toward the chopper. "Begone!" Lightning lanced through the clear sky overhead even as a bolt of electricity sprung from the ground. The two brilliant channels of electrical power converged on the flying machine, and the helicopter disappeared in a thunderclap of bursting light. Gregory Samuelson shouted with surprise and covered his eyes as the energy of the lightning strikes surrounded the helicopter. A burst of static blared over his headphones, and the chopper bounced underfoot. At the rear of the helicopter, one of the other agents pulled his hands away from the magic-damping device as the Odine-designed machine began to crackle and glowed cherry-red. As the light faded, agent Samuelson heard the pilot shout. "Are we still alive?" "Looks like it." The agent operating the magic-damping device replied. "But I don't know how much more of that this thing can take." "I don't know how much more of that I can take." Gregory muttered as he sighted on the sorceress a third time. Rinoa gasped as her sorcery struck the helicopter. "No!" She had not wanted to destroy the machine and its crew. I didn't mean to... The lightning strike faded, and the chopper remained airborne. Relief vied with confusion as Rinoa stared at the machine. A muzzle flash from inside the open door of the flying machine returned her to the present. She held up a hand to stop the flight of the bullet, but the round was enchanted and did not obey her. An instant before the bullet would have penetrated her heart, time ground to a halt. The helicopter hung suspended in mid air, it's blades frozen in the air. The wan morning stars overhead did not twinkle, nor did the snow underfoot glitter. The world was as still as a photograph—except for the sorceress. Her limbs feeling as heavy as if they were made of lead, the Rinoa stepped aside before releasing time again. The thump of the helicopter blades started out low-pitched, and then quickly built into a high pulsing rhythm. The supersonic whine of the bullet spooled up from a low buzz to a scream, until it kicked up a tiny puff of ice as it smashed into the ground beside the sorceress. She wavered on her feet. To control time, to stop it or reverse it, took so much strength. Rinoa felt as though she were caught up in the current of a swift river. It took all her energy to push against the flow of time, just bringing the world to a standstill was draining beyond words. To push upstream more than a few seconds was impossible, she simply did not have the strength. She was caught in a river of time, and no matter how much she struggled, it continued to sweep her inexorably further from those precious few happy days when she had been with Squall. Delphi had fled and she did not have the strength to pursue him. Her magic was useless against the men in the helicopter. Rinoa reached out. It took all her will just to trace the oval in the air. "What the hell?!" Somehow, the sorceress had dodged his shot. She had moved with impossible speed and avoided the enchanted bullet. Only two rounds left... His expression was grim as he took aim again, only to be greeted by empty air. The sorceress had vanished.
...
He had never seen the president in such a state. So, something finally got to the unshakable Delphi Matchgar. The leader of Galbadia was, indeed, shaking visibly. "Get her, Gregory, I don't care what it takes." Looking less than presidential, Matchgar clutched a cup of coffee with hands that were china-white claws, as he sat hunched in his robe. Agent Samuelson nodded. "We can get her, Mister President, but it is going to take... something extra." "Anything you need." President Matchgar's voice was unsteady. He stared down at the mug he held, eyes never once lifting from the surface of the brown liquid it contained. "I want a guarantee." Gregory folded his arms. Abruptly, Matchgar did look up. His eyes met with agent Samuelson's and stopped. Silence filled the room for a moment. "What kind of guarantee?" Just a hint of the old Delphi Matchgar seemed to be creeping back into the pale gentleman seated, in the small dining room, across from Gregory Samuelson. "A guarantee of safety... for me and my men." Gregory allowed Matchgar a moment to blink, but not time to speak. "I want you to declare us as heroes of Galbadia. I want you to endorse our every action. Most importantly, I want you to tell the Galbadian public that we are under your protection." Mr. Samuelson paused for a moment, turning away from Delphi Matchgar. "I want you to tell them that you take personal responsibility for our safety. So, should anything happen to us... it would be considered a personal failing, on your part, to keep us safe." Matchgar spoke with a tight voice. "And the part of the Galbadian people, of course." "Of course." Agent Samuelson nodded without agreeing. Did you really think I didn't know you would kill me the second I was no longer essential to you? "I'll see what I can do, but first, you must kill the sorceress Rinoa." Matchgar released his grip on the mug to steeple his fingers. Samuelson shook his head. "No. Now. You will announce the sorceress's death in the morning. You will proclaim our status as national heroes then, as well." Cocking his head slightly, Gregory studied the faded portrait of some forgotten ruler, hanging from the dining room wall. "Then, my men and I will find her and dispatch her." Delphi wanted to remind this serviceman who was the president here. "If I refuse?" If I order you executed right here, right now? "It will... expedite our efforts... if finding and eliminating the target... is in our best interests." Very carefully, Gregory picked his way across the words. As long as you can still kill me, the sorceress will live. As long as she lives, she is still a threat to you. Who do you fear more, Delphi? Her... He smiled to himself. ...or me? The president was silent for a very long time. Finally, he spoke. "If she surfaces again, if she causes a disturbance, you will carry the blame. You will all hang as liars and traitors." Agent Samuelson smiled. He had gained exactly what he had come for. Without speaking, he nodded and walked from the room. Stopping at the doorway, he turned to face Delphi Matchgar once more. "If she surfaces again, it will be to kill you." He knew the president would not forget those words. He did not want him to.

...
It could have been an illusion, it could have been just an eddy in the storm of thickly falling snow, but it was neither. Clutching the weapon—wrapped in white camouflage cloth—close to himself, Special Agent Samuelson blinked away the snow collecting on his eyelashes, but was otherwise motionless. "Straight ahead, ten meters." The agent beside him whispered, almost too quietly to hear. Imperceptibly, Agent Samuelson nodded. With one hand, he pointed two fingers up, then motioned to the overhang, barely visible through the pines in the blizzard. The man beside him nodded and disappeared into the storm. A minute later, Gregory Samuelson glanced at his chronometer. Time. Tensing, he flicked the rifle's safety off. On the ledge overhanging the obscured mountain cave, he could make out two light shapes moving in the storm. A muffled hum cut through the falling snow as something transparent and blue flashed between the two forms. The two men dropped from the overhang, the web of blue light stretching taunt between them. Agent Samuelson was up and charging through the waist-deep snow. As he slogged through the frozen powder of the alpine forest, the rarified mountain air caused his breath to come in quick sharp gasps. Each intake burned his lungs, without seeming to provide any oxygen. His exhalations swirled and fogged in the dense fall of snow. He burst through the stand of short trees blocking his view of the cave's entrance, weapon held at the ready. The two agents looked up at him. Without saying a word, they folded the Estharian staffs they each carried. The shimmering net of magical energy disappeared as the Odine-designed magic-damping net was shut off. One of them pointed to a small set of boot prints in the old snow inside the cavern. "She was here." We were right. Samuelson unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt. "Group two; shut it down, she's gone. All teams; prepare to move out." Releasing the transmit button, he spoke to the silent forest. "We know where she's going next."
...
With a swift flick of her wrist, Rinoa fended Squall off for a third time. Thwarted, the knight pulled his spoon back, nearly spilling the half-melted mass of marshmallow. "No, Squall! You eat it!" She laughed. "I know you're lying. You do like marshmallows." He frowned. "But I won't enjoy it nearly as much as you will." Raising the spoon with the cooling mass of puffed sugar, his arm advanced across the table of the small mountain bistro. Moving quickly, Rinoa pointed a finger at squall, casting a light Slow spell. Then, she retrieved a marshmallow from her own mug of hot cocoa and dumped it in Squall's. Raising her empty spoon, she crowed with victory while Squall Esunaed himself. Suddenly, the sorceress found herself trapped by Squall's arm. Leaning over from his chair, the knight pointed a spoonful of marshmallow at the sorceress's nose. "Oh, you like it slow, do you?" Gently tightening his hold on Rinoa, he slowly moved the spoon toward her mouth. "Oooooooh... nooooo... dooooooon't... eeeeeeeat... meeeeeee..." The normally stoic knight squeaked in a ridiculous marshmallow voice sending Rinoa into paroxysms of laughter as she struggled vainly against Squall's arms. As the spoon drew closer and closer, Rinoa drew her lips tight, trying to hold in her mirth while keeping her mouth shut. She stared cross-eyed at the marshmallow and shook her head as she tried to lean away. Squall's fingers danced across her waist maddeningly, eliciting a ticklish laugh. The moment Rinoa opened her mouth, Squall deftly maneuvered the marshmallow to its goal. This time, it was the knight that shouted—quietly—with triumph. Rinoa grabbed the spoon, shifting her gaze to Squall and frowning with faux-annoyance. Setting the utensil aside, she pouted at her knight. Then, before he could move away, she clapped her hands to the sides of his face, bumping her forehead against his, and kissed him. As it turned out, both sorceress and knight ended up sharing the marshmallow—after a fashion.

Rinoa sighed, one hand drifting to the rings still hung about her neck. Her eyes flickered across the empty resort restaurant—closed now, because of the war. In the pale storm light, the colors seemed to have leached from the scene. Almost, it seemed as though this were but a photograph, and that the vivid memories of her past were the true reality. How she wished it were so! The door to the bistro did not open, but still, the sorceress stepped outside. The spectacular mountain vista she had once shared with Squall was now obscured by the snowstorm. Silent, the flakes fell thick and fast. They melted into the sorceress's dark locks and collapsed into beads of water on her eyelashes and nose. She threw her head back and closed her eyes. Each snowflake was a chilling prickle on her skin. Not here either... The set of boot prints lead from the door of the darkened ski resort café, into the snow. After only a few feet, they disappeared. In a moment, the softly falling snow had erased them.
...
Waves gently rinsed the white sand with the clear night sea. Star shine twinkled from the smooth ripples meandering across the surface of the bay. Between the reflected sparks of stars, the water was as black as the sky above. The gray of damp sand denoted an erratic boundary between the inky water and the softly glowing dry beach. It was along this boundary that the girl walked. Far behind her, torchlight from the hotel luau flickered across the sand and water. She was far enough from the celebration that not even the rhythmic thumping of the drums could be heard above the whisper of the bay waves. She could hear them, though. It was not a dance—not really. Their feet pounding the sand, along with those of a dozen others, their bodies shaking in time to the rapid thunder of the drums. A bonfire roared, close and hot, eliciting a delicious sweat from their burning skin. Writhing and swaying with the rhythm, they moved with a supernatural unison, even as their motions grew more chaotic. He stared at her, unblinking, through it all. The night, the smoke, and the dust turned his irises black. The yellow and orange flames danced within them. Their motion was driven by the drums to be the channeling of all their drives and desires. She felt energy pour through her being as feet, legs, hips; all were in constant motion. Her shoulders and his undulated, while somehow remaining still. Drops of sweat flew from the ends of wildly matted locks as their necks bent and heads shook. Her hair whipped across his face, trailing, mixing streaks of ash and dust as it slapped his skin. She saw herself reflected in the intense black pupils of this dancer; her knight. She watched the reflection of his hands fall upon her bare shoulders, watched them come away wet with perspiration as her own arms weaved upward and her hands grasped his wrists. Muscles tight with exertation, she lifted his hands and their arms formed an arch between the two dancers. Resistance fell away as he raised his arms even higher, and she moved into him, her feet still kneading he soft sand underfoot. She saw the flash of her own grin in his eyes as their bodies collided. Skin slid against burning skin, smearing sweat and ash. Cinders swirled about them as a flaming log crashed apart within the bonfire. The drums beat louder and faster. Other dancers flung themselves across the sand, or pounded the ground with frantic steps. Some shouted. Dozens watching the dancers clapped, screamed, and whistled. Lowering one arm, Rinoa pressed her open palm against his bare chest, and he fell away from her as she pushed. The two dancers pivoted around their locked arm. Not gently, they collided, his back slapping against hers, her head thrown back onto his shoulder, his onto hers. His breath and gasp seared her ear as his free arm intertwined with her own. Knees bobbing as they hammered the sand with the balls of their feet, the two locked arms. Suddenly, Squall heaved forward. Rinoa tightened her shoulders as she felt the pull. The air shook with the building crescendo of the drums as bonfire wheeled away replaced by skirling stars, torches, and soft sand, while she flipped backwards across her partner's back, releasing arms and sliding across his shoulders, landing in a cloud of dust, facing Squall. The final beats of the drums seemed loud enough to shake the stars from the heavens. Rinoa's arms again locked with Squall's as they pulled themselves together. A final stroke, and the thunderous beat ceased, replaced by the cheering of those still able to stand. Exhausted, many dancers fell to the ground. Squall and Rinoa hung on the edge of collapse, their muscles shivering as they pressed together, skin covered with perspiration and burning with the night's fever.
It would have been just another stop on that long-ago tour of Galbadia. It would have been just another dance of marionettes whose strings were played upon by the hands of others. But that night, the night and sorceress let themselves forget the game they were forced to play—grabbing what snatches of real life together they could—even while others conspired against them. The stars rippled with restrained tears as she shook her head. He isn't here. All I felt... Memories. Memories were all she sensed. The sorceress could feel them. Everywhere, across the entire planet, visions of her knight called out to her, but they all felt the same. They all tasted, ever- so-slightly, of the past, of things lost forever. She almost wanted not to watch, but she couldn't bear to turn away from watching the two young lovers splashing in the midnight water. Only a few months ago... Rinoa looked on with burning eyes as the phantasms from the past washed clean the dirt and grime of the luau under the stars. Sitting just beyond the tide line, she hugged her knees to herself as snatches of remembered conversation drifted to her from the past. We promised, so many times, we would never leave. Were we just trying to convince ourselves that we would have a choice? The tears now ran freely down her cheeks. "Squall!" If only—if only, just once, her shout wouldn't disturb the memories. If only, once, he would look up, startled, at her cry. But this time, just as every other time, the vision of the past vanished. The phantasms of history leaving no trace they had ever even existed. "Squall..." Her voice was tinged with pain. "...where are you?" The memories were torture. Each one driving her a little closer to giving up hope. She could feel it, and a panic was rising within her. What when she could no longer bear to remember? What will I do then...? Rinoa held up a hand, pausing nearly forever before conjuring a portal.

"Sure is a nice place." James G Klair whispered as he quietly extended the tripod on the Odine device. "Think, mebbe the next time I get some leave, I might like to come back here." He flipped open a small control panel and fished in one pocket for a screwdriver. "Nice, warm nights, even in the middle of winter. Palm trees, island girls—or at least hotel employees dressed like island girls..." Locating the tool, he proceeded to flip a series of small switches on the machine. "...yeah, think I'll definitely look into coming here." He was careful to keep his voice low, but he continued to talk as he worked in the near-darkness. "With the war on, tourism's down. Betcha I could get a pretty good deal, don'tcha think?" He turned to his compatriot. The man was new to the squad, and looked fairly young. He was also silent. Special Agent Klair frowned and went back to work. Man, these secret police guys sure don't talk much. He shrugged to himself. Well, that makes sense, I guess. You talk too much and you don't live very long. Grinning, he plugged the magic dampening device into a battery pack. Not old Agent Klair, though. I talk enough that everybody thinks I'm harmless, and nobody bothers watching me too closely. "Well, I think I'd like to take a vacation here, anyway." Still, the new team member said nothing. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but James hadn't put his finger on what it was just yet. He picked up his radio. "Team two. The device is ready to go." The voice transmitted over the speaker was too quiet to be heard from more than a few feet away. "Initialize. The target has been spotted heading this way." Roger that. "Confirmed." James said. He released the transmit button, and flipped the switch to activate the magic-dampening field the squad would be using against the sorceress. Those were the last two actions of his life. A moment later, James G. Klair was laying face down, on sand that was soaking up the blood from the bullet hole in his head. His disguise dispelled by Odine's machine, Seifer reached over and deactivated the device. He bent over the satchel of former Special Agent Klair, and retrieved a time-delay incendiary. Without hesitating, Seifer twisted the primer cap on the explosive and set it beneath the magic-dampening device. Without so much as a backward glance, the scarred former knight set off through the dense jungle growth lining the beach of the bay. There was no drama. Coldly, Seifer replied to the whispered challenge of the single agent standing watch over the sniper assigned to kill the sorceress. "Clamp?" "Cee." Seifer stepped from the undergrowth. The guard had not even begun to squint, through the darkness, at the knight's unfamiliar face before Seifer stepped forward and pressed the silenced pistol under the man's chin. Gregory Samuelson turned from the rifle's sight at the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. He barely had time to recognize the shape of a firearm in the hand of the man standing over him. Given another instant, Agent Samuelon's mind might have formulated a question or two; who, what, why? Given two, he might have even managed to reach for his own sidearm. As it was, Agent Samuelson died with his shoulder still pressed up against his rifle, lying behind a hunting blind, in the middle of the tropical night. The night air was heavy with moisture and close heat in the undergrowth, but Seifer's expression was colder than the polar deserts. Reaching around the body, he plucked the rifle from agent Samuelson's hands. Seifer straightened and pressed the stock of the weapon to his shoulder. Keeping his left eye open, the knight gazed through the telescope mounted on the rifle with his right. After a moment of searching, he spotted the faintest glimmer of reflected light through the dense dark vegetation. There was almost nothing to see by—only the weakest fingers of starlight that managed to trickle down through the forest canopy. Still, after a moment, the knight resolved the shape of the rifle in the second sniper's hands. The glass lens of the other rifle glittered faintly with reflected torchlight from nearly a mile away. It would be guesswork determining where the second sniper's head lay, but Seifer was not unduly worried. He shifted the sight a few degrees to the left and waited. A mosquito whine filled Seifer's ears as the insect landed on the knight. A moment later, it flew away, unsatisfied. Other things, flitting and crawling in the tropical night, avoided the man's dark presence. Finally, after a minute-long eternity, a walkie-talkie—still attached to Gregory Samuelson's belt—hissed quietly. "Three. One, two; radio check." There. The man's face had appeared for only an instant, illuminated by the tiny red light on his radio handset. Seifer realigned the rifle's sight. "Three. One, tw—" The rifle barely kicked at all. Despite the flash suppressor on the end of the weapon, the burst of light the round emitted as it zipped downrange was dazzling. Seifer did not have time to be dazzled, however. He tracked the sight back to the right as he worked the bolt, ejecting the spent round and chambering a new one. The smoking shell casing hissed as it fell on moist loam. His night vision dimmed by the flash of the rifle, Seifer did not see the glimmer of the second sniper's sight as the last remaining secret policeman targeted the knight. The round struck Seifer in the chest, tearing through him. He barely staggered as the bullet ripped out the back of his vest and snicked away through the vegetation. Bringing his own weapon to bear on the flicker of fire from the other sniper, he squeezed the trigger. The last remaining special agent did not see the incoming round strike sparks from the barrel of his own weapon, his brain did not even have time to register the muzzle flash of the knight's second shot. The final darkness descended upon the sniper with startling suddenness. The clips clicked as they detached from the sniper rifles. Ignoring the lances of fire cutting through his chest, Seifer straightened with savage speed, holding one empty weapon. Behind him, the third explosive whirred off the seconds remaining on its timer. Rinoa was a small patch of gray against the darkness of the lagoon. Her back was turned to him, she was seated on the sand staring out into the night. Slowly, Seifer lowered the weapon, and the image of the sorceress disappeared from the rifle's sight. He allowed one hand to drift to the hole the sniper's shot had torn in his clothing. The skin beneath was already firm and tight with scar tissue. A tiny ring of crusted blood crackled beneath the knight's fingers. He raised the sight of the empty rifle again. Nothing remained of the sorceress Rinoa but a fading quiver of rippling air. Water lapped around the knights boots, tugging grains of sand from under their hard rubber tread. Seifer's face gave no indication he even heard the thunderous roar of the three explosions that suddenly shook the midnight jungle behind him as they consumed the bodies and equipment of the special agents sent to assassinate the mother of his sorceress. The light from the flames leaping high against the dimming stars sparked briefly off the handful of enchanted shells as they tumbled end over end through the air. The ripples of the bullets striking the water's surface were lost amongst the oily waves on the black water. Long before anyone would notice them in the morning's light, the high tide had washed away the footsteps of the lost knight.
...
Her frightening dream had become reality. This time, she had traveled differently. Instead of stepping through the gateway to a new place, the sea had rolled away beneath her, the sun climbing above the oceanic horizon with unnatural speed as the sorceress raced over the whitecaps on the wings of her magic. All the lands rolled past beneath her searching gaze. She had traveled across Centra, Galbadia, Eshtar and Balamb. Racing over mountains, deserts, and forests she had searched for him, but everywhere, everywhere only memories, only ghosts of the past remained. With every mile that fell away beneath her feet her panic, her fright had grown. She could not find him, and the dread of an insidious nightmare turned real seized her with its icy claws. Tears streamed down her face to vanish in a magical slipstream and her stomach turned with ever-increasing dread as her seeking became more and more frantic. The panic ate away her control, and her enchanted flight became erratic. The world weaved drunkenly beneath her feet, dissolving into a chaos of sea, sky, and ground, but still her sorcery poured forth in a hopeless search. She could stand it no longer. The ground tilted up to meet her, and Rinoa stumbled. Falling to her knees, she covered her face with gray-clad arms. She bent forward, pressing against the ground of she knew not where, choked with so much hopelessness she could not even sob. It was not sight that restored her. She could not bear it, she could not stop pressing her face to her arms, and her arms to the ground. If she squeezed into a tight enough ball, maybe she could keep out all the fears and the heartache they brought. It was not sound or touch that restored her either. How could she stand to be aware of the sunlight on her back, or the soft breeze whispering against her ears, if it meant she would have to remember? The soft perfume of the flowers was what awakened the painful hope one more time. For the briefest instant, her heart soared, for yes, the scent of the fields of flowers, at last, reminded her of the promise. She dared to open one eye, and yes! It was their field where she had at last fallen! There! The graceful arches, soft blues and yellows, of Balamb Garden greeted her. Shivering, Rinoa stood. Swiftly, her hands flew to her heart—as if to keep it in place—as One!...two!...three!... Only three!? Now her heart fell, and the light seemed to grow dim. Only three figures walked toward her. Behind them, the bright sunny day chilled, the softness of the anchored garden hardened and Rinoa wanted, with all her soul, nothing more than to flee, but she stood rooted in place. Zell's hand was wrapped in bandages, Irvine's step was tired and wasted, and Selphie's eyes looked so terribly old. Rinoa's chest collapsed as breath left her. She would not dare to draw another as the three SeeDs neared. There was no joy in their expressions, no happy shouts of recognition or surprise. Something terrible took precedence over all that. There was no liveliness and no comfort in Selphie's embrace. Irvine and Zell stopped short, with their eyes downcast. Rinoa simply stared woodenly straight ahead as the yellow-clad girl wrapped her arms around the sorceress. "Oh, Rinoa, I'm so sorry... so sorry..." The words seemed to take a little of Rinoa's spirit with them as they departed her lips. "Tell me..." ...is it about... him? She did not want to hear, but she knew she would have no choice. Selphie drew back, still clinging to the sorceress's shoulders. "Rinoa..." Her eyes were red, cheeks blotchy. The girl's lips trembled. "...Quistis is dead."
...
The maelstrom had changed yet again. Or perhaps not. The snarling roaring mist through which he fell teased his senses. It was strangely familiar, yet totally different from anything he had ever seen... No! No! The time compression! That's what this is! The realization struck Squall nearly as hard as the fist that fell from behind. The monster swept out of the mists of time, riding easily on its massive leathery wings, dealing the knight a powerful blow. The force of the attack sent the knight's battered gunblade spinning off into the ether. Squall tumbled, but he no longer was out of control. Spinning in the direction in which the beast had disappeared, he reached out. Though no Guardian Force resided in his mind, the knight was still able to wrench the spell from the hidden monster. Without hesitation, he flung it back at the beast. Somehow, the chaos of the time compression became even more erratic as Meteor was unleashed. Swirling stars vied with the jade mists as giant hunks of rock spun crazily through the confusion. Dahyte snarled as she winged between two exploding meteors. Sweeping in on the knight, she twisted around his fist as he attempted to land a punch to her head. Wings providing her with leverage in the ethereal mists of time, she slipped behind the knight, grabbing his arms and wrenching them to his sides. "Don't give me any more reason to kill you!" She hissed into his ear. Her joints creaked as he strained against her grasp. "Let me go to her!" "You wish to go to her?" Dahyte growled as, dragging the knight, she dove through the confusion of the time compression. Squall saw the pit of blackness yawning in the swirling mists before the monster flung him away. With no way to control his fall, he plummeted toward the hole in the mists. Suddenly, the monster flashed before him again. A spiked fist descended upon him. "Then go!" The monster screamed. Squall felt the beast's claws tear into his skin just as the darkness overtook him.
...
The memorials were still taking shape when the funerals were held. So many had died over the past few months that the craftsmen brought in from Fisherman's Horizon would need months to work the black marble stone into the proper shape for markers of the dead. And even had they been asked, the stoneworkers would have refused to hurry their craft. The instructors were to be interred first, then the SeeDs, then students, and finally, the headmaster and his wife. The names rolled solemnly past. Each funeral was attended by those that had known the SeeD. Their surviving friends, students, mentors, and partners would say whatever words they deemed fitting. Most could not finish, and throughout the proceedings, it was always Xu who would step in—as a tearful speaker was led gently away—to finish the bittersweet epitaphs. Though it was not required of them, nearly all the occupants of Balamb Garden remained for every final farewell, but when Instructor Quistis Trepe's name was announced, the small field of soft grass in which the ceremonies took place filled to overflowing. It had come as a terrible shock at the worst of times. The Balamb Garden SeeD had returned to that isolated Centra peninsula for a period of healing and remembrance. All but the most essential of operatives had been recalled for the retreat, and SeeD operations worldwide had, for all intents and purposes, ceased. However, the weary warriors had found one last heartbreak waiting for them near the old abandoned lighthouse. No one, not even the three orphans—Zell, Selphie, or Irvine—had known what to make of the scorched spacecraft, resting at an angle in its charred landing field. However, it was clear enough what the two small mounds in the earth, not far from the ancient escape pod, signified. Two crude stone markers had rested there, headstones for those who had not survived their return to the planet. The stones had been scored by gouged letters that looked like nothing so much as claw marks. One bore the name of a Galbadian soldier, the other, the name of Quistis Trepe. Selphie did her best, but she could only manage a few words before her vision clouded with tears and the lump in her throat made speech impossible. For a moment, Rinoa tried to carry on for her, but the sorceress was equally overcome with emotion. Again, Xu completed the speech for her. But even the woman who had been the only force strong enough to hold SeeD together through the series of disasters that had struck it over the past few months had been forced to pause, voice shaking, to wipe her eyes more than once before she finished speaking. The four friends, now five, had taken their seats at the front row, before the closed casket. Irvine staring straight ahead and blinking now and again, holding Selphie's hand tightly in his own. Both yellow-clad SeeD and gray-clad sorceress cried quietly as they leaned together. Zell sat, teeth locked, but lip still quivering, even as the Ergheiz creaked around his balled fists as he struggled for self-control. Beside the blond SeeD, Iris placed a hand on his forearm from her wheeled chair and watched the procession of well-wishers. A few of the students who had idolized their instructor—the Trepies—did their best to read a letter to the departed SeeD to which all had contributed, as all those who had felt close to Quistis—in one way or another—passed by the casket and single photograph. From behind the glass frame, the image of the legendary SeeD smiled. Proudly displayed on her collar, was the pin of a SeeD instructor, first class. That same pin glittered in the soft sunlight, nestled amid the flowers and mementos left by the procession of SeeDs and students. Again, it was Xu who spoke the final words of farewell aloud, but all those who had known Quistis said them in their own hearts. The morning passed, and the sun climbed higher into the deepening blue sky. Fluffy white cumulus clouds sprang up, drifting on the cool early spring breeze. Dappled sunbeams washed over the solemn proceedings, occasionally causing a friend to look up, close their eyes, and imagine the smile and laughter of the departed, just for an instant. The afternoon came and went, and then as the sun was setting, Cid and Edea were honored. Both empty caskets were laid side-by-side. Again, every SeeD and student of Balamb Garden was in attendance. All came to pay their respects to the man who had lead them for as long as SeeD had existed. The sorceress was a different matter. In the weeks proceeding the day of remembrance, quiet conversations had echoed in the hallways of Balamb Garden. "The Sorceress is going to be buried with the Headmaster?" "She did give her life defending the Garden." "But what about Galbadia?" "She's his wife, for Hyne's sake!" "I'm not going! If it wasn't for that witch, maybe Jason wouldn't be..." Two days before the funerals, the white SeeD had arrived and the voices of dissent fell silent. As they had through the ceremonies for each and every one of the black SeeD, the small cadre of white SeeDs stood at silent attention as Xu spoke of both Cid and Edea Kramer. This time, it was the steady senior mercinary that found she could not finish the words she had wanted to say. Breaking from the silent stillness they had maintained for hours, two white SeeDs made their way to the small podium. One helped Xu to her seat, while the other spoke. "We are all part of the Kramers' great dream. Cid and Edea both envisioned a better world than the one from which they have departed. They dreamed of a world free from war, free from oppression, free from suffering and evil. I remember the years before, when Edea would walk among the ships of her SeeD, telling us stories of the world to come. She would paint such wonderful visions for us, of a time beyond fear and pain." "But Cid and Edea knew what terrible price would have to be paid for such a world. They knew that the path of hardship and self-sacrifice was the only way to their vision of the future. I have seen, as you must have seen, the way this knowledge haunted them. In a way, it is good that they are not with us here today, for to see so many of the ones they thought of as their children laid to rest would have broken their hearts." "Still, more sacrifice is demanded. Evil still clings to our world and we, SeeD, hold the key to driving it away forever. Edea, Cid, and all the SeeDs honored here today have made the ultimate sacrifice for others and asked nothing in return. There is no more fitting memorial we could give them than for all of us to be ready to do the same. So, in honor of the memory of Headmaster Cid and Matron Edea, we, the white SeeD, offer our service, our vessels, and our lives to any who will ease the suffering of the oppressed, protect the lives of the weak, and hold in check the power of the ruthless. This is our gift to Edea, to Cid, and to all SeeD." The last sliver of the orange evening sun disappeared into the glittering ocean as the white SeeD walked to stand beside Xu. All eyes were on the white and black warriors as they straightened. A quiet rustling filled air, heavy with the coming of night, as the hundreds gathered there also stiffened to attention, turned to face the Matron and Headmaster's memorial, and then saluted. Only two more funerals remained. There remained two warriors, once SeeDs, who had renounced their status as SeeD and SeeD candidate, and yet still lost their lives in the recent battles. Tempers had flared and emotions had run high after Xu's announcement that all SeeDs and SeeD candidates who had died would be buried with appropriate honors. More than one distraught individual had requested a personal conference with the new Headmistress about Seifer's right to burial rites. None had come away any more satisfied than they started, for Xu would not be moved in her insistence. She had given ground only on the timing of the event, by allowing the memorials for those who had left SeeD to be held last. Perhaps even more galling to most, however, was the fact that this meant Squall Leonhart's funeral would also be held last. After all, Squall was the unquestionable hero of Balamb Garden. Resignation or not, nearly every occupant of Balamb Garden still thought of the legendary warrior as a SeeD first and foremost. As much as they revered one gunblade specialist, they despised the other. No matter what he had done before his final SeeD examination, Seifer was universally regarded as nothing but a despicable traitor. The twilight was deepening into night. Only one SeeD, Xu, stood where usually a guard of four would be. Despite everything she had tried, every SeeD she had approached had stated bluntly that they would rather resign than stand as an honor guard at a traitor's funeral. Only five other figures stood in attendance as Raijin stepped up to speak. Scratching his head nervously, the large warrior spoke hesitantly. "This ain't right... Seifer, he was always... He was always a dreamer, ya know?" He shook his head. "I dunno. I got nothin' else to say." For an instant he looked up, and his voice was clear. "I was his friend. That's what counts." As Raijin stepped down, Fujin walked slowly up to the empty casket. She did not turn as she laid a single hand gently on it and said something much to quiet for anyone to hear. Shaking her head slightly, she walked away, keeping her face hidden in darkness. Zell had been leaning slightly backward with his arms crossed. Now, his frown softening, he prepared to leave and noticed Rinoa still looking at the coffin. The last glimmers of light from the sunset revealed her tears. The SeeD placed a hand on her shoulder as he turned. His words were meant to comfort. "I don't think he's really dead." He tried to keep the angry growl from his voice. Rinoa's whisper was tormented. "I know." In the early hours of the night, the breeze died. The warm evening was still, no songs of night creatures broke the silence, only the quiet rustle of footsteps over the grass, or the hum of muffled low conversations. No lights were lit on B-Garden or the attending SeeD vessels, and their dark shapes eventually faded into the deepening night. Amongst the attending host of SeeDs a single candle was lit, then another. Soon, the tiny lights were spread like the stars above. They danced and bobbed like fireflies as their holders moved about. Slowly, the lights began to shift, running together into channels of bobbing sparks as they flowed toward a single point Irvine stood staring straight ahead. He felt the warmth of Selphie's arm wrapped around his waist even as his own hand rested on the diminutive SeeD's shoulders. He sensed, more than saw, the blond SeeD take his place beside the sharpshooter. "Lot of funerals today, Zell." He let out a long breath. "Lot of funerals..." Zell nodded once—a short jerk of the head—and kept his arms folded tightly across his chest. Behind the three SeeDs, the hundreds of warriors gathered. Very few of them knew the man they had come to honor, but all of them knew of him. Faces illuminated by the flames of the candles they had brought, they came with different thoughts and for differing reasons. They were laying another legend to rest, but this one was different. So many people had known Quistis, so many people had noticed the promising young SeeD as she made her way up the ranks, that she had seemed real to them, more a part of them somehow. Were it not for the tales told everywhere about Squall Leonhart, most of the Balamb Garden SeeD would never have even known of his existence. Hardly a one of them had ever seen him fight, but they had all heard the stories: Squall Leonhart moves faster than the eye can follow. A single blow from the Lionheart once killed a Ruby Dragon. A hundred Galbadian soldiers once ran rather than face Squall Leonhart. The man who was being remembered had bested monsters that were legends in and of themselves; Odin, Bahamut, Ultima Weapon, and others even more mythical in stature. Some came because of the legends; they wanted to know if it could all be true. But the faded eyes of the old graduation photograph gave them no clue as to what the man was capable of. Some came because they wondered if they could be the next Squall Leonhart; but the glimpse of the lion's head symbol gave them no insight into the workings of the warrior. It was simply because he had been one of them—unknown though he might have been to most—that they came. He had fought in the same battles as they, he had seen the same destruction, and crossed blades with the same foes; and all came to acknowledge this. No one spoke. Not even Xu. Neither Irvine, nor Selphie, nor Zell moved forward to say a single word. It was then that it struck the three friends; how little they had known about the quiet dark haired warrior. So everyone stood in silence. And the candles burned a little lower. Finally, with hesitation—as if afraid to break the spell of quiet—a student near the front row raised his arm. The gesture of respect swept across the ranks of SeeDs on rustling feathers. Candles dipped out of sight, and hundreds of faces were cast into shadow for a moment as all saluted. Darkness and silence reigned over the assembly. Slowly, a single arm fell, one candle was raised. A spattering of other lights appeared as SeeDs held the gesture for as long as they desired. Throughout the night the SeeDs' candles burned. Clusters of lights and calm conversation marked the dozens of memorial sites. Individual candles drifted freely between small islands of light as those who had more than one soul to remember moved between groups. The night air hummed with whispers, tears, and occasional subdued melancholy laughter. It was after a very long time, that three friends standing before the casket marked with the symbol of Griever lowered their hands. Slowly, Selphie turned. With face dry but eyes red, she looked around now that the crowd had dispersed. It was with a worried expression that she spoke. "Where's Rinoa?"
... Dew does not sparkle in the very very pale first light of morning. It gives no indication that it even sees the beginnings of the new day. Coating the firm petals, closed tight against the waning night, the drops await the first rays of the sun, anticipating the sparkling rainbows their prisms of water will catch and then scatter. Some dewdrops do not sparkle in the morning light. Some dewdrops soak the pants of golden-haired SeeDs and cling to their shoes—seeping into their socks. With a tired squelch, Zell at last took a seat on the fallen pillar. For a very long time, the SeeD sat motionless and silent. The first grays of dawn now suffused the eastern sky, and a hint of lighter colors could be seen. "You're right." Nothing stirred at his words in the early morning twilight. "I don't believe he's gone either." Zell folded his arms, much as he had when Irvine and Selphie had come to talk to him after Squall's funeral. Selphie's eyes were worried. "I thought, maybe, when she came to Quistis's funeral—when she cried at Edea's... I thought maybe Rinoa was going to be okay." Irvine picked up the thought. "But then, when she didn't come to Squall's..." He shook his head. "She's not accepting it. She won't believe he's gone." Zell had turned away from them. "I'm not so sure I believe it either." "Come on, Zell. It's been months." Irvine placed his hands on his hips. "You know as well as I do, that if there was any possible way for Squall to come back to her, he would have." The sharpshooter shook his head. "I'm not saying he's dead—and I hope to god he's not—but it's obvious that, wherever he went, he can't come back." Selphie wiped at the corner of her eye. "We all hoped that he could come back, but it was more like a dream." She paused for a moment. Zell closed his eyes. "What are you talking about?" "I dunno. I, I guess that, finding out that Quistis was dead..." Selphie took a breath. "It's over. I think the dream, that we could all get back together in one big happy group, is over." "What does that have to do with this? Why should we give up on Squall just because Quistis..." Zell stopped. He just couldn't say it. Irvine shook his head. "Zell, Cid's gone, Edea's gone, Quistis is gone... and Squall's gone too. We've spent too long searching and wishing it wasn't true." He shifted. "It's time we faced reality. We have to move on. There's nothing else we can do." Irvine waved a hand at the clusters of flickering candles. "That's what this was all about." "Rinoa doesn't want to accept that." Selphie said in agreement. "We don't blame her for anything. If there was any other way... but there's not." She sighed. "We're her friends, and we have a responsibility to help her through this." Though he knew they didn't deserve it, Zell could not help the anger he felt. Help her through what!? You two should know that as much as anyone! What they had... it isn't just something you walk away from. Zell shook his head. "She won't listen to you and, frankly, I don't want to listen to you either." He began to walk away. "Zell, wait." Selphie's hand was on his arm. "We need your help. Rinoa needs your help." Zell pulled away from her and turned to face the two SeeDs. "No!" He waved an arm angrily. "You guys do what you want, but I'm not giving up on Squall." Without another word, he stalked off into the night. "The Garden is leaving in the morning, Rinoa." Zell spoke quietly. The shadow of the girl was silent, just as she had been when Irvine and Selphie had come to plead with her. The bond SeeD was not too discouraged by Rinoa's silence. "You're going to wait for him here?" Still, not a sound marred the early-morning stillness. Zell leaned back on the fallen pillar where he was seated. His eyes traced the thin line of the horizon as a few more stars disappeared overhead. Zell let out a very long breath before speaking again. "I'm leaving SeeD, Rinoa. Iris and I both." He waited, but there was no response. "With things the way they are, there won't be any place for her." It was, of course, true. She had spoken to him about it only a few days after leaving the infirmary. SeeD was hurting. The Garden was already supporting dozens injured in the recent conflicts. There were many others just like Iris, and only so many desk and teaching positions necessary. "Oh, they'd make up a spot for me, no doubt." Her eyes had met his, kneeling beside her wheelchair. "SeeD always takes care of its own, but they wouldn't need me." Her eyes had sparkled with emotion. "I won't be useless, Zell! I just... I couldn't live with that." Iris blinked and her eyes fell. "So, I'm leaving the Garden." Zell said nothing. She paused, and drew in a long shuddering breath. "I... I just thought you should know." Finally, Zell spoke. "I'm coming with you." Eyes still downcast, she shook her head. "No, Zell. You don't have to say that. It's okay. I mean, really, we hardly know each other, and you're a SeeD hero, a-and they're going to need you, and I, I understand, you..." She had to keep the tears from falling. She had to hold her breath. I can't do this to him. I can't cry in front of him! That's not fair. "Please," she could barely whisper, "just go, Zell. Just go." He placed his hand over hers. "Iris..." She tried to push it away. "Zell, no..." the words squeaked with the coming tears. Go! Go, because I can't stand this any longer! Then she was looking up into his soft blue eyes. She felt his hand brushing her cheek. "Iris, I love you." And there were tears in his eyes too. "I go where you go." Zell opened his eyes and the memory fled. "I just thought you'd want to know." Sighing, he pushed to his feet. The sky had blushed in anticipation of sunrise. "Uh, I'm not real good at this, so I guess I'll just say it." Zell scratched his head. "Goodbye, Rinoa. I... I know he'll come back." As the blond SeeD turned away, Rinoa's lips traced out three words in the darkness. So do I. At last, the sorceress spoke. "Zell..." The SeeD turned at Rinoa's voice. "Huh?" "Where will you go?" Zell shuffled his feet. "Uh, Balamb I guess. It's where our homes are." "Home." Where is home, for me? A little nervous, Zell looked at his feet. "Yeah." Before the blond warrior left, Rinoa said one last thing. Zell only nodded, once, slowly, before walking away.
... With the coming of the dawn, SeeD departed. The white sails of the vessels remained visible long after the sun climbed clear of the horizon. The day would be perfect—just like the one before, and the one following. The first hints of a spring breeze stirred the petals in the field of flowers. A few cotton ball clouds drifted lazily over the meadows, casting their shadows down upon the memorials left behind by the mercenaries. It would be several days before the craftsmen would resume their work; completing the graves and markers of fallen warriors. The sorceress would still remain. Weeks later, the finishing touches would be applied as the first butterflies of spring climbed from their cocoons to dance among the burgeoning blossoms of early flowers. The sorceress would still remain. The early months of summer would arrive, ending the blustery showers. Strong warm sunlight brought forth the reds and golds from the blues and pinks of spring. The first SeeD transport appeared, bringing with it the students who stood long silent watches, honoring all SeeDs, past and future, who gave their lives to save the world. The sorceress would still remain.

Months would roll by. The flower fields of Centra marking their passage with an ever-changing panoply of riotous color. Seasons would come and go, just as they had for the thousand or so years since the first lunar cry and the fall of Centra. Across the calm meadows life would sprout, bloom, grow
old, and die, only to renew itself again in an endless cycle.
Forever. The sorceress would still remain, awaiting the return of her lost love and
the fulfillment of their promise.

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