So I've decided to continue this fic, after all. sheepish After a year of frustrating PC breakdowns, I had thought Loop was really meant to be just a one-shot, and one with so many loose ends, at that. That said, I realize that I am merely and completely at the mercy of the voices in my head, hence this extremely late next chap. Seeing as the sem break is here in the Philippines, and hoping that future circumstances would contrive to work with me (meaning no sudden PC blowouts, or hard-drive wipeouts –please, not that!), and owing to the fact that I am endlessly optimistic, I daresay I could churn out some new chapters before probably hiding inside my preferred manhole again come the second semester. See, I just refuse to leave this thing hanging, since it's my first and maybe the only multi-chaptered continuous fic that I will undertake. Reviews, as always, would be greatly appreciated, though I will continue this regardless. Oh, and I have to note that references to this are present on an old one-shot of mine (Take a Chance), which dealt with Fujin and Seifer's first meeting as kids. I know, I know, this is shameless plugging, but it does save a lot of space to just refer to that for some of the details found here rather than incorporate whole new ideas.
Lots of gratitude to Miss Black Dragon, rendezvous, Irith Oronar, Griever5, Wind Chime Bells, and Draic, for reviewing the first chap and providing valuable insights and suggestions. I can only hope you guys get wind of this update, and not be so disappointed with this follow-up afterwards. crosses fingers Anyway, I think it's rather apparent that after a year's hiatus, I have yet to learn to shut up in my author's notes, and that I still manage to blab incessantly without ever really saying anything important. ; So yes, that concludes my nonsense. Criticize away. Happy reading!
Loop
i do not love you as if you were salt rose or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off
i love the way certain dark things are to be loved
in secret between the shadow and the soul.
- Pablo Neruda
Two: Pighati, Pagtanggap
The echoes of bells signaling the last hour of the day floated off to where she was standing, the air around her vibrating with the tones as she stood motionless and staring. For the past half-hour, she had been doing nothing else; the words etched in starlight a few feet away already living in her mind, pulsing with every letter and curve and dot, defying the rigid figure that must lie underneath grass and marble tombstone. Now, as the wind picked up, she woke from the trance that held her and heard once again the odd harmony of crickets singing with the crumpled sighs of leaves borne by the breeze. She sighed, and this first audible sign of life from the still figure of only moments ago prompted another, and another, as her body shook with dry, ragged sobs.
Once, she had loved the man whose grave this was. Loved him as both friend and comrade; even now, she was confident with the claim that she was one of the very few who had ever really seen the character beneath those always curious eyes. Once, she had loved him as a woman was meant to love a man; in secret, between the shadow and the soul. She had loved him once, and she loved him still.
Her cheeks were damp, she realized, and her nose was running, she was breathing hard. She felt the patch of cloth that covered her left eye, its rough texture so comfortingly familiar, and found it soaked. With numbed shock, she looked back on all those years of conviction, (and solid faith), and thought that this time, the eyepatch had been unable to keep the tears from flowing steadily, after all. The dam had burst, and the anguish would not stop.
She was trembling as she turned away to go back to the Garden. Nursing the fury that boiled within her at her apparent moment of weakness, Fujin Terminus vowed that after this one time – just once, she would succumb – the eyepatch would never be soaked with tears again.
When his presence had still been acknowledged in that world (for Seifer, being true to his nature, still resisted being called "dead"), he had often wondered what it would be like for Forsena if and when Seifer Almasy died. A sudden tragic death, a clumsy fall off a cliff, or a poisoned apple – he scorned at the limitless options, but given the choice he would rather he die a hero, just as he had always imagined his father to have been while he was growing up. An unknown hero, he had liked to pretend, since at the time of his childhood there were no "heroes" that he actually found to his liking from the history books he had been forced to read. From the details of their exploits, he thought them all to be stubborn, dreary men who had no sense of glory or adventure.
During some of these musings, a part of him had entertained the idea that his death would somehow move his oldest friend, even toyed with the possibility that she would grieve for him as normal people do, with tears and sobs, only minus the wailing and gnashing of teeth – for this was Fujin, after all.
What he just saw, however, behind the tree he had been leaning against for the past hours since he had read that incredulous tombstone and laughed wildly at the night, shook him into an unsettling sobriety. It had been easy to let his thoughts wander on with all the possibilities; what moved him was the fulfillment of that one possibility that he had thought least likely to occur. His oldest friend had wept; wry, stoical Fujin who had shared all his mad fancies with patience and quiet wisdom, had lost her reserve and cried. For him.
He could feel his jaw set stubbornly, and what filled him then was so reminiscent of that natural high he had felt years ago when he had opted to flaunt all authority and had allied himself with a sorceress. Seifer Almasy was not dead, dammit; and he would know what was going on even if it killed him. A night owl hooted his approval from above, huge eyes prowling the dark for casual prey.
And if he found out he was really dead? Well then, he wouldn't stay dead for long.
With silent intensity, Squall Leonhart watched the ever-creeping sunlight that lengthened along the lines of his sleeping wife's blanket, saw her face being slowly revealed. He had been up for hours now, though what little slept he had had been filled with visions of a familiar cocky grin and the matching mocking, baritone voice. For the first time ever in his life, Squall had dreamt of his oldest rival. And they really were nightmares, the stuff that he'd always thought were limited to a young cadet's mind after the event of his first kill. He didn't need thoughts of a dead person plaguing him now. Not now, on his first day on the job. And so he'd looked at her, long hours of looking, finding peace.
Dark brown eyes opened, reflecting his face on their windows. Beautiful eyes.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked quietly.
"And good morning to you, too," she mumbled, lips forming into a smile. "Slept like a baby, thank you very much." Probably noticing bags under his eyes, she reached out her hand and rubbed his cheek. Comfort. "I gather you didn't sleep at all?"
He hesitated, wanting to avoid the question. "I had... dreams. Bad dreams," he admitted, feeling very naked in her gaze. There was no use lying though, not with her. No, not with her.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "Do you want me to tell Cid you can't go in today?"
"Can't. First day," he said, regretting the words but having no choice.
"I'm sure he'll understand. C'mon, I'll even fix you breakfast." Her smile this time was shy. "And I won't burn anything. Promise."
Feeling himself starting the long fall into her spell, he laid her hand back gently and stood up. "Cid might, but the Centrans are waiting for me. You should go back to sleep."
"I'd rather help you dress, Mr. Ambassador," she said playfully, sitting up on the bed.
An hour later, he was ready to go. He stood by the door of the little house they had bought on the outskirts of Balamb town, and drafts from the ocean kept the air cool and somehow, surreal and good. And so light. He turned to her and bowed. "Goodbye, Mrs. Leonhart."
She bowed back just as formally. "I will, Mr. Leonhart. You come home as soon as you can, okay?"
She was peace for his nightmares. And comfort and light. His heart was in his throat as he saw the glint of love in her eyes that she was trying so bravely to hide. "I will. Take care of yourself, Rin." He walked away with steady strides.
"We will," she called back to him softly, her voice carried by the wind, love pouring steady from her eyes, her hand resting gently on her abdomen.
She was being followed, and it was getting boring. Her follower was good, though, and if it weren't for a chance look at a passing motorcycle's mirror she would never have separated the distinct footfalls from the sound of raindrops crashing against the pavement. Oh he was good, but her instincts were better. Few could match those instincts.
And so here she was, setting a trap for the formidably tall man she had glimpsed earlier. If he wasn't so good, she wouldn't have bothered. But he was, so her interest was piqued. Good skills meant business. And Fujin Terminus, right then, the night after yesterday's trip to the cemetery, was in sore need of some distraction.
"Sorry. Dead end," she drawled lazily from behind the man, who seemed so familiar even from a distance and whom darkness had enveloped until now, as she made to reveal her long form from behind the shadows. Moonlight made her hair silver. Grief made her dangerous.
A series of curses could be heard from the tall figure who still refused to turn around and face her. Then suddenly, he did. And he was laughing with amusement, and incredulity, and shock that she could see him. He knew he wasn't dead. "I did train you after all," he got in between side-aching laughter. Laughter, so much laughter, and she was frozen with shock.
Hyne, she thought dazedly. Never knowing it was possible until now, Fujin Terminus fainted to the ground.
"This is a nice party," Squall was saying to the director of the Centra Center for Disadvantaged Children at about the same time, miles and miles away from the apparition of a dead man. He knew Cid had made a mistake appointing him as new ambassador, but it had never been so apparent until then as he was attempting to small talk his way into dinner with all eyes on his imposing figure. Black and blue and green and grey and brown eyes (his favorite) stared at him and studied unabashedly, eyes from kids short and tall and gawky and fat and chubby, kids garbed with their best clothes and had been reprimanded to act their best behavior. But kids, being kids, seemed natural deviants as Squall noted several stains on dresses and shirts that he could swear had been immaculate just earlier. Early on into the evening, and Squall knew it was going to be long.
The director was saying something to him regarding his stupidly made remark, but he wasn't listening. His SeeD training was already helping him spy the way out. Into the bathroom, and fast.
His eyes swept through the simply garbed halls, amidst children laughing and crying, adults admonishing, and saw an amiable-looking man with a pot belly step out from a room just beyond the corridor to the right. There, he thought with amazing relief.
"Excuse me," he said, cutting in on Mrs. Shinra's speech, "I uh, um, need to wash this away," he explained, fumbling, while the hands that had wielded a gunblade not so long ago expertly tipped the wineglass he had been sipping from inconspicuously into his shirt. Orange liquid spread quickly.
"Oh of course, Mr. Leonhart," the kindly woman allowed. "The bathroom's over there," she said, pointing to the room Squall had marked out.
Nodding his thanks, Squall made his way quickly, relishing the break. He was concentrating so hard that he never saw the little girl that blocked his way until it was too late, and she was sitting on the ground.
In a second, Squall was by his side, helping her up. Later, he would think how strange it was that she never cried out from the contact, but now Squall was immersed with fixing his recent blunder that marked another colorful landmark into his not-so-flourishing career.
"I'm really sorry. Are you hurt?" he asked stupidly as he helped her up, his eyes efficiently surveying for any cut, any bruise.
"No sir, I'm okay," her musical voice answered him. Completely throwing him off with her next move, she squared her shoulders and stood straight, she held out her hand to him in a manner that outshone even the director's welcome. "Leena Slambert, sir. I live in the Center."
"Leena," he repeated, a little surprised. Her name rolled smoothly off his tongue. Not knowing what else to do, he took the tiny hand offered him. "Hello, Leena. I am – "
"Oh, I know who you are, sir. I was paying attention a while ago while you were being introduced," she confided proudly.
He grinned. The girl had spirit. She reminded him a bit of Selphie, but she seemed – harder, somehow, at such a young age. She wore a pink dress full of ribbons and... lace, he thought, unsure of his fashion knowledge. White lace with a shiny silver pin on her chest. The pin was familiar, and he moved to study the curious engraving on the front. He couldn't believe there existed another pin like this in the whole of Forsena. But before he could study it more, Leena pointed questioningly to the stain on his shirt.
"Your shirt's dripping, Sir," she said, gingerly poking the spot.
A little embarrassed, Squall stopped his scrutiny, and looked to where she was pointing. Wine was slowly dripping into the floor. "I'll fix this up in the bathroom," he told her, unsure of why he was explaining and why he was still here. And in that moment, she smiled and her whole face lit up, truly Selphie's favored expression now. Her eyes shone with the light, the clearest blue he had ever seen, the color of the Balamb sky as reflected by the ocean that morning. Beautiful eyes.