(Email sponger42@yahoo.com for Purgatio's Website Containing Recent
Updates)
Epilogue
Part One
"No it isn't!" "What's that?" "No it isn't the end, Unkee Zell!" Dark blue, nearly violet, eyes stared piercingly at him from above a pouting mouth. "The little lion still has to find his way home. The story can't end until that happens." The little girl said, crossing her arms authoritatively. "Yeah, daddy." The twins chorused together. "There's got to be more." Leo said. "No story ever ends like that." Yina added. Slowly closing the storybook laid across his lap, Zell relented a little. "Well, maybe there is a little more, but it will have to wait until tomorrow." His statement was met by emphatic protests. "No, daddy! Please read us the rest." "Yeah Unkee, we can't sleep with all the sus... suspentance!" "I might have nightmares about lost lions, daddy." His thumb holding the place in the children's book, Zell waffled. "Well, I don't know, it's pretty late..." Seeing their chance, the children renewed their pleas. Zell's hand cracked the book just the slightest bit open again. Between the children, a silent organization of beseechment took place. 'One, two, three, now:' "Pleeease!" They cried in harmony. With no other choice, the book fell open again. "Oh, alright." Zell smiled as he looked for the place where he had left off. "Yaaay!" Iris sighed and smiled silently to herself as she leaned against the doorway to the room. Everyone in the room was asleep; the children in their beds, and Zell with his face planted firmly between the pages of the storybook. Silently, she walked across the room. Zell woke at her touch with only the slightest of starts. "Uh? Oh, what time is it?" He whispered. "Later than anyone in their right minds would let children stay up." Iris smiled down at him. "You're hopeless, Zell Dincht." Zell laid his head against Iris's belly as she ran her fingers through his hair—grown no less unruly with age. "Yes I am." "Let's go." She tugged gently on his ears. "Unless you were planning on finishing The Children's Big Book of Animal Stories by yourself tonight." The chair creaked slightly as Zell stood. Laying the storybook on top of the nightstand, he turned to follow Iris out of the children's room. "Unkee Zell?" Zell turned at the child's voice. One dark blue eye peeked at him from under a veil of hair. "When are mommy and daddy coming back?" With gentle hands grown much more sure with years of practice, Zell stroked the child's raven-black hair back into place. "Soon." He smiled softly. "Now go to sleep."
...
Kuno Inman's boot heels squeaked as he snapped a smart about-face after reaching the end of the polished walkway. Though outwardly, his expression was a mask of severe solemnity, inside he was sighing. Only five hundred more to go. As he paced his appointed rounds, he forced down a shiver. The cold, hard autumn rain had been coming down in sheets all afternoon and showed no sign of slacking. Despite the well-oiled all-weather uniform he wore, a few frigid droplets managed to sneak past his raised collar and dribbled down his back on every turn. The rain created a dull gray curtain around the SeeD memorial, masking the surrounding terrain from sight. The inland hills, the beach, the old ruins, the dock and outpost, even the knight's graves were all wrapped in the storm's sodden embrace. Droplets drummed on the metal skin of the escape rocket—pointing toward the hidden sky, mounted on a pedestal of granite blocks—and streamed between the letters carved into the single monolith that stood before the ancient spacecraft.
In memory of all seeds
From the lands
To the seas
To the very stars above
Give they their lives
So that we may live in peace
When the rain started, cold water had pooled in the indentations of the large stone seal of Balamb Garden, which rested in the center of a field of black marble tablets. Now, the water overflowed and poured down the tile walkways between the markers. Each memorial bore the crest of a garden, an insignia of rank, and the name of the soul it honored.
Dahyte Najai
Seed A
Protector of this world
Nida valenti
Seed 20
Protector of this world
There were others, of course. Rank upon rank of dark tablets stood sentinel in the driving rain. Tucked away amongst them, the difference almost unnoticeable, lay the memorials of hero's heroes.
Edea Kramer
Matron
Loving wife
Light in a dark world
Cid Kramer
Headmaster
Loving Husband
Guardian of the light
One marker, not really so different from any of the others, stood alone amongst them, but not unnoticed, for everyone who visited this place would always look to it as the final resting place of a legend as great in stature as any in all of time.
Quistis Trepe
Seed Instructor First Class
Savior of us all
Seed Candidate Inman continued to stare straight ahead as he marched past memorial field. The squelching of the stones beneath his boots was barely audible above the steady patter of rain on his hood and shoulders. His group of students was not the first to stand watch over the SeeD burial ground and it certainly wouldn't be the last. However, he could not look forward to the same celebrity status as the first students ever to man the honorary guard post—they had practically hero's welcome upon their return. Their trip, their proximity to the graves of legends—and to the mysterious silent sorceress—had won the awed respect of their peers for the two-week period until the second group returned. When they too spoke of the unrelenting boredom of empty watches, homework and lecture via satellite email, and no free time—nor any diversions to occupy their free time had they had any—the mythos surrounding the new duty required of all SeeD candidates had evaporated.
Still, Kuno Inman realized that he did have a duty to perform—no matter how dull or uncomfortable it might be—and he did his best to keep his paces steady and his about-faces snappy. Unable, or at least unwilling, to look down to check on the time, he was glad for the one secret passed down only between those returning from sentinel duty and those departing; how many times the path must be walked before you were relieved by the next watch.
The rain ended with two hundred and thirty five laps remaining. Casting a cautious eye toward the sky, Kuno judged the clouds. The fall rains were persistent, and he had once been tricked into removing his rain gear before a storm was completely over. Halfway to the far end of his patrol, he had been forced to march calmly through the downpour as his uniform was soaked through. Not for a moment had he even considered breaking stride to dash to the small shed where the weather gear was stowed.
After five more minutes, the purple-bottomed clouds began to show patches of lighter gray. Satisfied that the storm truly was over, the student removed his inclement weather gear—as was required by protocol. He paused at the edge of his route. Already, the stone strip was becoming polished by the constant passage of the booted guardsmen and women. He tapped one foot lightly three times to put himself back into step, then began his solemn patrol again. Wheeling sharply, he was greeted by a view of the edge of the peninsula. Revealed by the passing of the storm, the Knight's Memorial caught his attention—even as he was careful to keep his eyes forward and expression severe.
On a small knoll, separate from the rest of the SeeD memorial, was the final resting place of Squall Leonhart. Like many others of his class, Kuno was not quite sure what to think. There was no question that Squall Leonhart was a hero of legendary proportions, but there was something different about him and the tales that surrounded him. Though the black marble marker was nearly the same as those of the SeeDs, subtle differences existed. Rather than the crest of a garden, the knight's marker was adorned with the head of a lion. The few words carved upon it differed as well.
Squall Leonhart
Knight
Savior of us all
In the end, Kuno had to admit, perhaps the lonely memorial was appropriate. From what he had come to understand, Squall had always differed from those around him. Fitting his grave amongst the ranks of SeeD would not have seemed right.
Turning at the end of his route nearest the ocean, SeeD Candidate Inman couldn't help but let the tiniest bit of angry severity creep into his expression. Opposite the Knight's Memorial lay the Traitor's Grave—as it had come to be called by almost every member of SeeD. Nothing was engraved upon the marker besides a name and the symbol of a pointed cross.
Seifer Almasy There was nothing ambiguous about Seifer and what he had done. It was common knowledge around the Garden that neither the Knight's nor the Traitor's Grave contained a body. Many still talked about Squall Leonhart as if he could still be alive somewhere. No one spoke of Seifer Almasy that way. Turning again, Kuno Inman watched one last curtain of rain sweep across the open fields to the west. The shower passed out to sea, and as it lifted a lone figure was revealed. The sorceress had not moved since she spoke with another, now retired, legend of SeeD; Zell Dincht. She seemed to be almost frozen in time. She neither slept nor ate, and the flowers around her were always in constant bloom. Now, in the middle of fall, the rest of the field was a mix of greens and browns—the blossoms of summer having finally faded and fallen away—and the sorceress Rinoa stood amongst a little spring-like island of color in the midst of a field still glistening with the recent rainfall. No matter what weather came, it never touched the sorceress or her garden of wildflowers. Kuno had no doubt that, when he was gone, her small field of flowers would continue to bloom straight through the frosts and snows of winter. Despite his tired feet, Kuno felt a smile tugging at his lips as he completed another circuit. Something in the air after the rain had transformed the cold fall day into what felt like spring again. He took a deep breath as his heels clicked rhythmically on the stones. Then a cool wind tugged at his uniform. As he turned his back to the field of the sorceress, he imagined he saw motion. For a moment, he almost lost step, but quickly recovered, keeping up the steady tapping footfalls of his watch. It couldn't have been... The wind picked up, sending something skittering across the dark stones. What? Are those flower petals? Kuno struggled to maintain steady step and expression as a few pink petals whirled around him. But where did they come from? With the coming of the wind, the day darkened again. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to turn around. Only thirty more paces to the far end, then he would have the field of flowers in view again. Abruptly, the sound of footfalls ceased as SeeD Candidate Kuno Inman came to a dead halt. Protocol was forgotten in an instant of shock as the student whirled about. It was not the rumble of thunder that broke his step, but the unmistakable whistling of a blade cutting through air. The battered and scarred revolver gunblade fell from the sky. Spinning end over end, it glittered with the reflection of dark clouds for an instant before striking rock with a metallic clang. The student's mouth dropped open as he turned and stared. A few dozen feet away, atop the small knoll that marked the Knight's Memorial, a sliver gunblade had fallen from the sky and lodged itself in the black marble tablet. "T-that's impossible..." Kuno almost tripped on his own feet. It's blooming...! The fields, from the crumbling walls of the ancient orphanage to the lighthouse, far out on its promontory, to the very edge of the SeeD memorials, burgeoned with the blues and pinks of spring flowers. Cracks of gray in the clouds lightened to white as the sky began to clear. With amazing speed, white gave way to tiny hints of blue, and now sunbeams, rather than rain, showered down to earth amid through the damp air. Mists evaporating from the rainfall caught and held the sunlight, making the cascades of gold seem all the more corporeal as they swept across sea and sand, flower and grave, grass and stone. After so many motionless months, the Sorceress Rinoa looked up and smiled, raising her arms in a joyous welcome to the beam of sunlight. The shafting light swept over the sorceress, and suddenly everything was lost in a sea of brilliance. Kuno Inman fell to one knee, covering and closing his eyes against the luminescence. When the student opened them again, the scene was the same. The gunblade remained locked in the stone marker, the field of flowers was still a riot of color, It's real! It's really happening! and the sorceress...
Rinoa was gone.
(Purgatio Also Available at )
Epilogue
Part Two
...
The proprietor of the Sea Breeze Inn could have sworn there was something familiar about the young couple standing before the registration desk. "I have a room available on the East side. It has a lovely view of the ocean. I'm sure you'll adore it. Spring sunrises in Balamb are the most invigorating in the world!" He had to struggle to keep a pensive frown from surfacing as one of the couple spoke. I could swear I've seen that face before... "I know." The young man replied. "Ah, so you've been to Balamb before." Now, where have I seen you? The innkeeper glanced down at his registration book. "And how long will you be staying with us?" He looked up, and suddenly the strange sense of recognition was swept away. No, what was I thinking? I've never seen these people before. The dark-haired woman smiled at him. "Not long."
...
Packing up the last of his equipment, Zell turned at the sound of a quiet cough behind him. "Little Tomark, what are you still doing here?" Dropping the duffel, Zell gave the tiny student one of his better—he thought—stern looks. "I dismissed class half an hour ago." Inwardly, though, the former SeeD was smiling. Though barely ten years old, the child was already exhibiting surprising skill and balance. He was undoubtedly one of Zell's best students, though one of the very youngest members of the junior classes the martial artist taught. Too bad all that balance and control will disappear when he hits puberty, poor kid. Zell grinned to himself.
Bowing slightly, Tomark, replied solemnly. "Mister Dincht, do you think I have what it takes to be a SeeD?"
Zell couldn't help but burst out laughing. "Tomark, you are only ten years old. SeeDs are great warriors much older and stronger than children your age." The crestfallen expression of the child caused the former SeeD to soften his tone a bit. "Well... even the youngest SeeD I knew... was half again as old as you before graduating..." He relented a little. "Though, I suppose, with practice, you could become as good as a SeeD."
The child shook his head. "That is not what I meant, Mister Dincht. I mean, if I applied now, do you think I could become a SeeD warrior?"
Zell's eyebrows shot up. He had not realized the nature of his student's question. "Joining SeeD is a big decision, Tomark."
"And a noble one, Sir." The student's gaze rose to challenge Zell's.
Zell stared at the Tomark for an instant, until the student looked away. "Yes. And a noble one." He folded his arms. "It also involves great personal sacrifice." He walked forward to stand directly in front of the student. "Tomark."
The child looked up. "The question is not whether I think you have what it takes to join SeeD. The question is; do you?" Zell's voice held a seriousness he reserved only for use when discussing the most deadly of maneuvers with his most advanced students.
"Yes, Sir." It was both an acknowledgment and a confirmation. There was the tiniest shifting of weight. Zell recognized it as a signature of the student's fighting style—a dead giveaway before a strike that he had not managed to train out of the young fighter just yet. However, instead of attacking, Tomark whirled and dashed away. He stopped at the door of athletic training center. "You were the greatest SeeD of all time, Sir, and I'm going to be as SeeD just like you!" With the shout still hanging in the air, the door slammed and the student was gone.
Zell was still shaking his head and smiling to himself when he stepped through the entryway of the modest Balamb apartment. As was his nature, Zell started shouting before anyone was even in view. "Iris, you know that one student I've been telling you about?" Tossing his duffel into the entryway closet, Zell didn't wait for a response before continuing. "You'll never believe what that crazy kid said to me today..." Uh-oh... As Zell stepped out of the entryway into the apartment's carpeted living area, he caught sight of the expression on Iris's face. As the martial-artist's brain caught up to his mouth, for a moment he worried that he might have already blurted out the child's statement about him being a legendary SeeD. The topic, despite his constant reassurances, still worried Iris. But how she could ever think I regret that decision... well, it's only been a few months. I'll convince her that I have no regrets, even if it takes the rest of my life. However, he quickly realized that he had not yet mentioned the student's words. "Whoops." He paused for a moment. "Did something not blow up the way it was supposed to today?" Only a few weeks after returning to Balamb, Iris had found—in reality, she had created it with sheer determination—a position in a leading demolitions company. Hair that had once been twisted into two tight pigtails, shook in denial. "No, everything at work was fine." Zell noticed that her angry scowl was directed at a small white card grasped tightly between two fingers. "But when I got home, I found this in the mailbox." She thrust the card at Zell, lips quivering with indignation. "I don't know what kind of sick joke... so help me... I've got half a mind to go down to this damn place and give them a free renovation, AKA Demolitions Inc. style." Zell glanced at the card.
You have a complimentary appointment
with Angelo Chiropractors
tomorrow at 10:30 AM
1121 Sea Foam Ln.
At the bottom of the handwritten note, was a tiny stylized drawing of a wing.
"Zell! What are you doing!?" Iris squealed as the martial artist picked her up, as easily as a pillow—still careful not to put pressure on the few sore spots that still remained near her injury—and swung her around. The former SeeD grinned. "They're back."
...
More than a little nervous, Iris wheeled herself across the threshold of the examination room. Behind her, a cloaked figure held up a hand. "Wait here, Mr. Dincht." He spoke with a familiar voice.
Deftly, she rolled over to the padded bench as a second figure—also wrapped from head to toe in robes—entered the room. "Mrs. Dincht?" The voice was feminine and also very familiar. "Oh, no, Sorry Iris, that's not until next week, isn't it?"
Iris looked up. How did she...?
"Let me help you onto the bench, Ms Deen." The small figure approached, offering a helping hand.
Iris grunted slightly with effort as she reached up. Gripping the edge of the bench, she began pulling herself from the wheelchair. "No thank you, I can manage it, myself." The figure continued to reach forward. "No, please let me help you." The woman spoke kindly, even as she placed her hands around Iris's waist. The former SeeD felt a shiver race through her body, and suddenly, between the woman's hands, she felt a warming tingle. For an instant, Iris caught a glimpse of the woman's face under the hood of her robe. She knew she shouldn't have been surprised, but still she gasped. "S-sorceress? Sorceress Heartilly?" The sorceress released her, and stepped back, her face hidden. She nodded silently. So great was Iris's surprise, that—for an instant—she did not realize she was standing. Suddenly, she looked down at her feet. Shocked, she let go of the bench and took a few steps backwards. Throwing back her hood, Rinoa placed a hand on Iris's shoulder. "Would you like to sit down, Iris?" Slowly, a smile began to spread across her face as she realized what had happened to her. "Thank you, I think I'll stand."
...
The darkness could hold no secrets from the beast. There were no stars, there was no moon, on this night. Still, the monster's eyes missed nothing. Unlike the day, unlike the moonlit night, there were no shadows this night. To its eyes, the markers standing in orderly rows could hide nothing, for they threw no shade.
The wind was still, the air cool and damp with the promise of a heavy dew. The sound of a single footfall could carry for miles. The monster made no such noise. It crouched beside the gravestone. A cold claw touched even colder marble. "Protector of This World?" The corners of Dahyte's lipless mouth pulled back in a grimace made from the bones of a smile.
The transformed sniper had already visited the grave of her only friend. The new gravesite, A proper burial ground. not like the hole her bleeding hands had scratched from the hard clay months ago. It was then that her fingernails had torn away, claws emerging from beneath her rotting human skin.
She had sat for hours on the scorched ground around the escape pod, scratching at the slabs of granite with those terrible cruel things that her hands had become. Her claws had been blunted, cracked, and scored by the rock marker she carved for her friend. She had been numb to the pain, just as she had been numb to the transformations taking place within her own body. Dahyte had wondered, then, when the shock would hit. When would her mind comprehend the beast that she was becoming?
Never. She slept, she ate, she survived, and not a single tear had she shed over what she had become. When the rude markers were finished, Dahyte had taken the Sapphire Nightmare and sought out the man; sorceress Rachel's lackey.
Only, he had not been just the sorceress's lackey, just as the sorceress Rachel had not been whom she claimed. No, that man had been the same one she now sought. The monster shook her head with silent disbelief. What twisted webs... Dahyte had dragged her decaying body to the Federated Republican Islands of Southern Pella to deliver the Sapphire Nightmare to the sorceress Rachel. I thought Quistis would have wanted it that way. In return, the man she met there provided her with gasses enough to sustain her changed lungs for years. When she realized that the plots and deceptions of the sorceress Rachel—in truth, the sorceress Sera—had run deeper than she or Quistis could have imagined, she stayed close to the body Norg was possessing, helping him, pretending to be loyal to the former proprietor of Balamb Garden. Dahyte shivered, and rubbed one hand along the ridged scales of her forearm. The night was not cold, but her memories... That terrible day the Finger of God had been loosed upon the world; the day the sorceress Sera had revealed her deception, Dahyte had seen the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place. After fleeing that thing from the moon, she had begun to realize how all these events tied together. But there was still much, much more to be learned; blank spaces between flashes of insight in the great mystery in which she had become entangled. Now, she wished to understand it all. She would find the Norg of the present—the real man or Shumi, whichever, wherever he was—not one of the bodies possessed by a future Norg. She would offer him her services, her expertise, just as she had before. She would follow him for as long as would be needed, to ensure that his plans would fail. She would not let him harm either Rinoa Heartilly, nor—despite how it galled her—Squall Leonheart. Because that is what I promised Quistis. That is what I promised to a friend.
"WHO GOES THERE!?" The shout startled Dahyte. Reflexively, her wings snapped open with the sound of rippling sheets of canvas. Silently chiding herself for losing track of the sentry, she dashed away from the voice. The view through the SeeD student's goggles bounced crazily as she ran after the fleeing figure. "HALT!" She stopped, unlimbering her bow. Another five steps, and Dahyte's wings bit into the air. The ground fell away beneath her as she sailed into the starless night. The student nocked an arrow as she called into the radio strapped to her shoulder. "Kraft! I've spotted an intruder! Get out here! And bring lights!" The bow creaked as she drew the arrow back, but the winged figure had disappeared into the night.
Every student in the group patrolled the memorial until dawn. They dragged out generators and banks of lights to illuminate the grounds until the sun rose. A scouting party swept the surrounding hills for days without finding a trace of the strange monster. The only proof that it had ever been there lay in a grainy recording on the student's night-vision camera. Needless to say, the entire episode became an instant legend; a frightening story told, and retold to every group of cadets departing to stand guard over the rows and rows of graves.
...
President Delphi Matchgar's desk was bare. He had long since thrown away the gilded clock as it kept ticking, ticking, ticking off the seconds. The papers, the reams of reports of everything, from war information, to lists of names to be included in the next purge; all gone. The Offices of the President of Galbadia were no longer issuing orders, nor receiving information.
After two stunning defeats in the past week—on in Timber, and one in the passes of the central mountains—the military forces of Galbadia were in full retreat. A few tattered units from the southern frontier were streaming back toward Deling, falling back in chaos. Not even a semblance of an orderly retreat had been evidenced by the military. Just as many—if not more—units were simply abandoning their arms and returning to their homes; surrendering; or even asking to join the CISS forces, as were returning for one final stand at Deling. The forces pushing for a breakthrough into timber had been utterly defeated and chased seventy miles back into Galbadian territory before the IRT army's counter-offensive had stopped. The Independent Republic of Timber had then issued a statement that it would press no farther into Galbadian territory if not provoked. A few days ago, when Matchgar had still held out some hope of forming a final defensive line around Deling, he had taken the Timberites at their word and recalled all Galbadian forces from the eastern frontier to Deling. Two days prior, a contingent of Estharian marines had landed in the port city of North Ricorn unopposed. At that time, Matchgar's aides had still bothered to lie to him, concealing the fact that the Estharians were greeted as liberating heroes in the Galbadian city. Since that time, no one had delivered any further reports to the president of Galbadia. A pile of wrappers and rubbish lay in one corner of the office—the remains of the last of the food Matchgar had been using to sustain himself. The president looked terrible. He had not slept in several days, nor had he left the office for fear of attempts on his life. Coarse hair darkened his face where he had neglected to shave and his reddened eyes were ringed by blotchy purple circles. However, although the man looked bleary-eyed, his mind continued to work in perfect order. Nervously, he placed a hand upon his firearm—the only object resting upon the empty desk. Any other man in this situation might think of turning this on himself. Not Matchgar. Not for an instant did the man think of anything but his own personal survival. He had long since given up on the idea that the few members of the armed forces and secret police still under his control could hold off the Estharians and Caraway's troops long enough for him to broker any kind of deal for himself. In fact, I doubt any one of them would so much as hold up a hand to protest them walking right through my front door. There was no one Matchgar could trust. He held no doubt that even his most loyal lieutenants would gladly hand him over to his enemies now that the tides had turned against him. Which brings me back to square one. The only one who could get Delphi Matchgar out of his current predicament was Delphi Matchgar. He would get no assistance from the outside, he would have to help himself. Fortunately, that's one of the things I do best. He checked his watch again. That's it. Either the garage watchman would have received his orders by now, or he would not have. If he hadn't, he would have to die. Standing, Matchgar picked up the pistol with the slightest white-lipped smile. Countries and sorceresses rise and fall. I always survive.
The streets of Deling lay unnaturally quiet under the huge crescent moon. Like the giant silver sickle of that far away satellite, the night air hung close and oppressive over the city. Nothing moved except for a few bits of discarded paper, tumbling in a hot midsummer night zephyr. Deling station was silent. A single engine sat silently under the harsh glare of the lights, its boiler cold and empty. The escalators still moved. The sodium streetlights still glowed. The lights from a few neon signs still flickered down the dark alleys. Air conditioners hummed and dripped down stained brick walls. Despite the armies of impending change approaching the city, the city continued to live on in a quiescent state. Near the outskirts of the Galbadian capital, the night air crackled with the electricity flowing through the high-tension wires over a wide boulevard. The hum of generators silenced the cries of night creatures near the dark power plant hunched close to the strips of asphalt. A pinprick of light appeared in the distance, slowly resolving itself into an oblong circle that danced in and out of view as it traced out rises and falls in the course of the road. The single headlight disappeared for a few moments. The generators and high-tension lines hummed on. Abruptly, the monotone of the night was broken by screaming as the oval of light appeared out of a low spot over which the boulevard passed. White and red lights streaked by, accompanied by a howl that rapidly shifted in pitch due to the Doppler effect on the passing motorcycle engine. The glare of passing streetlights washed over the black helmet of the motorcyclist without penetrating the heavily tinted visor. Hot night air whistled through the vents in the man's unmarked leather jacket. The motorcycle and man streaked under traffic lights that flashed red over and over again. Ahead, the taller buildings of downtown Deling bit chunks from the sliver of moon. The polished midnight skin of the motorcycle reflected only a few lighted windows. Above a commercial park, adjacent to a silent dry fountain, a clock face glimmered in a single spotlight. The man took note. The rushing of air over the motorcycle silenced the creak of his leather glove as it twisted the throttle open. From down a darkened alley, the motorcycle was a burst of howling engine and light as it flashed past, only its rear wheel touching the ground.
Delphi whirled, pointing the pistol down the hallway. The hardwood walls stood silently in the dimness. No one was there. Lowering the weapon, he fought the urge to mutter to himself as he hurried down toward the staircase that lead to the first floor. He trod carefully upon the plush carpeting of the stairs, careful to make as little sound as possible, but hurrying nonetheless. As he reached the last step, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. President Matchgar froze in place, but only for an instant. The single ornamental light burning in the ground floor hallway did nothing to illuminate the corridor. The President of Galbadia dropped to his haunches behind the wall that bordered one side of the stairs. His heart raced and he imagined he could feel the blood pulsating hotly through each and every artery. Leading with his firearm, he peered out from his slight cover. None of the shadows moved. The garage was only a few feet down the hall to the right. He slowly straightened, and it was then that he recognized the shape of one of the shadows. There could be no doubt, the hammer, the trigger, the tiniest glimmer from the steel of the weapon. It was a gunblade, there, on the edge of those shadows. Any other man would have frozen with fright or indecision, but not Delphi. His pistol was up and firing right at the shadows that hid the man's head. Once, twice, the roar of the gun was deafening in the enclosed space. Delphi had already somersaulted to the corner of the hall, making use of what scant cover was available. The shadows thrown from the illumination of the protect spell sparking against the rounds revealed two figures. The man with the gunblade stood impassively with his weapon grounded against the floor. He stared straight at Delphi without so much as blinking even as another bullet struck the magical shield protecting him. A smaller figure to the left of the armed man raised a hand. Delphi could make out the shadow of a shock of shoulder- length hair surrounding two orbs that glowed with an unearthly amber light. He was backpedaling in an ingrained zigzag pattern even as he fired two more shots without really expecting them to have much effect. The hallway exploded, or at least that was how it seemed to Delphi Matchgar. He curled into a ball against the brilliant green magic as the world unraveled around him. Miraculously, he felt himself strike the ground and roll—still alive. Gaining his feet, he took a split second to look around. He was outside the presidential residence. Behind him, flames licked at the edges of a large hole blasted out of the side of the mansion, smoldering debris lay all around, and a few feet away, the gate to the presidential compound lay open. He was running towards it even as a tremendous explosion shattered all the windows on the ground floor of the mansion behind him. It was a trap, of course. Delphi's mind was racing, but it could offer him no solutions. He surely would be gunned down before he reached the gate. The President of Deling survived running through the gate. After the last explosion, silence returned to the night, broken only by the pounding of his footsteps on the pavement in front of the mansion, the clatter of his handgun's discarded empty clip, and the metallic sound of the fresh ammunition being loaded.
Abruptly, the buildings ended. Two abandoned cars and a silent bus streaked by the motorcyclist as he broke out into Deling's monument mall. A few of the spotlights had burned out, but the gateway still shone brilliantly against the night sky. The calm glow of the gauges on the motorcycle's dashboard belied the howling wind, the roaring engine, and the violence of purpose in the rider's mind. The shoulder strap on the snub-nosed machine gun flapped wildly in the slipstream as the rider unholstered the weapon.
Matchgar was two thirds of the way to the gateway when he spotted the approaching motorcyclist. He was certain this was no impossible coincidence. Stopping dead in the middle of the road, he raised his firearm, steadying his aim with one hand.
Beside the blinding headlight, a star twinkled malignantly. Delphi felt chips of concrete slice across his face as he dove aside. Machine gun bullets stitching up the road where he had just stood. A hail of buzzing lead fell all around him as he dropped onto his back, returning fire with his pistol while the motorcycle screamed past. Somehow, none of the shots from the black bike's rider managed to strike him. He was up and running for the gateway instantly, shoving a third fresh clip into his weapon. If he could reach the sewers...
The submachine gun was lost to the pavement streaking past, clattering, sparking, and spinning into a gutter where it lay smoking slightly. The rider braced himself against the motorcycle as he squeezed down hard on the brakes. The machine tilted up on its front wheel, tires screeching in protest as they slid on dry asphalt. When the machine had slowed, the motorcycle's rear wheel contacted the ground already spinning. Rubber smoke hugged the asphalt close to the curved black streak left by the motorcycle as it pivoted and then stopped, motor idling uneasily. The fleeing man was caught squarely in its single headlight.
With a clattering roar, the massive gate fell, blocking entry to the gateway. Delphi could see his own shadow painted on the bars in sharp relief by the motorcycle's glaring headlamp. Old instincts took over, and he turned, raising his pistol again. The motorcycle's engine revved once, twice, its screeching cry piercing the night. Delphi fired at the sound of squealing rubber. The motorcycle's headlamp shattered as a round struck it. The windscreen broke apart under the impact of a second shot. Suddenly, the bike was up on its rear wheel again. Two more shots struck sparks from the engine, looming suddenly large in Delphi's view. At the last second, he realized—too late, the biker's intentions—and tried to dive aside. The machine struck him like a giant's burning metal gauntlet. At first, there was little pain, just confusion, shock, and burning heat on his face.
The rider stood from where he had fallen. The dark visor of his helmet giving him an otherworldly appearance, the man snapped open the flap on a hip holster, drawing a matte-black semiautomatic pistol. The pavement was littered with bits of glass and plastic. A slick wet smear marked where the vehicle had struck and dragged Delphi Matchgar into the gateway. Walking toward the mangled heap where the motorcycle had crashed against the gateway, the man pulled back the slide on the weapon, chambering a round.
Delphi Matchgar was having a hard time comprehending what was happening. Gasoline from the motorcycle's ruptured fuel tank covered him, and burned in his eyes. His back and legs screamed with pain, shredded by the pavement and now soaked with fuel. He could smell his own flesh beginning to cook where one mangled arm was tangled with the motorcycle's exhaust manifold. Fire streaked through his chest, where numerous ribs were broken, and fluid in his lungs burbled with each breath. The coppery tang of blood mixed with the bitter sting of gasoline in his mouth. He could move only a single arm, and he could not draw a deep enough breath to even whimper. For an instant, through his burning eyes, he saw the bug-like helmeted head of the motorcyclist. Something, some instinct deep within him made him raise his one good arm in a gesture for mercy. Then, the rider removed his helmet. Delphi Matchgar lowered his hand and his head at the sight of his assailant.
The night had fallen silent again, except for the ticking of the wrecked motorcycle engine, the quiet sizzle of flesh against red-hot metal, and the footfalls of the motorcycle rider. The stillness shattered at the sound of one final gunshot.
General Richard Caraway did not look back at the motorcycle, body, or pistol—dropped with only one round expended—as he walked away from the Deling Gateway. He seemed not to notice the fiery explosion behind him as the gasoline leaking from the motorcycle finally ignited.
Eventually, the wail of sirens would be heard through the empty streets of Deling. Eventually, the flames and plumes of dirty black smoke rising from the presidential mansion and the pile of melting metal, plastic, rubber, and flesh in front of the Deling Gateway would be extinguished. By that time, the three portals opened through space would have faded, and the three people who had come to dispense final justice would be long since gone.
...
The water sparkled with reflected sunbeams. The deep azure blue of the endless sea stretched to meet the robin's egg sky that faded to white near that far off edge of the world. Row after row of long undulating swells marched in from that horizon, each shining with the captured sun as they rolled toward the white crescent of sand. Only a sliver of the beach could be seen, peering out from between the lush greens of the island's treetop vegetation. The slightest zephyr stirred the riot of fronds and leaves that framed the beach and brushed the pearling surf into glassy perfection just before it broke into a chaos of snow-white foam.
A few arctic pink rose petals kissed the smooth marble of the balcony's thick railing before fluttering gently down and away on the warm sedate morning breeze. The hushed roar of the distant surf nearly masked the slipping sound of the long white drapes against one another. The diaphanous fabric billowed slowly outward, allowing an errant shaft of sunlight to stretch out across the thick blue carpet.
"What will we do now?" An almost-whisper caressed the plump pillow amid a twist of white sheets, dusted peach skin, and chocolate locks. Russet eyes, only half-open, twitched at a spark of light from the far away sea. His heart ached for the instant. Between Question and Answer would have been the name of the painting. Such a great injustice was present, that his tongue threatened to break free and despoil the moment of sea and sun, sky, fabric, and woman, for it was destined to be lost before it could be recorded, and such a travesty could hardly be allowed to pass in silence. But it was not the man's nature to speak—even in such circumstance, so he withheld his council and for a few moments, perfection remained untouched. At last, she turned to face him, but her motion did not break the spell; the induplicalble beauty only increased, even as she spoke again. "What will we do?" Looking down at her from up on one elbow, he spoke the first words that came to mind. "It doesn't matter." It doesn't matter that things will never be so flawless again. It doesn't matter that I we cannot stay this way forever, it doesn't matter because I have felt it—finally achieved this perfection. His smile said as much. It did matter. But she was not about to contradict the wish—for that is what his words were—a prayer of hope for the hopeless; a plea for wakefulness from a nightmare of tangled lives, time, and sorrow. He would stave off the inevitable by refusing it acknowledgement. His finger replaced one straying strand as he traced the outline of her face. "Forget the future, Rinoa. It is all we can do." She blinked once, almost as slow and measured as she spoke. "Alright." The nod was an imperceptible tilting of her chin. "I'll try." Only the sound of the surf stood between them and total silence. Suddenly, her neck arched and she dove for his bare belly. "I'll try very, very, hard...!" Her voice and eyes were alight with playfulness as her nose burrowed into his tummy, her lips and words tickling his skin. "Aack!" The gravity of the young man vanished under such an irresistible onslaught. Seriousness was a lost cause as he tried to cover his vulnerable midsection.
Only a fat scarlet cardinal was present on the sunny balcony to hear the playful wrestling of young lovers. Fluffing his feathers, the orange-beaked little bird cocked one black eye at the couple as they tussled in a whirlwind of sheets and laughter. After a few moments, the avian turned a few shades brighter red and fluttered discreetly away.
Two pairs of prints dimpled the shore of the sandbar. Wavelets of crystal- clear water lapped around the marks, slowly wiping away the trail left by the couple. The horizon was enormous. Stretching in every direction, the flat cloudless sky seemed to cap the oceanscape like a giant blue flagstone. Near the edges of the world, the sky and water seemed the same shade of deep azure. Closer, the warm, shallow sea was a sparkling aquamarine comment with white apostrophes of sand bars and bleached coral. Only the rainbow peak of one listing sail broke the leveled ocean and sands. Luffing gently in the early afternoon breeze, it cast a spray of shadowy colors over the couple beneath—hiding from the sun in the triangle of shade. Masks, fins, and snorkels lay strewn on the soft sand around the pair, baking gently in the tropical heat. He stared up into the endless cobalt sky as the warm air dried his skin. Crystals of ocean salt appeared in his hair only to be shaken free by the play of a zephyr of warm air. Her skin was hot against his where they touched, laying side by side. Sand rustled as he turned to look. He found her already gazing at him, the slightest of shy smiles brushed across her lips. Neither spoke. A far-away gull cried to itself. The waves shushed the creaking of the boom on the tiny sailboat.
So passed those days amid the tiny island chain. The tropical archipelago had been all but passed over by the recent events in the world, making it one of the few places a handsome—but otherwise unremarkable—newlywed couple could go to forget all about sorceresses, revolution, time compression and, even, perhaps, Fate for a little while.
The point was a huge limb of rock from the dormant volcano that had formed the island. Ages ago, it had been part of a smallish flow of lava from a minor eruption. Since that time, a million years of sea and weather had shaped it into a narrow promontory that jutted into the ocean a few hundred yards past two wings of white sand beach. Now it made the perfect resting place for a pair of visitors—tanned nearly as deeply as the locals—to bid farewell to the setting sun. She did not sigh deeply enough for him to notice. Squall's arms around her shoulders, Rinoa leaned back into him, watching the sun vanish behind a distant deck of plum-colored clouds. Nothing needed to be said. They both sensed it; even during their happiest, or at their most peaceful, the slightest touch of melancholy—the knowledge that reality would not wait forever—had tinged their lives. Now it was nearly over. When the sun reappeared over the limb of the world, they would be gone from this place where time seemed to stand still. They would think and speak again of Galbadia, Timber, the Confederacy, Gardens, and Esthar. There would be strife. Death, fear, and doubt would return to their lives. But, still, amidst it all—as there always had been—there would be his love and the strength it brought. And, knowing that, I can go on. I can leave this place without regret—as long as he is by my side. By the tiniest fraction, the sadness that had crept into her heart receded and she inclined her head, sneaking a glance at his scarred countenance. He looked down, returning her gaze, his quizzical expression the same as it had been the night they met. Rinoa closed her eyes and smiled, feeling his embrace tighten in an affectionate squeeze. He did not need to ask what she was thinking, he knew her thoughts as well as his own. She turned a little, he turned a little, and their lips brushed for a moment in the dusk. Then she turned back toward the sea, looking up at the spray of waxing stars in the moonless sky. His gaze followed hers, and they sat, watching the sky until the stars became too numerous to count and the hour too late to mention.
To be Continued at sponger42@yahoo.com for Purgatio's Website Containing Recent
Updates)
Epilogue
Part One
"No it isn't!" "What's that?" "No it isn't the end, Unkee Zell!" Dark blue, nearly violet, eyes stared piercingly at him from above a pouting mouth. "The little lion still has to find his way home. The story can't end until that happens." The little girl said, crossing her arms authoritatively. "Yeah, daddy." The twins chorused together. "There's got to be more." Leo said. "No story ever ends like that." Yina added. Slowly closing the storybook laid across his lap, Zell relented a little. "Well, maybe there is a little more, but it will have to wait until tomorrow." His statement was met by emphatic protests. "No, daddy! Please read us the rest." "Yeah Unkee, we can't sleep with all the sus... suspentance!" "I might have nightmares about lost lions, daddy." His thumb holding the place in the children's book, Zell waffled. "Well, I don't know, it's pretty late..." Seeing their chance, the children renewed their pleas. Zell's hand cracked the book just the slightest bit open again. Between the children, a silent organization of beseechment took place. 'One, two, three, now:' "Pleeease!" They cried in harmony. With no other choice, the book fell open again. "Oh, alright." Zell smiled as he looked for the place where he had left off. "Yaaay!" Iris sighed and smiled silently to herself as she leaned against the doorway to the room. Everyone in the room was asleep; the children in their beds, and Zell with his face planted firmly between the pages of the storybook. Silently, she walked across the room. Zell woke at her touch with only the slightest of starts. "Uh? Oh, what time is it?" He whispered. "Later than anyone in their right minds would let children stay up." Iris smiled down at him. "You're hopeless, Zell Dincht." Zell laid his head against Iris's belly as she ran her fingers through his hair—grown no less unruly with age. "Yes I am." "Let's go." She tugged gently on his ears. "Unless you were planning on finishing The Children's Big Book of Animal Stories by yourself tonight." The chair creaked slightly as Zell stood. Laying the storybook on top of the nightstand, he turned to follow Iris out of the children's room. "Unkee Zell?" Zell turned at the child's voice. One dark blue eye peeked at him from under a veil of hair. "When are mommy and daddy coming back?" With gentle hands grown much more sure with years of practice, Zell stroked the child's raven-black hair back into place. "Soon." He smiled softly. "Now go to sleep."
...
Kuno Inman's boot heels squeaked as he snapped a smart about-face after reaching the end of the polished walkway. Though outwardly, his expression was a mask of severe solemnity, inside he was sighing. Only five hundred more to go. As he paced his appointed rounds, he forced down a shiver. The cold, hard autumn rain had been coming down in sheets all afternoon and showed no sign of slacking. Despite the well-oiled all-weather uniform he wore, a few frigid droplets managed to sneak past his raised collar and dribbled down his back on every turn. The rain created a dull gray curtain around the SeeD memorial, masking the surrounding terrain from sight. The inland hills, the beach, the old ruins, the dock and outpost, even the knight's graves were all wrapped in the storm's sodden embrace. Droplets drummed on the metal skin of the escape rocket—pointing toward the hidden sky, mounted on a pedestal of granite blocks—and streamed between the letters carved into the single monolith that stood before the ancient spacecraft.
In memory of all seeds
From the lands
To the seas
To the very stars above
Give they their lives
So that we may live in peace
When the rain started, cold water had pooled in the indentations of the large stone seal of Balamb Garden, which rested in the center of a field of black marble tablets. Now, the water overflowed and poured down the tile walkways between the markers. Each memorial bore the crest of a garden, an insignia of rank, and the name of the soul it honored.
Dahyte Najai
Seed A
Protector of this world
Nida valenti
Seed 20
Protector of this world
There were others, of course. Rank upon rank of dark tablets stood sentinel in the driving rain. Tucked away amongst them, the difference almost unnoticeable, lay the memorials of hero's heroes.
Edea Kramer
Matron
Loving wife
Light in a dark world
Cid Kramer
Headmaster
Loving Husband
Guardian of the light
One marker, not really so different from any of the others, stood alone amongst them, but not unnoticed, for everyone who visited this place would always look to it as the final resting place of a legend as great in stature as any in all of time.
Quistis Trepe
Seed Instructor First Class
Savior of us all
Seed Candidate Inman continued to stare straight ahead as he marched past memorial field. The squelching of the stones beneath his boots was barely audible above the steady patter of rain on his hood and shoulders. His group of students was not the first to stand watch over the SeeD burial ground and it certainly wouldn't be the last. However, he could not look forward to the same celebrity status as the first students ever to man the honorary guard post—they had practically hero's welcome upon their return. Their trip, their proximity to the graves of legends—and to the mysterious silent sorceress—had won the awed respect of their peers for the two-week period until the second group returned. When they too spoke of the unrelenting boredom of empty watches, homework and lecture via satellite email, and no free time—nor any diversions to occupy their free time had they had any—the mythos surrounding the new duty required of all SeeD candidates had evaporated.
Still, Kuno Inman realized that he did have a duty to perform—no matter how dull or uncomfortable it might be—and he did his best to keep his paces steady and his about-faces snappy. Unable, or at least unwilling, to look down to check on the time, he was glad for the one secret passed down only between those returning from sentinel duty and those departing; how many times the path must be walked before you were relieved by the next watch.
The rain ended with two hundred and thirty five laps remaining. Casting a cautious eye toward the sky, Kuno judged the clouds. The fall rains were persistent, and he had once been tricked into removing his rain gear before a storm was completely over. Halfway to the far end of his patrol, he had been forced to march calmly through the downpour as his uniform was soaked through. Not for a moment had he even considered breaking stride to dash to the small shed where the weather gear was stowed.
After five more minutes, the purple-bottomed clouds began to show patches of lighter gray. Satisfied that the storm truly was over, the student removed his inclement weather gear—as was required by protocol. He paused at the edge of his route. Already, the stone strip was becoming polished by the constant passage of the booted guardsmen and women. He tapped one foot lightly three times to put himself back into step, then began his solemn patrol again. Wheeling sharply, he was greeted by a view of the edge of the peninsula. Revealed by the passing of the storm, the Knight's Memorial caught his attention—even as he was careful to keep his eyes forward and expression severe.
On a small knoll, separate from the rest of the SeeD memorial, was the final resting place of Squall Leonhart. Like many others of his class, Kuno was not quite sure what to think. There was no question that Squall Leonhart was a hero of legendary proportions, but there was something different about him and the tales that surrounded him. Though the black marble marker was nearly the same as those of the SeeDs, subtle differences existed. Rather than the crest of a garden, the knight's marker was adorned with the head of a lion. The few words carved upon it differed as well.
Squall Leonhart
Knight
Savior of us all
In the end, Kuno had to admit, perhaps the lonely memorial was appropriate. From what he had come to understand, Squall had always differed from those around him. Fitting his grave amongst the ranks of SeeD would not have seemed right.
Turning at the end of his route nearest the ocean, SeeD Candidate Inman couldn't help but let the tiniest bit of angry severity creep into his expression. Opposite the Knight's Memorial lay the Traitor's Grave—as it had come to be called by almost every member of SeeD. Nothing was engraved upon the marker besides a name and the symbol of a pointed cross.
Seifer Almasy There was nothing ambiguous about Seifer and what he had done. It was common knowledge around the Garden that neither the Knight's nor the Traitor's Grave contained a body. Many still talked about Squall Leonhart as if he could still be alive somewhere. No one spoke of Seifer Almasy that way. Turning again, Kuno Inman watched one last curtain of rain sweep across the open fields to the west. The shower passed out to sea, and as it lifted a lone figure was revealed. The sorceress had not moved since she spoke with another, now retired, legend of SeeD; Zell Dincht. She seemed to be almost frozen in time. She neither slept nor ate, and the flowers around her were always in constant bloom. Now, in the middle of fall, the rest of the field was a mix of greens and browns—the blossoms of summer having finally faded and fallen away—and the sorceress Rinoa stood amongst a little spring-like island of color in the midst of a field still glistening with the recent rainfall. No matter what weather came, it never touched the sorceress or her garden of wildflowers. Kuno had no doubt that, when he was gone, her small field of flowers would continue to bloom straight through the frosts and snows of winter. Despite his tired feet, Kuno felt a smile tugging at his lips as he completed another circuit. Something in the air after the rain had transformed the cold fall day into what felt like spring again. He took a deep breath as his heels clicked rhythmically on the stones. Then a cool wind tugged at his uniform. As he turned his back to the field of the sorceress, he imagined he saw motion. For a moment, he almost lost step, but quickly recovered, keeping up the steady tapping footfalls of his watch. It couldn't have been... The wind picked up, sending something skittering across the dark stones. What? Are those flower petals? Kuno struggled to maintain steady step and expression as a few pink petals whirled around him. But where did they come from? With the coming of the wind, the day darkened again. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to turn around. Only thirty more paces to the far end, then he would have the field of flowers in view again. Abruptly, the sound of footfalls ceased as SeeD Candidate Kuno Inman came to a dead halt. Protocol was forgotten in an instant of shock as the student whirled about. It was not the rumble of thunder that broke his step, but the unmistakable whistling of a blade cutting through air. The battered and scarred revolver gunblade fell from the sky. Spinning end over end, it glittered with the reflection of dark clouds for an instant before striking rock with a metallic clang. The student's mouth dropped open as he turned and stared. A few dozen feet away, atop the small knoll that marked the Knight's Memorial, a sliver gunblade had fallen from the sky and lodged itself in the black marble tablet. "T-that's impossible..." Kuno almost tripped on his own feet. It's blooming...! The fields, from the crumbling walls of the ancient orphanage to the lighthouse, far out on its promontory, to the very edge of the SeeD memorials, burgeoned with the blues and pinks of spring flowers. Cracks of gray in the clouds lightened to white as the sky began to clear. With amazing speed, white gave way to tiny hints of blue, and now sunbeams, rather than rain, showered down to earth amid through the damp air. Mists evaporating from the rainfall caught and held the sunlight, making the cascades of gold seem all the more corporeal as they swept across sea and sand, flower and grave, grass and stone. After so many motionless months, the Sorceress Rinoa looked up and smiled, raising her arms in a joyous welcome to the beam of sunlight. The shafting light swept over the sorceress, and suddenly everything was lost in a sea of brilliance. Kuno Inman fell to one knee, covering and closing his eyes against the luminescence. When the student opened them again, the scene was the same. The gunblade remained locked in the stone marker, the field of flowers was still a riot of color, It's real! It's really happening! and the sorceress...
Rinoa was gone.
(Purgatio Also Available at )
Epilogue
Part Two
...
The proprietor of the Sea Breeze Inn could have sworn there was something familiar about the young couple standing before the registration desk. "I have a room available on the East side. It has a lovely view of the ocean. I'm sure you'll adore it. Spring sunrises in Balamb are the most invigorating in the world!" He had to struggle to keep a pensive frown from surfacing as one of the couple spoke. I could swear I've seen that face before... "I know." The young man replied. "Ah, so you've been to Balamb before." Now, where have I seen you? The innkeeper glanced down at his registration book. "And how long will you be staying with us?" He looked up, and suddenly the strange sense of recognition was swept away. No, what was I thinking? I've never seen these people before. The dark-haired woman smiled at him. "Not long."
...
Packing up the last of his equipment, Zell turned at the sound of a quiet cough behind him. "Little Tomark, what are you still doing here?" Dropping the duffel, Zell gave the tiny student one of his better—he thought—stern looks. "I dismissed class half an hour ago." Inwardly, though, the former SeeD was smiling. Though barely ten years old, the child was already exhibiting surprising skill and balance. He was undoubtedly one of Zell's best students, though one of the very youngest members of the junior classes the martial artist taught. Too bad all that balance and control will disappear when he hits puberty, poor kid. Zell grinned to himself.
Bowing slightly, Tomark, replied solemnly. "Mister Dincht, do you think I have what it takes to be a SeeD?"
Zell couldn't help but burst out laughing. "Tomark, you are only ten years old. SeeDs are great warriors much older and stronger than children your age." The crestfallen expression of the child caused the former SeeD to soften his tone a bit. "Well... even the youngest SeeD I knew... was half again as old as you before graduating..." He relented a little. "Though, I suppose, with practice, you could become as good as a SeeD."
The child shook his head. "That is not what I meant, Mister Dincht. I mean, if I applied now, do you think I could become a SeeD warrior?"
Zell's eyebrows shot up. He had not realized the nature of his student's question. "Joining SeeD is a big decision, Tomark."
"And a noble one, Sir." The student's gaze rose to challenge Zell's.
Zell stared at the Tomark for an instant, until the student looked away. "Yes. And a noble one." He folded his arms. "It also involves great personal sacrifice." He walked forward to stand directly in front of the student. "Tomark."
The child looked up. "The question is not whether I think you have what it takes to join SeeD. The question is; do you?" Zell's voice held a seriousness he reserved only for use when discussing the most deadly of maneuvers with his most advanced students.
"Yes, Sir." It was both an acknowledgment and a confirmation. There was the tiniest shifting of weight. Zell recognized it as a signature of the student's fighting style—a dead giveaway before a strike that he had not managed to train out of the young fighter just yet. However, instead of attacking, Tomark whirled and dashed away. He stopped at the door of athletic training center. "You were the greatest SeeD of all time, Sir, and I'm going to be as SeeD just like you!" With the shout still hanging in the air, the door slammed and the student was gone.
Zell was still shaking his head and smiling to himself when he stepped through the entryway of the modest Balamb apartment. As was his nature, Zell started shouting before anyone was even in view. "Iris, you know that one student I've been telling you about?" Tossing his duffel into the entryway closet, Zell didn't wait for a response before continuing. "You'll never believe what that crazy kid said to me today..." Uh-oh... As Zell stepped out of the entryway into the apartment's carpeted living area, he caught sight of the expression on Iris's face. As the martial-artist's brain caught up to his mouth, for a moment he worried that he might have already blurted out the child's statement about him being a legendary SeeD. The topic, despite his constant reassurances, still worried Iris. But how she could ever think I regret that decision... well, it's only been a few months. I'll convince her that I have no regrets, even if it takes the rest of my life. However, he quickly realized that he had not yet mentioned the student's words. "Whoops." He paused for a moment. "Did something not blow up the way it was supposed to today?" Only a few weeks after returning to Balamb, Iris had found—in reality, she had created it with sheer determination—a position in a leading demolitions company. Hair that had once been twisted into two tight pigtails, shook in denial. "No, everything at work was fine." Zell noticed that her angry scowl was directed at a small white card grasped tightly between two fingers. "But when I got home, I found this in the mailbox." She thrust the card at Zell, lips quivering with indignation. "I don't know what kind of sick joke... so help me... I've got half a mind to go down to this damn place and give them a free renovation, AKA Demolitions Inc. style." Zell glanced at the card.
You have a complimentary appointment
with Angelo Chiropractors
tomorrow at 10:30 AM
1121 Sea Foam Ln.
At the bottom of the handwritten note, was a tiny stylized drawing of a wing.
"Zell! What are you doing!?" Iris squealed as the martial artist picked her up, as easily as a pillow—still careful not to put pressure on the few sore spots that still remained near her injury—and swung her around. The former SeeD grinned. "They're back."
...
More than a little nervous, Iris wheeled herself across the threshold of the examination room. Behind her, a cloaked figure held up a hand. "Wait here, Mr. Dincht." He spoke with a familiar voice.
Deftly, she rolled over to the padded bench as a second figure—also wrapped from head to toe in robes—entered the room. "Mrs. Dincht?" The voice was feminine and also very familiar. "Oh, no, Sorry Iris, that's not until next week, isn't it?"
Iris looked up. How did she...?
"Let me help you onto the bench, Ms Deen." The small figure approached, offering a helping hand.
Iris grunted slightly with effort as she reached up. Gripping the edge of the bench, she began pulling herself from the wheelchair. "No thank you, I can manage it, myself." The figure continued to reach forward. "No, please let me help you." The woman spoke kindly, even as she placed her hands around Iris's waist. The former SeeD felt a shiver race through her body, and suddenly, between the woman's hands, she felt a warming tingle. For an instant, Iris caught a glimpse of the woman's face under the hood of her robe. She knew she shouldn't have been surprised, but still she gasped. "S-sorceress? Sorceress Heartilly?" The sorceress released her, and stepped back, her face hidden. She nodded silently. So great was Iris's surprise, that—for an instant—she did not realize she was standing. Suddenly, she looked down at her feet. Shocked, she let go of the bench and took a few steps backwards. Throwing back her hood, Rinoa placed a hand on Iris's shoulder. "Would you like to sit down, Iris?" Slowly, a smile began to spread across her face as she realized what had happened to her. "Thank you, I think I'll stand."
...
The darkness could hold no secrets from the beast. There were no stars, there was no moon, on this night. Still, the monster's eyes missed nothing. Unlike the day, unlike the moonlit night, there were no shadows this night. To its eyes, the markers standing in orderly rows could hide nothing, for they threw no shade.
The wind was still, the air cool and damp with the promise of a heavy dew. The sound of a single footfall could carry for miles. The monster made no such noise. It crouched beside the gravestone. A cold claw touched even colder marble. "Protector of This World?" The corners of Dahyte's lipless mouth pulled back in a grimace made from the bones of a smile.
The transformed sniper had already visited the grave of her only friend. The new gravesite, A proper burial ground. not like the hole her bleeding hands had scratched from the hard clay months ago. It was then that her fingernails had torn away, claws emerging from beneath her rotting human skin.
She had sat for hours on the scorched ground around the escape pod, scratching at the slabs of granite with those terrible cruel things that her hands had become. Her claws had been blunted, cracked, and scored by the rock marker she carved for her friend. She had been numb to the pain, just as she had been numb to the transformations taking place within her own body. Dahyte had wondered, then, when the shock would hit. When would her mind comprehend the beast that she was becoming?
Never. She slept, she ate, she survived, and not a single tear had she shed over what she had become. When the rude markers were finished, Dahyte had taken the Sapphire Nightmare and sought out the man; sorceress Rachel's lackey.
Only, he had not been just the sorceress's lackey, just as the sorceress Rachel had not been whom she claimed. No, that man had been the same one she now sought. The monster shook her head with silent disbelief. What twisted webs... Dahyte had dragged her decaying body to the Federated Republican Islands of Southern Pella to deliver the Sapphire Nightmare to the sorceress Rachel. I thought Quistis would have wanted it that way. In return, the man she met there provided her with gasses enough to sustain her changed lungs for years. When she realized that the plots and deceptions of the sorceress Rachel—in truth, the sorceress Sera—had run deeper than she or Quistis could have imagined, she stayed close to the body Norg was possessing, helping him, pretending to be loyal to the former proprietor of Balamb Garden. Dahyte shivered, and rubbed one hand along the ridged scales of her forearm. The night was not cold, but her memories... That terrible day the Finger of God had been loosed upon the world; the day the sorceress Sera had revealed her deception, Dahyte had seen the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place. After fleeing that thing from the moon, she had begun to realize how all these events tied together. But there was still much, much more to be learned; blank spaces between flashes of insight in the great mystery in which she had become entangled. Now, she wished to understand it all. She would find the Norg of the present—the real man or Shumi, whichever, wherever he was—not one of the bodies possessed by a future Norg. She would offer him her services, her expertise, just as she had before. She would follow him for as long as would be needed, to ensure that his plans would fail. She would not let him harm either Rinoa Heartilly, nor—despite how it galled her—Squall Leonheart. Because that is what I promised Quistis. That is what I promised to a friend.
"WHO GOES THERE!?" The shout startled Dahyte. Reflexively, her wings snapped open with the sound of rippling sheets of canvas. Silently chiding herself for losing track of the sentry, she dashed away from the voice. The view through the SeeD student's goggles bounced crazily as she ran after the fleeing figure. "HALT!" She stopped, unlimbering her bow. Another five steps, and Dahyte's wings bit into the air. The ground fell away beneath her as she sailed into the starless night. The student nocked an arrow as she called into the radio strapped to her shoulder. "Kraft! I've spotted an intruder! Get out here! And bring lights!" The bow creaked as she drew the arrow back, but the winged figure had disappeared into the night.
Every student in the group patrolled the memorial until dawn. They dragged out generators and banks of lights to illuminate the grounds until the sun rose. A scouting party swept the surrounding hills for days without finding a trace of the strange monster. The only proof that it had ever been there lay in a grainy recording on the student's night-vision camera. Needless to say, the entire episode became an instant legend; a frightening story told, and retold to every group of cadets departing to stand guard over the rows and rows of graves.
...
President Delphi Matchgar's desk was bare. He had long since thrown away the gilded clock as it kept ticking, ticking, ticking off the seconds. The papers, the reams of reports of everything, from war information, to lists of names to be included in the next purge; all gone. The Offices of the President of Galbadia were no longer issuing orders, nor receiving information.
After two stunning defeats in the past week—on in Timber, and one in the passes of the central mountains—the military forces of Galbadia were in full retreat. A few tattered units from the southern frontier were streaming back toward Deling, falling back in chaos. Not even a semblance of an orderly retreat had been evidenced by the military. Just as many—if not more—units were simply abandoning their arms and returning to their homes; surrendering; or even asking to join the CISS forces, as were returning for one final stand at Deling. The forces pushing for a breakthrough into timber had been utterly defeated and chased seventy miles back into Galbadian territory before the IRT army's counter-offensive had stopped. The Independent Republic of Timber had then issued a statement that it would press no farther into Galbadian territory if not provoked. A few days ago, when Matchgar had still held out some hope of forming a final defensive line around Deling, he had taken the Timberites at their word and recalled all Galbadian forces from the eastern frontier to Deling. Two days prior, a contingent of Estharian marines had landed in the port city of North Ricorn unopposed. At that time, Matchgar's aides had still bothered to lie to him, concealing the fact that the Estharians were greeted as liberating heroes in the Galbadian city. Since that time, no one had delivered any further reports to the president of Galbadia. A pile of wrappers and rubbish lay in one corner of the office—the remains of the last of the food Matchgar had been using to sustain himself. The president looked terrible. He had not slept in several days, nor had he left the office for fear of attempts on his life. Coarse hair darkened his face where he had neglected to shave and his reddened eyes were ringed by blotchy purple circles. However, although the man looked bleary-eyed, his mind continued to work in perfect order. Nervously, he placed a hand upon his firearm—the only object resting upon the empty desk. Any other man in this situation might think of turning this on himself. Not Matchgar. Not for an instant did the man think of anything but his own personal survival. He had long since given up on the idea that the few members of the armed forces and secret police still under his control could hold off the Estharians and Caraway's troops long enough for him to broker any kind of deal for himself. In fact, I doubt any one of them would so much as hold up a hand to protest them walking right through my front door. There was no one Matchgar could trust. He held no doubt that even his most loyal lieutenants would gladly hand him over to his enemies now that the tides had turned against him. Which brings me back to square one. The only one who could get Delphi Matchgar out of his current predicament was Delphi Matchgar. He would get no assistance from the outside, he would have to help himself. Fortunately, that's one of the things I do best. He checked his watch again. That's it. Either the garage watchman would have received his orders by now, or he would not have. If he hadn't, he would have to die. Standing, Matchgar picked up the pistol with the slightest white-lipped smile. Countries and sorceresses rise and fall. I always survive.
The streets of Deling lay unnaturally quiet under the huge crescent moon. Like the giant silver sickle of that far away satellite, the night air hung close and oppressive over the city. Nothing moved except for a few bits of discarded paper, tumbling in a hot midsummer night zephyr. Deling station was silent. A single engine sat silently under the harsh glare of the lights, its boiler cold and empty. The escalators still moved. The sodium streetlights still glowed. The lights from a few neon signs still flickered down the dark alleys. Air conditioners hummed and dripped down stained brick walls. Despite the armies of impending change approaching the city, the city continued to live on in a quiescent state. Near the outskirts of the Galbadian capital, the night air crackled with the electricity flowing through the high-tension wires over a wide boulevard. The hum of generators silenced the cries of night creatures near the dark power plant hunched close to the strips of asphalt. A pinprick of light appeared in the distance, slowly resolving itself into an oblong circle that danced in and out of view as it traced out rises and falls in the course of the road. The single headlight disappeared for a few moments. The generators and high-tension lines hummed on. Abruptly, the monotone of the night was broken by screaming as the oval of light appeared out of a low spot over which the boulevard passed. White and red lights streaked by, accompanied by a howl that rapidly shifted in pitch due to the Doppler effect on the passing motorcycle engine. The glare of passing streetlights washed over the black helmet of the motorcyclist without penetrating the heavily tinted visor. Hot night air whistled through the vents in the man's unmarked leather jacket. The motorcycle and man streaked under traffic lights that flashed red over and over again. Ahead, the taller buildings of downtown Deling bit chunks from the sliver of moon. The polished midnight skin of the motorcycle reflected only a few lighted windows. Above a commercial park, adjacent to a silent dry fountain, a clock face glimmered in a single spotlight. The man took note. The rushing of air over the motorcycle silenced the creak of his leather glove as it twisted the throttle open. From down a darkened alley, the motorcycle was a burst of howling engine and light as it flashed past, only its rear wheel touching the ground.
Delphi whirled, pointing the pistol down the hallway. The hardwood walls stood silently in the dimness. No one was there. Lowering the weapon, he fought the urge to mutter to himself as he hurried down toward the staircase that lead to the first floor. He trod carefully upon the plush carpeting of the stairs, careful to make as little sound as possible, but hurrying nonetheless. As he reached the last step, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. President Matchgar froze in place, but only for an instant. The single ornamental light burning in the ground floor hallway did nothing to illuminate the corridor. The President of Galbadia dropped to his haunches behind the wall that bordered one side of the stairs. His heart raced and he imagined he could feel the blood pulsating hotly through each and every artery. Leading with his firearm, he peered out from his slight cover. None of the shadows moved. The garage was only a few feet down the hall to the right. He slowly straightened, and it was then that he recognized the shape of one of the shadows. There could be no doubt, the hammer, the trigger, the tiniest glimmer from the steel of the weapon. It was a gunblade, there, on the edge of those shadows. Any other man would have frozen with fright or indecision, but not Delphi. His pistol was up and firing right at the shadows that hid the man's head. Once, twice, the roar of the gun was deafening in the enclosed space. Delphi had already somersaulted to the corner of the hall, making use of what scant cover was available. The shadows thrown from the illumination of the protect spell sparking against the rounds revealed two figures. The man with the gunblade stood impassively with his weapon grounded against the floor. He stared straight at Delphi without so much as blinking even as another bullet struck the magical shield protecting him. A smaller figure to the left of the armed man raised a hand. Delphi could make out the shadow of a shock of shoulder- length hair surrounding two orbs that glowed with an unearthly amber light. He was backpedaling in an ingrained zigzag pattern even as he fired two more shots without really expecting them to have much effect. The hallway exploded, or at least that was how it seemed to Delphi Matchgar. He curled into a ball against the brilliant green magic as the world unraveled around him. Miraculously, he felt himself strike the ground and roll—still alive. Gaining his feet, he took a split second to look around. He was outside the presidential residence. Behind him, flames licked at the edges of a large hole blasted out of the side of the mansion, smoldering debris lay all around, and a few feet away, the gate to the presidential compound lay open. He was running towards it even as a tremendous explosion shattered all the windows on the ground floor of the mansion behind him. It was a trap, of course. Delphi's mind was racing, but it could offer him no solutions. He surely would be gunned down before he reached the gate. The President of Deling survived running through the gate. After the last explosion, silence returned to the night, broken only by the pounding of his footsteps on the pavement in front of the mansion, the clatter of his handgun's discarded empty clip, and the metallic sound of the fresh ammunition being loaded.
Abruptly, the buildings ended. Two abandoned cars and a silent bus streaked by the motorcyclist as he broke out into Deling's monument mall. A few of the spotlights had burned out, but the gateway still shone brilliantly against the night sky. The calm glow of the gauges on the motorcycle's dashboard belied the howling wind, the roaring engine, and the violence of purpose in the rider's mind. The shoulder strap on the snub-nosed machine gun flapped wildly in the slipstream as the rider unholstered the weapon.
Matchgar was two thirds of the way to the gateway when he spotted the approaching motorcyclist. He was certain this was no impossible coincidence. Stopping dead in the middle of the road, he raised his firearm, steadying his aim with one hand.
Beside the blinding headlight, a star twinkled malignantly. Delphi felt chips of concrete slice across his face as he dove aside. Machine gun bullets stitching up the road where he had just stood. A hail of buzzing lead fell all around him as he dropped onto his back, returning fire with his pistol while the motorcycle screamed past. Somehow, none of the shots from the black bike's rider managed to strike him. He was up and running for the gateway instantly, shoving a third fresh clip into his weapon. If he could reach the sewers...
The submachine gun was lost to the pavement streaking past, clattering, sparking, and spinning into a gutter where it lay smoking slightly. The rider braced himself against the motorcycle as he squeezed down hard on the brakes. The machine tilted up on its front wheel, tires screeching in protest as they slid on dry asphalt. When the machine had slowed, the motorcycle's rear wheel contacted the ground already spinning. Rubber smoke hugged the asphalt close to the curved black streak left by the motorcycle as it pivoted and then stopped, motor idling uneasily. The fleeing man was caught squarely in its single headlight.
With a clattering roar, the massive gate fell, blocking entry to the gateway. Delphi could see his own shadow painted on the bars in sharp relief by the motorcycle's glaring headlamp. Old instincts took over, and he turned, raising his pistol again. The motorcycle's engine revved once, twice, its screeching cry piercing the night. Delphi fired at the sound of squealing rubber. The motorcycle's headlamp shattered as a round struck it. The windscreen broke apart under the impact of a second shot. Suddenly, the bike was up on its rear wheel again. Two more shots struck sparks from the engine, looming suddenly large in Delphi's view. At the last second, he realized—too late, the biker's intentions—and tried to dive aside. The machine struck him like a giant's burning metal gauntlet. At first, there was little pain, just confusion, shock, and burning heat on his face.
The rider stood from where he had fallen. The dark visor of his helmet giving him an otherworldly appearance, the man snapped open the flap on a hip holster, drawing a matte-black semiautomatic pistol. The pavement was littered with bits of glass and plastic. A slick wet smear marked where the vehicle had struck and dragged Delphi Matchgar into the gateway. Walking toward the mangled heap where the motorcycle had crashed against the gateway, the man pulled back the slide on the weapon, chambering a round.
Delphi Matchgar was having a hard time comprehending what was happening. Gasoline from the motorcycle's ruptured fuel tank covered him, and burned in his eyes. His back and legs screamed with pain, shredded by the pavement and now soaked with fuel. He could smell his own flesh beginning to cook where one mangled arm was tangled with the motorcycle's exhaust manifold. Fire streaked through his chest, where numerous ribs were broken, and fluid in his lungs burbled with each breath. The coppery tang of blood mixed with the bitter sting of gasoline in his mouth. He could move only a single arm, and he could not draw a deep enough breath to even whimper. For an instant, through his burning eyes, he saw the bug-like helmeted head of the motorcyclist. Something, some instinct deep within him made him raise his one good arm in a gesture for mercy. Then, the rider removed his helmet. Delphi Matchgar lowered his hand and his head at the sight of his assailant.
The night had fallen silent again, except for the ticking of the wrecked motorcycle engine, the quiet sizzle of flesh against red-hot metal, and the footfalls of the motorcycle rider. The stillness shattered at the sound of one final gunshot.
General Richard Caraway did not look back at the motorcycle, body, or pistol—dropped with only one round expended—as he walked away from the Deling Gateway. He seemed not to notice the fiery explosion behind him as the gasoline leaking from the motorcycle finally ignited.
Eventually, the wail of sirens would be heard through the empty streets of Deling. Eventually, the flames and plumes of dirty black smoke rising from the presidential mansion and the pile of melting metal, plastic, rubber, and flesh in front of the Deling Gateway would be extinguished. By that time, the three portals opened through space would have faded, and the three people who had come to dispense final justice would be long since gone.
...
The water sparkled with reflected sunbeams. The deep azure blue of the endless sea stretched to meet the robin's egg sky that faded to white near that far off edge of the world. Row after row of long undulating swells marched in from that horizon, each shining with the captured sun as they rolled toward the white crescent of sand. Only a sliver of the beach could be seen, peering out from between the lush greens of the island's treetop vegetation. The slightest zephyr stirred the riot of fronds and leaves that framed the beach and brushed the pearling surf into glassy perfection just before it broke into a chaos of snow-white foam.
A few arctic pink rose petals kissed the smooth marble of the balcony's thick railing before fluttering gently down and away on the warm sedate morning breeze. The hushed roar of the distant surf nearly masked the slipping sound of the long white drapes against one another. The diaphanous fabric billowed slowly outward, allowing an errant shaft of sunlight to stretch out across the thick blue carpet.
"What will we do now?" An almost-whisper caressed the plump pillow amid a twist of white sheets, dusted peach skin, and chocolate locks. Russet eyes, only half-open, twitched at a spark of light from the far away sea. His heart ached for the instant. Between Question and Answer would have been the name of the painting. Such a great injustice was present, that his tongue threatened to break free and despoil the moment of sea and sun, sky, fabric, and woman, for it was destined to be lost before it could be recorded, and such a travesty could hardly be allowed to pass in silence. But it was not the man's nature to speak—even in such circumstance, so he withheld his council and for a few moments, perfection remained untouched. At last, she turned to face him, but her motion did not break the spell; the induplicalble beauty only increased, even as she spoke again. "What will we do?" Looking down at her from up on one elbow, he spoke the first words that came to mind. "It doesn't matter." It doesn't matter that things will never be so flawless again. It doesn't matter that I we cannot stay this way forever, it doesn't matter because I have felt it—finally achieved this perfection. His smile said as much. It did matter. But she was not about to contradict the wish—for that is what his words were—a prayer of hope for the hopeless; a plea for wakefulness from a nightmare of tangled lives, time, and sorrow. He would stave off the inevitable by refusing it acknowledgement. His finger replaced one straying strand as he traced the outline of her face. "Forget the future, Rinoa. It is all we can do." She blinked once, almost as slow and measured as she spoke. "Alright." The nod was an imperceptible tilting of her chin. "I'll try." Only the sound of the surf stood between them and total silence. Suddenly, her neck arched and she dove for his bare belly. "I'll try very, very, hard...!" Her voice and eyes were alight with playfulness as her nose burrowed into his tummy, her lips and words tickling his skin. "Aack!" The gravity of the young man vanished under such an irresistible onslaught. Seriousness was a lost cause as he tried to cover his vulnerable midsection.
Only a fat scarlet cardinal was present on the sunny balcony to hear the playful wrestling of young lovers. Fluffing his feathers, the orange-beaked little bird cocked one black eye at the couple as they tussled in a whirlwind of sheets and laughter. After a few moments, the avian turned a few shades brighter red and fluttered discreetly away.
Two pairs of prints dimpled the shore of the sandbar. Wavelets of crystal- clear water lapped around the marks, slowly wiping away the trail left by the couple. The horizon was enormous. Stretching in every direction, the flat cloudless sky seemed to cap the oceanscape like a giant blue flagstone. Near the edges of the world, the sky and water seemed the same shade of deep azure. Closer, the warm, shallow sea was a sparkling aquamarine comment with white apostrophes of sand bars and bleached coral. Only the rainbow peak of one listing sail broke the leveled ocean and sands. Luffing gently in the early afternoon breeze, it cast a spray of shadowy colors over the couple beneath—hiding from the sun in the triangle of shade. Masks, fins, and snorkels lay strewn on the soft sand around the pair, baking gently in the tropical heat. He stared up into the endless cobalt sky as the warm air dried his skin. Crystals of ocean salt appeared in his hair only to be shaken free by the play of a zephyr of warm air. Her skin was hot against his where they touched, laying side by side. Sand rustled as he turned to look. He found her already gazing at him, the slightest of shy smiles brushed across her lips. Neither spoke. A far-away gull cried to itself. The waves shushed the creaking of the boom on the tiny sailboat.
So passed those days amid the tiny island chain. The tropical archipelago had been all but passed over by the recent events in the world, making it one of the few places a handsome—but otherwise unremarkable—newlywed couple could go to forget all about sorceresses, revolution, time compression and, even, perhaps, Fate for a little while.
The point was a huge limb of rock from the dormant volcano that had formed the island. Ages ago, it had been part of a smallish flow of lava from a minor eruption. Since that time, a million years of sea and weather had shaped it into a narrow promontory that jutted into the ocean a few hundred yards past two wings of white sand beach. Now it made the perfect resting place for a pair of visitors—tanned nearly as deeply as the locals—to bid farewell to the setting sun. She did not sigh deeply enough for him to notice. Squall's arms around her shoulders, Rinoa leaned back into him, watching the sun vanish behind a distant deck of plum-colored clouds. Nothing needed to be said. They both sensed it; even during their happiest, or at their most peaceful, the slightest touch of melancholy—the knowledge that reality would not wait forever—had tinged their lives. Now it was nearly over. When the sun reappeared over the limb of the world, they would be gone from this place where time seemed to stand still. They would think and speak again of Galbadia, Timber, the Confederacy, Gardens, and Esthar. There would be strife. Death, fear, and doubt would return to their lives. But, still, amidst it all—as there always had been—there would be his love and the strength it brought. And, knowing that, I can go on. I can leave this place without regret—as long as he is by my side. By the tiniest fraction, the sadness that had crept into her heart receded and she inclined her head, sneaking a glance at his scarred countenance. He looked down, returning her gaze, his quizzical expression the same as it had been the night they met. Rinoa closed her eyes and smiled, feeling his embrace tighten in an affectionate squeeze. He did not need to ask what she was thinking, he knew her thoughts as well as his own. She turned a little, he turned a little, and their lips brushed for a moment in the dusk. Then she turned back toward the sea, looking up at the spray of waxing stars in the moonless sky. His gaze followed hers, and they sat, watching the sky until the stars became too numerous to count and the hour too late to mention.
To be Continued at sponger42@yahoo.com for Purgatio's Website Containing Recent
Updates)