Author's notes: I apologize for the really lame title, but if you read on, you'll notice this story began with a defined structure and ended in a gigantimous glob of paragraphs.
I haven't written in about two years, and I think it shows. There's a lot of weirdness and weakness in this piece, particularly in the way it's set up (refer to previous paragraph teehee). When I read it, it feels somehow awkward in the "flow" department, like there could be a bit more transition in certain areas, such as the ending.
Anyway, this fic stars our friend Delita, a mysterious ringed turtle-dove, and some angst. Why a ringed turtle-dove? For some reason, they've always reminded me of death-- not in a painful sense, mind you, but a peaceful one.
Comments and criticism make me a happy creature, as always. Happy reading.
NB: End of game spoilers! Reader beware.
FFT and characters are the property of Squaresoft.
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The Story That Went Nowhere (New title pending...right?)
(Finished June 2004)
By: Evanescence/Aubrey Osiris
He visited her grave in summer when the grass was sweet, swaying with a soft breath of earth and light; the trees had long opened their leaves to reach the sun, casting dappled green shadows in pools along the vast expanse of the courtyard. Songbirds-- blue, scarlet, golden-- all took residence there, flitting among the branches with warbles and trills, the sound a joyful cadence against the whispering of the wind.
In summer, flowers bloomed fully around her grave. Forget-me-nots, small and blue, daisies, taller and almost light-hearted, and roses, a bundle of scarlet petals and thorns tied with a lavender ribbon. The breeze pulled at the ribbon with invitation; it brought a sense longing that stung him with tears whenever he chanced to glance upon it. It reminded him of her smile, her fair rosy cheeks and the soft subtleties of her skin, and the emerald gaze he would never see again.
The thoughts were restless, turning about in his mind as the sun caressed his face and reflected off one shy tear that now streaked down his cheek. He straightened the silken ribbon, tying it into a long bow round the rose closest to him, beneath the petals that seemed to flow beyond his reach, to a place far away where his beloved had been carried so many months ago. A fragrant rose that he realized was worth ten times what he was.
He stood. As he gazed ahead, he shielded his eyes against the sun, catching a glimpse of a ringed turtle-dove that had been watching him from a nearby oak tree. It jumped from its perch and circled once, twice, three times, finally alighting upon the gravestone with a graceful flurry of opal wings. It titled its head and blinked, rested its innocent gaze on a king who stood now without a crown, without hope. They exchanged glances in a respectful silence.
He walked away.
---
He visited her grave in autumn, just as the leaves began to turn and fall, leaving the courtyard a painted picture of earthen tones; the enticing scent of molds and the crispness of the wind were wordless lullabies, a welcomed comfort once the weather chilled, warmth having departed weeks ago. The grass swayed less and less in the colder air, and the sun seemed smaller, more distant as the days progressed. The songs of the birds dwindled, rarely lasting for more than half of the day, if heard at all.
In autumn, he gingerly brushed the leaves from her grave to expose the ground underneath, to expose the flowers he had left for her. The forget-me-nots were still there, but frozen, the daisies, still tall, had shed their petals, and the roses, somewhat dulled, still clung to the lavender ribbon as if it had kept them alive. It reminded him of how she changed, how she shied away from him, pushed from his embrace, in fear it would strangle her. She had spent long nights crying in her room, and when he arrived to comfort her, he found himself annoyed by her tears. But he shook inside when she let out that all too familiar cry, rushing past him and away into the hall, the sound of her bare feet growing fainter... reeling away from the coldness of his touch.
His tears felt warm against the redness of his wind-bitten cheek, and he let them fall. It was then he gave thought once more to the ribbon tied around the rose; kneeling forward he extended a hand, but instantly drew back with a pang of guilt as he realized the silk was tattered along the edges. He fingered them absently until he cried, his throat constricting between breaths. How could he have been so careless?
The ringed turtle-dove came about moments later, alighting in the very same place it had three months prior. Its breast was muddied, its long tail-feathers frayed, and the once innocent brown gaze dulled, worn with age. It crooned a wistful message and stared with longing into the eyes of a king having long forgotten his crown, his hope.
He lifted his head, eyes glistening with unshed tears. They exchanged glances intermingled with the mournful sounds of withheld sobs and coos.
He limped away.
--
He visited her grave in winter, not long after the first light snows had come and blanketed the countryside with crystal, ushering the stolid greys out of sight. The trees were bare, branches crowded, jutting upward, pleading for the return of the sun. Not a songbird could be seen, nor could a single warble or trill be heard; not in such a frozen world.
In winter, he scraped the snow away until his fingers bled, worried that the flowers had not survived. Indeed, they hadn't; the forget-me-nots, once small and blue, were gone. The daisies, once tall, merely stems... and the roses, scarlet wrapped in lavender, left lifelessly in a heap. He was struck with a terrible emptiness as he was reminded of the last few days he had seen her breathe, how she had avoided his embrace altogether, running from him the moment he entered the room. The loneliness engulfed him, as all he wanted was to hold her, feel her warm skin against his face. But he fueled her hatred with eyes devoid of emotion, with bitter words, bitter acts, acts of a man who cared for nothing more than himself.
He dared not look at the ribbon. Instead, he looked beyond the gravestone at a small, frozen body. He stood as quickly as he could and ran.
The turtle-dove lay dead, its eyes frozen and blind.
--
One spring night, he found himself standing on a cliff that bordered the sea; behind him a vast spruce forest stretched, running parallel to the water's edge. The evening air wove its way around him without so much as a breath; air balmy and sweet, filled with the scent of the tantalizing ocean breeze and the wildflowers growing in ribbons beneath his feet.
Regret flickered in the depths of his eyes and he only wished it had somehow been different from the start—no, slipping beneath the tangled web of fate was a challenge beyond his grasp. Besides, he wondered, what would he have done differently? The life he wove around himself was too tediously made, as a tapestry fitted with a million separate strands…
He smiled grimly. More than one string had been pulled from that illusory design; perhaps it was time for the rest to follow.
He crouched for a moment and then sat to slip the boots from his feet. They were old and worn, and he ran his fingers along the aged leather with care. Useless now, he thought. In the same fashion he removed the crown from his head, squinting at his tarnished reflection, a disdainful murmur rising in his throat; he removed the fur-laden cloak from his shoulders, folding it and gingerly placing it upon the grass; his fingers fumbled with his belt as he sought to remove his sword; and off came the noble golden armor that seemed so weak and dented once parted from its wearer.
With the extra weight gone, he exulted in the freshness of the breeze, lifting his arms as if to greet fiery sky. He stood upon the grassy ledge in only his brown doeskin tunic, looking over the ocean below with eyes that seemed to cast an aura of confused sadness, but with an elusive spark of anger and resentment to which he could place no name. He liked to think that the ocean itself reflected the burning in his chest-- the burning in his eyes--as it breathed upon the rocky shore with a crash and a sigh, rivulets of water cascading up the side of the ledge only to retreat homeward in a splash of sea foam.
As he stared off into the distance, he never took notice of the ringed turtle-dove that sat quietly upon his shed armor. It watched him unblinking, like a silent, dedicated sentinel having pledged to watch over what was left of one man's life.
He turned his head, face streaked with tears, to again glance into the eyes of the bird he thought he had seen dead only three months ago. A faint smile played on his lips as he moved toward it, and it seemed to return the smile with a mournful complacency..
Croo crrroah, it said.
"So you survived," He said bleakly as his smile faltered.
The dove only looked at him, as if to understand his words but not know how to answer.
"…And still you say nothing." He knelt with a swift and brusque bitterness, forcing himself into the grass, frustrated, defeated. "You're cursed to live a life of silence, a life of burden on your own, and yet you still breathe. Why? What is it you have that I lack?"
The dove did not respond, though continued to regard him with the quizzical tilt of its head, dark eyes glittering in the faded sunset.
"Stupid bird," He muttered, turning away. "I must be crazy, talking to a bird. You don't… you can't understand a word I'm saying."
Silence.
"Say something, damn you!" Unable to control his anger any longer, he turned back to face the dove, swinging the weight of his body around on his knees. But the dove no longer sat there; it had disappeared like a ghost into the shadow of the forest.
"It always turns out this way," He whispered, pushing himself to his feet. "No matter what I do, no matter what I change, it's the same. I'm still..." Still nothing, his mind snarled, still a horrible beast of a man who has deluded himself into thinking he had everything; deluded himself into thinking that obtaining the power to rule Ivalice would make him a hero. No, he realized, he was never a hero, nor was he ever admirable-- he was Delita Hyral, a heartless murderer wearing the mask of a holy knight.
"Ovelia, if I..." The sadness rose again and his voice was soft, almost tender. "...I'm sorry."
Your apologies carry no weight now, his mind admonished. You killed them. Because you pulled all the right threads at all the right times-- you sent them to their deaths. You...
He stiffened, and, with once last glance in the direction of the forest, returned to the edge of the cliff. There he slumped down beneath a beech tree, seeking comfort in the sound of its dry leaves rustling softly in the ocean breeze.
Croo crrroah.
He didn't need to move this time; the dove had perched on his left knee, which he held against his chest. It seemed to glow strangely in the muted light, a most peculiar opalescent shine he had never seen before on the feathers of a bird. Croo crrroah, it repeated.
Without knowing what he was about to say or why he felt such a compulsion to speak, he suddenly pointed to the sky and said, "Do you suppose pain even exists up there?"
The dove tilted its head.
"God's kingdom," He grinned mildly. "Where is this loving 'God' everyone speaks of? I certainly haven't seen him," he struggled to speak as he felt his throat constrict, "but perhaps... perhaps my sister has. ...I couldn't save her back then. I was so useless then, and now..." He paused for a moment and sighed. "Now, even as the ruler of Ivalice, I couldn't save her. I couldn't save her, because I couldn't save Ovelia. Ovelia, she..."
The dove stared up at him with such intensity that he resisted looking away.
"She was once a commoner," He continued, "and I swore by my sister's grave that I would protect her. Yet in the end, she too was a puppet... but not for the damned nobility. No, she was my puppet, and I used her just as the nobles had used my sister."
The dove bolted from his knee. After a brief moment of confusion, he found himself running after it, chasing an ethereal dart of stardust as it shot through the sky to the edge of the precipice, toward the gentle rolling of the ocean. He halted when the bird cleared the ledge and he watched it fly out over the water; it was then he realized where it was going.
Where she was going.
Without another thought, he raced back to the pile of shed armour he had left laying in the grass. He threw the heavy cloak aside and grabbed for his belt and scabbard, tossing them away once he had the hilt of the sword gripped firmly in his hand.
He ran his fingers along the edge of the sword, its blade kissed now by moonlight. A pitiful grin struck his face as he forced his body downward in a single, swift motion, laughing with a startled gasp as the steel shattered his sternum and bit into his chest.
"There won't be a distance any longer, Ovelia, Teta. I'll f-follow..."
The bitter taste of iron filled his mouth and he savored it like a fine red wine, still grinning faintly as his body began to crumple. "Even the distance..." An inkling of a veil fell before his eyes as darkness pulsed through his vision, and a whining hum filled his ears with a comforting swell. Dropping the sword, he staggered to the ledge and threw himself from its edge. If perchance he had grown wings, he would have cast them forward and spiraled into the ocean, breathing in the songs of the doves that echoed in his mind, melting further into his own delirium where images stole his sight away, where he could feel her breath on the back of his neck and the soundness of her voice caress his ears. He would close that distance once...
But before he finished the thought, he felt the cold arms of the ocean close around his body and carry him home.