Chapter 8
Nightmare
Sigma's Note: I can give you a 100% guarantee that every question that will arise in this chapter will be answered. Remember, if it isn't answered, then it's not a question.
Oh, and anyone who can figure out who I based the character from this chapter on gets a cookie!
Muscadet....
It was late. Very late, well after midnight. Marche stood in the hospital room, gazing out the window at the exotic city of Muscadet. He always marveled at how the bright red lumber the builders used in the construction of the city seemed to glow warmly in the moonlight. Marche looked across the room at Ritz. The light from the full moon shone directly on her sleeping face, giving her a sort of heavenly pearl aura. In that lighting, her beauty stunned him. All he could do was stare, as if taken aback by the elegance of a goddess. He had been up all night and in her room since he had regained his ability to walk. For whatever reason, Ritz's Life Crisis was far more severe than his, and so she was still in her deep slumber while she recovered. The doctors had assured him that she would be as good as new when she awoke.
He sighed deeply. Since they arrived in Ivalice, they had faced nothing but combat and tragedy. It was not like the other times, when they had been brought in by Mewt or Donad. In those times, he had come to enjoy his stays as escapes from the stresses of the real world. For the longest time, he had maintained that distinction, that their home was real and that Ivalice was but an illusion. Now, that line had blurred. And this was no pleasure trip. He felt a desperation that he had not felt since he was first been introduced into this world of swords and sorcery. But it was amplified by the grim fact that they currently had no way home.
Turning his attention away from the sleeping girl, he looked up at the great disk of the moon. It was several times larger that the one on earth, dominating the night sky. So bright was its shine, in fact, that its illumination was just a few steps away from that of sunlight. The difference, of course, was the hint of azure in the light that flooded the streets with its soothing hue.
Suddenly, he heard something. A sound, very faint, like a man whispering his name. He snapped from his daze and placed his right hand on the hilt of one of his Paradox Blades. The sound of foot steps echoed through the cold night air. Slowly, he drew both his Blades and held them, prepared to defend himself and Ritz from intruders. Instead, he heard the voice again, this time louder and clearer.
"You are a fool," it said softly, as soft as the wind itself. "Illusion or Reality? Do you think that you can just decide which is which?
"Where are you?" Marche asked sternly. He was set somewhat on edge by the fact that the mysterious voice knew precisely what he was thinking.
"Come outside if you think you can face the truth," said the voice again. He couldn't quite place it, but it had a familiar sound to it.
"I'm not in the mood for this. Who are you?" he asked, not amused.
"Who am I? I AM the truth!" In the distance, a black figure appeared. He stood atop one of the buildings. The giant moon behind him cast his lanky shadow over the sleepy town.
Immediately, Marche stepped through the window and onto the balcony below it. From there, he jumped to the clay tiled roof of a long line of houses that led right up to the night phantom. Cautiously, he began to advance, walking towards the mysterious figure.
"Who are you?" he asked again. There was no response. The figure simply stood there, his long cloak flapping in the light evening breeze. A moon beam illuminated the left side of his face, which appeared to be covered with a metallic mask that fully obscured his facial features.
"Answer me!" Marche snapped as he lept up to the figure and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. At least, he thought he did. No sooner had he clasped his fist around the fabric of the phantom's garments then his entire body simply...collapsed. His tattered cloak fell to the clay tiles of the roof in a ruffled pile, as if the person that wore it vanished. Marche lifted the cloak in the air, and sure enough, it was empty.
"What?" he asked himself silently. A cackle echoed through the air.
"You see how easily human perception is fooled? And you would be presumptuous enough to differentiate between what is and what is not. You are a waste of consciousness!" The voice, which seemed to come from all directions, howled with mocking laughter. Marche spun around, trying desperately to find his taunter, but he eluded him.
"This is a game, isn't it?" Marche called out into the air.
"Excellent deduction! And for you information you are losing badly!" Out of the corner of his eye, Marche spotted the vanishing jester atop the tall spire of a Bangaa cathedral. Somehow, he was standing on one foot at the very tip of the obelisk, like a hyenic gargoyle. Slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion from his enemy, he charged his right hand with dark energy, forming a Chaos Bomb.
"How am I suppose to win if I don't know the rules?" he asked calmly, without turning to face the phantom. It laughed maniacally.
"I don't think you understand this game very well! You can't win!"
"Really?" Marche snapped as he spun around and flung the orb of energy at the spire. Like a bullet, it blasted across the roof tops and met its mark dead on. The steeple exploded violently, though the sound was muffled by the power of the energy singularity that pulled much of the debri into its black oblivion.
When the dust cleared, the steeple was gone and there was no sign of the mysterious man. All that remained was shattered wood and stone. Marche smiled as he turned to head back to the hospital room when he suddenly felt the cold steel of a knife pressed against his throat. He froze, not daring to breath. He could sense his strange assailant behind him. He could feel his cool, collected breathing pattern and heart beat. He knew that he was in control.
"Wrong again," he whispered into Marche's ear as he pressed the edge of the knife harder into Marche's neck. A small trickle of blood seeped from the thin laceration.
"Who are you?" he asked for the third time. With that, Marche was surprised to feel the knife vanish from his throat, and in fact, he noted that the phantom itself disappeared. He clutched his neck to apply pressure to the minor wound as he turn around, confused. Yet again, the taunting laughter returned. Right in front of his eyes, the man appeared, in a ghostly cloud of mist, his metal mask shining brilliantly from the giant moon.
"What, don't you recognize me?" he said as he spread his arms in a friendly manner. "Well, maybe this will help." He brought his hands up to his mask and loosed the leather straps that held it to his face. A bead of sweat ran down Marche's forehead.
Then the mask was off.
"Now do you remember?"
.....
A great boom of thunder seemed to shake the stone walls of the great castle to its foundations, jarring the two Fighters that stood atop the fortress's highest tower. Easily 500 feet in the air, the wind whipped across it with such force that the mortal enemies could hardly stand to face each other. Two blood red capes flapped in the breeze.
Marche stared coldly at his enemy. He was breathing heavily, wincing in pain at the long gash that ran down his left arm. The copious blood that poured from the wound had stained his sleeve a dark crimson, and individual droplets had begun to fall from his limp fingertips, blow away by the ferocious gale. His opponent was no better off though. He was nursing a debilitating injury to his abdomen that he clutched with his free arm.
Suddenly, an explosion rocked the castle maliciously, like a giant fist coming down and smashing the eastern wall to rubble. Then a second and a third explosion rang out, each one dealing massive, mortal damage to the once proud citadel. The enemy fighter looked to the left and to the right frantically, to see if a bolt of lightning had struck. Marche smiled and shook his head.
"Sorry, Mirabo. That would by Lini. He planted explosives all through the castle. And they intend to blow, too, irregardless of which one of us survives. It's over now." Across from him, Mirabo stood defiantly against the wind. The White Paradox Blade in his right hand had begun to glow faintly, reacting to his desperation.
"You'll go down too, you know. Unless, of course, you can kill me and escape in the next minute or two," Mirabo responded.
"Actually, it's probably closer to thirty or forty seconds. The bombs have very short fuses," Marche said. As if on cue, another explosion erupted from the castle's great hall, causing the titanic structure to crumble to dust. Marche's hand tightened around his Black Paradox Blade, feeling the warmth of its energy flow into his body. Adrenaline flooded his veins, as he prepared to attack.
"If you want this weapon, then you'll have to come and get it!" Mirabo shouted over the deafening roar of the tempest. He held his blade high in the air and charged Marche with all his might. Like a raging beast, Marche met his attack, their weapon's clanging together. The opposing polar energies of the Paradox blades sent arcs of electricity through the air, drawing bolts of lighting down to strike the tall tower around the two fighters. They hardly noticed. Both were so focused on the force pouring from their souls to their arms to their weapons that they completely shrugged of the intensity of the storm that seemed to gather around them and them alone.
They broke of from each other and attacked again, lunging and perrying and defending. Because the Paradox Blades where hardly longer than a foot from tip to bottom, each strike brought the two Fighters into very close quarters. Both could see the burning anger and determination in each others' eyes, like a raging inferno. And each strike reflected that feeling of raw anger, sending waves of dynamic energy rippling through the air.
Mirabo launched an upward slash that almost caught Marche in the jar. At the last second, he side stepped the surely fatal blow and countered with a lightning fast cutting motion that severed Mirabo's right arm at the elbow. He cried out in pain as blood poured like a fountain from the stump of the limb. The arm landed on the tower's floor, still holding the White Paradox Blade.
Shaking from a combination of rage and agony, Mirabo stumbled backwards to the edge of the tower, holding his cleaved appendage. Marche stood before him, stoically, not feeling any sense of triumph for defeating Mirabo. Instead, he reached down and removed the second Paradox Blade from his opponent's detached hand. He looked at it, sensing its volatile energy flowing through his body. Then he turned his attention back to his enemy. Mirabo stood at the very edge of the tower, he arms, or what was left of them, outstretched. He looked into the angry sky as droplets of rain fell on his blood spotted face.
"Then it's finally clear," he said. "I truly cannot find the answers I seek on this mortal coil." That was all he said. With that, he simply released himself from everything and lept back, falling down into his oblivion.
....
Mirabo, satisfied that he had shocked Marche, returned the metal mask to his face.
"An unusual side effect of transcending death," he said, "is that your face become oddly disfigured. Haven't exactly figured out why yet." Marche had no reply. He had personally seen the man standing before him fall 500 feet to his death. And yet he stood before him, entirely unharmed, save for his distorted face. Even the arm that he had cut off had been reattached, as if it had never been damaged at all.
"How-" was all he managed to say. Mirabo laughed quietly.
"That's something I'd like to know as well. I suspect that one day I'll figure out why fate decided to preserve my consciousness. But at the moment, I'm having much more fun with your predicament. Oh, if only you could know the things I know!" Mirabo danced around Marche's confused body, appearing and vanishing at will. It was setting his mind well off balance.
"Are you here to try and kill me?" Marche asked warily as Mirabo continued his antics. He had fought the undead before, but there seemed to be something different about Mirabo. He seemed to be simultaneously alive and not alive. He materialized behind Marche and snatched the Paradox Blades from his unsteady hands. Immediately, acting purely on instinct, Marche turned around and fired a Chaos Bomb at point blank range. He did not want to deal with someone as dangerous as Mirabo unarmed, and was determined to end their confrontation if he found himself in jeopardy. But he hit nothing. The Chaos Bomb flew into the sky without even grazing the phantom. That was because he had vanished again.
"I can feel the power that you have imbued upon these Blades," Mirabo said, reappearing again in front of Marche. He threw the Paradox Blades down to his feet. Marche quickly recovered them. "You have used them well, far better then I ever could. I suppose you really are their true owner." Marche raised the Blades into an offensive position. He had decided that he would not be caught off guard a second time.
"You can relax. Killing you is the last thing on my mind. And you must realize that I can't be killed." Marche remained resolute, refusing to stand down. Mirabo laughed.
"Are you here just to pester me, or does your presence actually serve some kind of purpose?" Marche asked sternly. Mirabo stopped laughing for a moment as he stared deep into Marche's icy blue eyes through his mask. Suddenly, he vanished again, reappearing an instant later half an inch from Marche's face. In the blink of an eye, Marche found himself staring into the lifeless glare of the mask. He maintained his stance.
"Tell me, Marche, do you know why you are here?" Mirabo asked. Already, Marche could tell that it was a loaded question. Suspiciously, he gave the only answer that he had been able to come up in his time in Ivalice.
"To stop Archemis," he said. Mirabo was silent, his mystically gaze staring into Marche's soul through the steel facade of his mask. He seemed to be able to read deep into Marche's heart.
"A pitiful response," he said as he backed off. "If you had any inkling, a single iota of inspiration, as to the powers at work here, then you would have remained silent. They are forces that even I cannot comprehend, and my perception is far beyond that of your mortal consciousness."
"Your acting awfully high and mighty for a person who can't answer his own question. Do you, in fact, know anything?" Marche asked. Mirabo's words had not sunk in. Marche suspected that his warning was complete farce, intended to put him off guard. As he would later find out, though, they were far more accurate than he could have ever suspected.
"I do know one thing that you don't. And its something that you are yearning to discover," Mirabo answered with a laugh. It was beginning to get on Marche's nerves.
"What is it?"
"I know how you got here," Mirabo said. Marche's jaw dropped. He almost released his Paradox Blades in his shock.
"I see that surprises you, although I suspect that the truth itself will be even more jarring. I can show you, you know. If you are prepared to face that truth." Unable to speak, Marche simply nodded. Already aware of the effect the revelation would have on his poor mental victim, he simply snapped his fingers, and Marche's entire world came crashing down. Literally.
.....
They sky was scorched a fiery orange, rumbling as thunderheads moved overhead, desperate but unable to pour life restoring rain upon the nightmarish land below. What was once a proud bustling town was now a graveyard of ashes and embers. The horizon in all directions was nothing but flame and soot, as though God himself had chosen to smite St. Ivalice and everything around it.
Marche stood in the middle of the hellish malaise as tongue of flame sprung to life and faded into oblivion all around him. The bottom of his mind had fallen out and he found himself tumbling into an abyss of indescribable horror.
"What...happened here?" he sputtered. There was nothing but crimson destruction in all directions. He tried to close his eyes to block out the images, but he found that he could not. It was as if his mind was frozen in place, unable to ignore the holocaust vista before him.
"I don't know!" Mirabo cried gleefully as he lept from the smoldering ruin of a school. The very school that Marche had been in a week before. "And don't think that you can just turn away from this. This is my illusion, and I am in charge!" Mirabo bounded across the blistered ground, as if he was enjoying the carnage before them.
"Isn't it glorious?" he asked Marche rhetorically. He vanished and reappeared next to the paralyzed Soulvetar, his arm draped across his shoulders.
"You're sick!" he snapped.
"Oh, now that hurt my feelings!" Mirabo cackled. "Now, while I can't tell you exactly how this happened, I do have a pretty good idea." He teleported yet again, materializing behind a small pile of ash. "Do you know what this is?" Marche was too shaken to respond. Behind his mask, Mirabo cracked a devious smile. "This, my friend, is the Gran Grimoire," he said, picking up a handful of the burnt remains. That was truly world shattering. Had he been in control of his body, Marche would have passed out. However, he was still tightly ensnared in Mirabo's illusion and did not have the freedom to even to that. All he could do was stare while Mirabo continued to speak.
"It would seem, that some ungodly power tried to escape Ivalice through an unstable channel. The result is this cataclysm you see before you. Without a proper channel, his, or her, or its energy was simply too much for your petty universe to handle. I can't tell you how widespread the damage to your world is, but I can tell you that without the book in this world, there is no way you can possibly leave Ivalice!" Mirabo erupted into a fit of uncontrolled laugher as a wave of overwhelming sorrow overcame Marche. Everyone he ever knew, his friends, his family. Mewt.... Donad.... Everyone....
Mirabo snapped his fingers again and the Hadean vista melted back to the tranquil atmosphere of Muscadet. Now free from the physical and mental restraints of Mirabo's illusion, Marche fell to his knees, overcome by a tidal wave of grief. Needless to say, the sadistic ghost was greatly enjoying it. Marche stared at the red tile before his eyes, unable to do anything more than shake with remorse for his dead loved ones. He felt tears well up in his eyes, but he strained himself to hold them in, not wanting to give Mirabo the satisfaction of a complete breakdown.
Mirabo. The very thought of him displaced his anguish with rage. He knew that he was not responsible for the destruction of his world, but an all consuming fury made his blood boil. It may have been the Blades affecting his mind, but he did not care. In blind vehemence he charged, prepared to cut him in half.
With a flash, the Paradox Blades sliced through his neck, attempting to separating his head from the rest of his body. Without thinking he continued to slash, driving his weapons into Mirabo's flesh.
Contented that he had killed Mirabo for the second time, Marche backed off. It was then that he noticed two very odd things. One, there was no blood gushing from the numerous blows to Mirabo's body, any one of which would have been instantly fatal. Second, he was still standing.
"I though we went over this. I can't be killed!" he said. While he was speaking, his wounds neatly repaired themselves, the wounds autonomously zipping themselves up with a sickening slurping noise. Marche was breathing heavily. He didn't know what he was thinking. He had acted entirely on impulse.
"Why am I still alive?" he asked. "Why wasn't I killed as well? We had no idea that the attack was coming. So why did Ritz and I and up here?" He was exasperated, he form once again shivering from woe.
"As odd as it would appear, Ivalice won't let you die," Mirabo answered.
"What?"
"I don't fully understand it either. Call it fate or destiny, but whatever omnipresent force drives us to action doesn't want you or that girl you love so much to die. It sensed that you were in danger before your reality was destroyed and brought you both into Ivalice prior to the destruction of your world's Grimoire. Lucky you. However, I wouldn't count on that same force to grant you invincibility. There is a power struggle on the metaphysical level that is beyond you that I have just come to realize myself. The world is approaching a crossroads, and it will be up to you and the girl to decide which way it will turn. Choose wisely!" Those were his final words before his form melted into the darkness of the night.
Marche's mind was reeling. It was too much for him to handle. In a daze, he turned and walked back to the hospital. By now, several people had appeared on the street, awoken by the sound of the fighting. The pointed and called to Marche but he ignored them.
He stepped back into Ritz's room and found her standing in the corner. She had awoken from her recuperation earlier than expected. She looked at Marche with her gentle eyes, sensing the emotions that were tearing at his insides. Marche's head hung low as he slowly walked over to Ritz, his body exhuming physical exhaustion and mental torment. Ritz moved over to him and wrapped her arms around him, comforting him with her embrace.
Sigma's Note: I can give you a 100% guarantee that every question that will arise in this chapter will be answered. Remember, if it isn't answered, then it's not a question.
Oh, and anyone who can figure out who I based the character from this chapter on gets a cookie!
Muscadet....
It was late. Very late, well after midnight. Marche stood in the hospital room, gazing out the window at the exotic city of Muscadet. He always marveled at how the bright red lumber the builders used in the construction of the city seemed to glow warmly in the moonlight. Marche looked across the room at Ritz. The light from the full moon shone directly on her sleeping face, giving her a sort of heavenly pearl aura. In that lighting, her beauty stunned him. All he could do was stare, as if taken aback by the elegance of a goddess. He had been up all night and in her room since he had regained his ability to walk. For whatever reason, Ritz's Life Crisis was far more severe than his, and so she was still in her deep slumber while she recovered. The doctors had assured him that she would be as good as new when she awoke.
He sighed deeply. Since they arrived in Ivalice, they had faced nothing but combat and tragedy. It was not like the other times, when they had been brought in by Mewt or Donad. In those times, he had come to enjoy his stays as escapes from the stresses of the real world. For the longest time, he had maintained that distinction, that their home was real and that Ivalice was but an illusion. Now, that line had blurred. And this was no pleasure trip. He felt a desperation that he had not felt since he was first been introduced into this world of swords and sorcery. But it was amplified by the grim fact that they currently had no way home.
Turning his attention away from the sleeping girl, he looked up at the great disk of the moon. It was several times larger that the one on earth, dominating the night sky. So bright was its shine, in fact, that its illumination was just a few steps away from that of sunlight. The difference, of course, was the hint of azure in the light that flooded the streets with its soothing hue.
Suddenly, he heard something. A sound, very faint, like a man whispering his name. He snapped from his daze and placed his right hand on the hilt of one of his Paradox Blades. The sound of foot steps echoed through the cold night air. Slowly, he drew both his Blades and held them, prepared to defend himself and Ritz from intruders. Instead, he heard the voice again, this time louder and clearer.
"You are a fool," it said softly, as soft as the wind itself. "Illusion or Reality? Do you think that you can just decide which is which?
"Where are you?" Marche asked sternly. He was set somewhat on edge by the fact that the mysterious voice knew precisely what he was thinking.
"Come outside if you think you can face the truth," said the voice again. He couldn't quite place it, but it had a familiar sound to it.
"I'm not in the mood for this. Who are you?" he asked, not amused.
"Who am I? I AM the truth!" In the distance, a black figure appeared. He stood atop one of the buildings. The giant moon behind him cast his lanky shadow over the sleepy town.
Immediately, Marche stepped through the window and onto the balcony below it. From there, he jumped to the clay tiled roof of a long line of houses that led right up to the night phantom. Cautiously, he began to advance, walking towards the mysterious figure.
"Who are you?" he asked again. There was no response. The figure simply stood there, his long cloak flapping in the light evening breeze. A moon beam illuminated the left side of his face, which appeared to be covered with a metallic mask that fully obscured his facial features.
"Answer me!" Marche snapped as he lept up to the figure and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. At least, he thought he did. No sooner had he clasped his fist around the fabric of the phantom's garments then his entire body simply...collapsed. His tattered cloak fell to the clay tiles of the roof in a ruffled pile, as if the person that wore it vanished. Marche lifted the cloak in the air, and sure enough, it was empty.
"What?" he asked himself silently. A cackle echoed through the air.
"You see how easily human perception is fooled? And you would be presumptuous enough to differentiate between what is and what is not. You are a waste of consciousness!" The voice, which seemed to come from all directions, howled with mocking laughter. Marche spun around, trying desperately to find his taunter, but he eluded him.
"This is a game, isn't it?" Marche called out into the air.
"Excellent deduction! And for you information you are losing badly!" Out of the corner of his eye, Marche spotted the vanishing jester atop the tall spire of a Bangaa cathedral. Somehow, he was standing on one foot at the very tip of the obelisk, like a hyenic gargoyle. Slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion from his enemy, he charged his right hand with dark energy, forming a Chaos Bomb.
"How am I suppose to win if I don't know the rules?" he asked calmly, without turning to face the phantom. It laughed maniacally.
"I don't think you understand this game very well! You can't win!"
"Really?" Marche snapped as he spun around and flung the orb of energy at the spire. Like a bullet, it blasted across the roof tops and met its mark dead on. The steeple exploded violently, though the sound was muffled by the power of the energy singularity that pulled much of the debri into its black oblivion.
When the dust cleared, the steeple was gone and there was no sign of the mysterious man. All that remained was shattered wood and stone. Marche smiled as he turned to head back to the hospital room when he suddenly felt the cold steel of a knife pressed against his throat. He froze, not daring to breath. He could sense his strange assailant behind him. He could feel his cool, collected breathing pattern and heart beat. He knew that he was in control.
"Wrong again," he whispered into Marche's ear as he pressed the edge of the knife harder into Marche's neck. A small trickle of blood seeped from the thin laceration.
"Who are you?" he asked for the third time. With that, Marche was surprised to feel the knife vanish from his throat, and in fact, he noted that the phantom itself disappeared. He clutched his neck to apply pressure to the minor wound as he turn around, confused. Yet again, the taunting laughter returned. Right in front of his eyes, the man appeared, in a ghostly cloud of mist, his metal mask shining brilliantly from the giant moon.
"What, don't you recognize me?" he said as he spread his arms in a friendly manner. "Well, maybe this will help." He brought his hands up to his mask and loosed the leather straps that held it to his face. A bead of sweat ran down Marche's forehead.
Then the mask was off.
"Now do you remember?"
.....
A great boom of thunder seemed to shake the stone walls of the great castle to its foundations, jarring the two Fighters that stood atop the fortress's highest tower. Easily 500 feet in the air, the wind whipped across it with such force that the mortal enemies could hardly stand to face each other. Two blood red capes flapped in the breeze.
Marche stared coldly at his enemy. He was breathing heavily, wincing in pain at the long gash that ran down his left arm. The copious blood that poured from the wound had stained his sleeve a dark crimson, and individual droplets had begun to fall from his limp fingertips, blow away by the ferocious gale. His opponent was no better off though. He was nursing a debilitating injury to his abdomen that he clutched with his free arm.
Suddenly, an explosion rocked the castle maliciously, like a giant fist coming down and smashing the eastern wall to rubble. Then a second and a third explosion rang out, each one dealing massive, mortal damage to the once proud citadel. The enemy fighter looked to the left and to the right frantically, to see if a bolt of lightning had struck. Marche smiled and shook his head.
"Sorry, Mirabo. That would by Lini. He planted explosives all through the castle. And they intend to blow, too, irregardless of which one of us survives. It's over now." Across from him, Mirabo stood defiantly against the wind. The White Paradox Blade in his right hand had begun to glow faintly, reacting to his desperation.
"You'll go down too, you know. Unless, of course, you can kill me and escape in the next minute or two," Mirabo responded.
"Actually, it's probably closer to thirty or forty seconds. The bombs have very short fuses," Marche said. As if on cue, another explosion erupted from the castle's great hall, causing the titanic structure to crumble to dust. Marche's hand tightened around his Black Paradox Blade, feeling the warmth of its energy flow into his body. Adrenaline flooded his veins, as he prepared to attack.
"If you want this weapon, then you'll have to come and get it!" Mirabo shouted over the deafening roar of the tempest. He held his blade high in the air and charged Marche with all his might. Like a raging beast, Marche met his attack, their weapon's clanging together. The opposing polar energies of the Paradox blades sent arcs of electricity through the air, drawing bolts of lighting down to strike the tall tower around the two fighters. They hardly noticed. Both were so focused on the force pouring from their souls to their arms to their weapons that they completely shrugged of the intensity of the storm that seemed to gather around them and them alone.
They broke of from each other and attacked again, lunging and perrying and defending. Because the Paradox Blades where hardly longer than a foot from tip to bottom, each strike brought the two Fighters into very close quarters. Both could see the burning anger and determination in each others' eyes, like a raging inferno. And each strike reflected that feeling of raw anger, sending waves of dynamic energy rippling through the air.
Mirabo launched an upward slash that almost caught Marche in the jar. At the last second, he side stepped the surely fatal blow and countered with a lightning fast cutting motion that severed Mirabo's right arm at the elbow. He cried out in pain as blood poured like a fountain from the stump of the limb. The arm landed on the tower's floor, still holding the White Paradox Blade.
Shaking from a combination of rage and agony, Mirabo stumbled backwards to the edge of the tower, holding his cleaved appendage. Marche stood before him, stoically, not feeling any sense of triumph for defeating Mirabo. Instead, he reached down and removed the second Paradox Blade from his opponent's detached hand. He looked at it, sensing its volatile energy flowing through his body. Then he turned his attention back to his enemy. Mirabo stood at the very edge of the tower, he arms, or what was left of them, outstretched. He looked into the angry sky as droplets of rain fell on his blood spotted face.
"Then it's finally clear," he said. "I truly cannot find the answers I seek on this mortal coil." That was all he said. With that, he simply released himself from everything and lept back, falling down into his oblivion.
....
Mirabo, satisfied that he had shocked Marche, returned the metal mask to his face.
"An unusual side effect of transcending death," he said, "is that your face become oddly disfigured. Haven't exactly figured out why yet." Marche had no reply. He had personally seen the man standing before him fall 500 feet to his death. And yet he stood before him, entirely unharmed, save for his distorted face. Even the arm that he had cut off had been reattached, as if it had never been damaged at all.
"How-" was all he managed to say. Mirabo laughed quietly.
"That's something I'd like to know as well. I suspect that one day I'll figure out why fate decided to preserve my consciousness. But at the moment, I'm having much more fun with your predicament. Oh, if only you could know the things I know!" Mirabo danced around Marche's confused body, appearing and vanishing at will. It was setting his mind well off balance.
"Are you here to try and kill me?" Marche asked warily as Mirabo continued his antics. He had fought the undead before, but there seemed to be something different about Mirabo. He seemed to be simultaneously alive and not alive. He materialized behind Marche and snatched the Paradox Blades from his unsteady hands. Immediately, acting purely on instinct, Marche turned around and fired a Chaos Bomb at point blank range. He did not want to deal with someone as dangerous as Mirabo unarmed, and was determined to end their confrontation if he found himself in jeopardy. But he hit nothing. The Chaos Bomb flew into the sky without even grazing the phantom. That was because he had vanished again.
"I can feel the power that you have imbued upon these Blades," Mirabo said, reappearing again in front of Marche. He threw the Paradox Blades down to his feet. Marche quickly recovered them. "You have used them well, far better then I ever could. I suppose you really are their true owner." Marche raised the Blades into an offensive position. He had decided that he would not be caught off guard a second time.
"You can relax. Killing you is the last thing on my mind. And you must realize that I can't be killed." Marche remained resolute, refusing to stand down. Mirabo laughed.
"Are you here just to pester me, or does your presence actually serve some kind of purpose?" Marche asked sternly. Mirabo stopped laughing for a moment as he stared deep into Marche's icy blue eyes through his mask. Suddenly, he vanished again, reappearing an instant later half an inch from Marche's face. In the blink of an eye, Marche found himself staring into the lifeless glare of the mask. He maintained his stance.
"Tell me, Marche, do you know why you are here?" Mirabo asked. Already, Marche could tell that it was a loaded question. Suspiciously, he gave the only answer that he had been able to come up in his time in Ivalice.
"To stop Archemis," he said. Mirabo was silent, his mystically gaze staring into Marche's soul through the steel facade of his mask. He seemed to be able to read deep into Marche's heart.
"A pitiful response," he said as he backed off. "If you had any inkling, a single iota of inspiration, as to the powers at work here, then you would have remained silent. They are forces that even I cannot comprehend, and my perception is far beyond that of your mortal consciousness."
"Your acting awfully high and mighty for a person who can't answer his own question. Do you, in fact, know anything?" Marche asked. Mirabo's words had not sunk in. Marche suspected that his warning was complete farce, intended to put him off guard. As he would later find out, though, they were far more accurate than he could have ever suspected.
"I do know one thing that you don't. And its something that you are yearning to discover," Mirabo answered with a laugh. It was beginning to get on Marche's nerves.
"What is it?"
"I know how you got here," Mirabo said. Marche's jaw dropped. He almost released his Paradox Blades in his shock.
"I see that surprises you, although I suspect that the truth itself will be even more jarring. I can show you, you know. If you are prepared to face that truth." Unable to speak, Marche simply nodded. Already aware of the effect the revelation would have on his poor mental victim, he simply snapped his fingers, and Marche's entire world came crashing down. Literally.
.....
They sky was scorched a fiery orange, rumbling as thunderheads moved overhead, desperate but unable to pour life restoring rain upon the nightmarish land below. What was once a proud bustling town was now a graveyard of ashes and embers. The horizon in all directions was nothing but flame and soot, as though God himself had chosen to smite St. Ivalice and everything around it.
Marche stood in the middle of the hellish malaise as tongue of flame sprung to life and faded into oblivion all around him. The bottom of his mind had fallen out and he found himself tumbling into an abyss of indescribable horror.
"What...happened here?" he sputtered. There was nothing but crimson destruction in all directions. He tried to close his eyes to block out the images, but he found that he could not. It was as if his mind was frozen in place, unable to ignore the holocaust vista before him.
"I don't know!" Mirabo cried gleefully as he lept from the smoldering ruin of a school. The very school that Marche had been in a week before. "And don't think that you can just turn away from this. This is my illusion, and I am in charge!" Mirabo bounded across the blistered ground, as if he was enjoying the carnage before them.
"Isn't it glorious?" he asked Marche rhetorically. He vanished and reappeared next to the paralyzed Soulvetar, his arm draped across his shoulders.
"You're sick!" he snapped.
"Oh, now that hurt my feelings!" Mirabo cackled. "Now, while I can't tell you exactly how this happened, I do have a pretty good idea." He teleported yet again, materializing behind a small pile of ash. "Do you know what this is?" Marche was too shaken to respond. Behind his mask, Mirabo cracked a devious smile. "This, my friend, is the Gran Grimoire," he said, picking up a handful of the burnt remains. That was truly world shattering. Had he been in control of his body, Marche would have passed out. However, he was still tightly ensnared in Mirabo's illusion and did not have the freedom to even to that. All he could do was stare while Mirabo continued to speak.
"It would seem, that some ungodly power tried to escape Ivalice through an unstable channel. The result is this cataclysm you see before you. Without a proper channel, his, or her, or its energy was simply too much for your petty universe to handle. I can't tell you how widespread the damage to your world is, but I can tell you that without the book in this world, there is no way you can possibly leave Ivalice!" Mirabo erupted into a fit of uncontrolled laugher as a wave of overwhelming sorrow overcame Marche. Everyone he ever knew, his friends, his family. Mewt.... Donad.... Everyone....
Mirabo snapped his fingers again and the Hadean vista melted back to the tranquil atmosphere of Muscadet. Now free from the physical and mental restraints of Mirabo's illusion, Marche fell to his knees, overcome by a tidal wave of grief. Needless to say, the sadistic ghost was greatly enjoying it. Marche stared at the red tile before his eyes, unable to do anything more than shake with remorse for his dead loved ones. He felt tears well up in his eyes, but he strained himself to hold them in, not wanting to give Mirabo the satisfaction of a complete breakdown.
Mirabo. The very thought of him displaced his anguish with rage. He knew that he was not responsible for the destruction of his world, but an all consuming fury made his blood boil. It may have been the Blades affecting his mind, but he did not care. In blind vehemence he charged, prepared to cut him in half.
With a flash, the Paradox Blades sliced through his neck, attempting to separating his head from the rest of his body. Without thinking he continued to slash, driving his weapons into Mirabo's flesh.
Contented that he had killed Mirabo for the second time, Marche backed off. It was then that he noticed two very odd things. One, there was no blood gushing from the numerous blows to Mirabo's body, any one of which would have been instantly fatal. Second, he was still standing.
"I though we went over this. I can't be killed!" he said. While he was speaking, his wounds neatly repaired themselves, the wounds autonomously zipping themselves up with a sickening slurping noise. Marche was breathing heavily. He didn't know what he was thinking. He had acted entirely on impulse.
"Why am I still alive?" he asked. "Why wasn't I killed as well? We had no idea that the attack was coming. So why did Ritz and I and up here?" He was exasperated, he form once again shivering from woe.
"As odd as it would appear, Ivalice won't let you die," Mirabo answered.
"What?"
"I don't fully understand it either. Call it fate or destiny, but whatever omnipresent force drives us to action doesn't want you or that girl you love so much to die. It sensed that you were in danger before your reality was destroyed and brought you both into Ivalice prior to the destruction of your world's Grimoire. Lucky you. However, I wouldn't count on that same force to grant you invincibility. There is a power struggle on the metaphysical level that is beyond you that I have just come to realize myself. The world is approaching a crossroads, and it will be up to you and the girl to decide which way it will turn. Choose wisely!" Those were his final words before his form melted into the darkness of the night.
Marche's mind was reeling. It was too much for him to handle. In a daze, he turned and walked back to the hospital. By now, several people had appeared on the street, awoken by the sound of the fighting. The pointed and called to Marche but he ignored them.
He stepped back into Ritz's room and found her standing in the corner. She had awoken from her recuperation earlier than expected. She looked at Marche with her gentle eyes, sensing the emotions that were tearing at his insides. Marche's head hung low as he slowly walked over to Ritz, his body exhuming physical exhaustion and mental torment. Ritz moved over to him and wrapped her arms around him, comforting him with her embrace.