Written for the themes self loathing, courage, dreams, blood, and peace, for my Seifer/Squall claim on fated(underscore)children at LiveJournal. :)

I was lost. I didn't know it, but I was lost from the moment I first met those unnaturally hypnotising eyes. I only ever felt something like that once before, and the memory was fresh in my mind. It had been barely days since I cut my mark across his face, and his eyes had looked at me, through me, captivating me.

The faintest suggestion that she could be like Squall, or give me Squall, or give me what Squall gave me… and I was there, I was hers. Her fucking lapdog. Forced to fight him. I still find it hard to believe how easily she ensnared me. How easily she made me fight the man I had only just discovered my love for.

But it wasn't that easy for her, I suppose. She nearly lost me, every time I faced him. His eyes pulled at me more than hers, dragging me – not exactly kicking and screaming – back to him. But she already had a hold on me, and all she had to do was tell me that she'd force me to kill him and I obeyed her again, fearful that she would make me take his life. His blood on my blade was the only thing I really fought to prevent.

He was the one who gave me the courage to fight through that hell. I learned more about myself from those days under her hands than I ever had before. It felt like lifetimes, learning, exploring all the darkest parts of my soul under the influence of the dreams she gave me. I was practically living on dreams, not food, by the end. The taste of blood in my mouth was a constant.

When I was released, it was a heaven and a hell all at once. She had controlled me, driven me to the edge of insanity and balanced me there, throwing me this way and that… all with the promise in her eyes that was a mere mockery of Squall's look. She gave me what I wanted. I hated myself for going along with her, but rejoiced that I was free from her, free to seek the real owner of that look.

I found the courage I needed to live in the new, peaceful world from his eyes again. I reminded myself of the hate those eyes would hold for me if he never knew what she did to make me obey.

I had to tell him everything, before I would die or allow myself to be killed. I had to tell him that she got me because of that look of his, how she tormented me with that look, so similar to his but tainted, not what I wanted but enough.

I hated myself. I truly hated myself for every life I took, every home I broke, and every drop of blood spilled by my thirsty blade. But I survived even my own hatred. And she certainly taught me to hate. That was one of the darkest things about me. The capacity to hate, truly hate - to hoard a grudge until it was something almost tangible.

So I survived. I had to tell him how sorry I am. If only to see his eyes blaze like that one more time. That's what I did it all for, isn't it?

His eyes, when I went to him, weren't anything like that, though. His eyes weren't angry, or forceful. But no less hypnotising; a kind of… calm in them that brought me truly down to earth. Back to the new, peaceful world he'd created.

He didn't ask me anything. I stumbled out the words that never meant enough. "I'm sorry" doesn't mean anything when you have killed, tortured, burned, and destroyed.

But he understood. I didn't tell him then, about his eyes. Just revelled in the idea that maybe, maybe I was forgiven. In the knowledge that his eyes could control me and bring my lighter side to the fore. Not just the darker, angry side that she brought to me with the angry look that mocked his.

I told him first about the dreams, after that. Lying against him, truly welcome in his life, in a way I'd never even hoped for.

I told him about the blood, the taste in my mouth. He assured me that he'd never seen me with a bloody mouth when we fought, unless, of course, it was because I'd just been punched in the mouth by Dincht, which happened so rarely anyway.

I told him about the rape, and he snorted and told me that the day I tried to rape him would be the day I died. He left unspoken that it would be the day he died, too, but I think even then, he loved me that much.

Sometimes, I almost hated him for that. Making things so easy.

Later, I told him how she trapped me. How I'd longed for him, and she'd given me a mockery. And he smiled, brushed his lips against mine, winding himself round me. He didn't bother with words, then – for both of us, actions speak louder, when words can twist and lie so much.

It should have pissed me off more, the way he gave me such unconditional forgiveness. He didn't know, couldn't know, about the dark places inside of me. And yet… he didn't shelter me from any of the consequences of my actions. He didn't take any of it away, and his forgiveness certainly never stopped the near constant guilt I feel. He simply offered a place beside him for me.

Gave me a different view on the world, I guess.

A world of peace. A world where "I'm sorry" means something even though the blood is still on my hands, and in the left over dreams, I still taste it; it and all the guilt I deserve. A world where I don't hate myself. A world where I wake up with him beside me for courage.

I can live with that.