The Rough Road to the Stars

by Capella A. Morningside

Summary: Re-titled. Sequel to "Hinc Illae Lacrimae". Slight shounen-ai. After the tragic events at Fort Dragonia, there were those left behind, with no comfort but the chill of empty words and winds. This is their story. Incomplete.

Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to part two of the most-likely three-part drama, "The Rough Road to the Stars", previously titled "The Fear of Empty Places". Part two is entitled 'Tisiphone : Avenging'. Part one was called 'Alecto : Unceasing', FYI, and part three will be 'Megaera : Grudging'. These are the names of the mythological Furies, who mentally tormented people for their crimes, for all you mythology lovers. Also this stays within the Chrono Cross spirit, the islands in the Sea of Eden were named after the three Fates, after all...


Say something. Say anything... please, don't keep this religious silence, her mind pleaded, looking to her much taller friends but quickly turning away to hide her misty eyes. The three Devas had found very little to say to one another, weighed down by the loss of a dear friend and the potential loss of their valiant leader, who now rested within the safety of Sir Radius's underground shelter. They'd found him soon after their more morbid discovery, and in his unconsciousness, truth after truth about the events atop the fort had spilled out.

They had lost their home, their beautiful Termina. Lost it to the hands of the Porre military, whose sneak invasion during the dead of night had occurred in their absence. Perfect timing on the part of Lynx, even the dragoons had to admit it, since most everyone was in the fort and not protecting the town. It was because of this that they were stuck at the hideaway, forced to hide themselves underground, not even able to give their comrade a proper burial at the location they wished. It was tough to decide, but with no other option besides burning or being cut adrift to sea, which none of them could bear the thought of, Glenn's gravesite was now located on the small island that was Radius's residence, marked with a stone carved by the hands of his friends. Most of the complaining had been done on the part of Karsh, who raged for at least an hour about the lack of honor and reverence that this entailed, but now his angered voice was silenced as the three of them tried to hold some kind of makeshift funeral under the sunny sky.

Here Rests
Acacia Knight Glenn
Left the World - age 20

Weep not, fair ones
He has gone beyond
To see the truth

It was one of those days that didn't look as if anything could go wrong or be wrong. The sky was streaked with thin, wispy clouds that threatened no rain, the sunlight glittering on the ocean and lighting up the air until every possible reflective surface sparkled. Seagulls and a multitude of forest birds wouldn't allow the air to remain silent, filling it with their calls and songs, the sea itself providing its own countermelody with the rhythmic waves crashing on the shore.

Marcy had always thought of herself as extremely mature beyond her age, but now she was rethinking her prideful boast while she fought the tears back. Don't cry. Only stupid little babies cry. You're an Acacia Dragoon, Marcella, a big girl that doesn't need to act like a sissy. Silently, she'd been rebuking herself for the things she wished she'd never said, things she wanted to take back.

"I don't care about you, Glenn!"

It wasn't true... at least she was nearly sure that Glenn knew it too. And if he didn't back at Mount Pyre, maybe he did now.

This is all Lynx's fault. Stupid, ugly, overgrown stray cat! We should have totally never trusted him. He tried to kill the General. He murdered Glenn. He oversaw the conquest of Termina, and had been working alongside Porre the entire time. He stole Serge's body and only the Gods know what's happened to the real Serge.

The vocal silence between them broke with Marcy's whimper, her head lowering to hide her face.

"Marcy?" Karsh nearly whispered.

"I hate him," the little girl responded. She then broke into one of her old temper tantrums, clenching her fists and stomping the displaced earth with her feet. "I hate him! I hate Lynx! It's totally his fault, and I'm going to cut his neck open!"

What a child you are, Marcella, the inner voice scolded. Look at you now... oh, what's this? Could it be that you're crying? Now raging amidst her no-longer-hidden tears, Marcy gave a little fitful scream, falling to her knees and letting her fists pound the earth with abandon.

Sometimes, the other two Devas had a tendency to forget Marcy's age, due to her immense strength, but now was one of those rare times when everyone was reminded that she was, indeed, just a child. Zoah took a step forward, lifting the girl from the ground and tolerating the pounding she was giving his back as he proceeded to carry her back inside the shelter.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid Glenn!" she screamed on the way. "Why'd you have to go and be so... so brave... and stupid?"

Karsh started to follow, but paused to regard the gravestone for a last moment. "She's right, you know... tch. Serves me right for trying to encourage you to be more like your big bro. Ah well," he concluded, "rest well, Glenn."


It pained her to leave her beloved Viper Manor behind, with all its splendor, beauty, and a different fond memory of Dario connected to each of her little possessions. But the Lady of Viper Manor had no choice; she'd been made a prisoner in her own home already by the beastly Porre military, and she doubted that she would still be living if it weren't for her rescue at the hands of Karsh, the transformed Serge, and a violet-haired, quick-tongued teenager she had not before met. And, of course, the kind assistance of the 'Black Wind' commander himself, which had been quite unexpected.

She anticipated her reunion with the other Dragoons, hoping and praying during the entire boat ride to the Hideaway that the others had safely escaped as well. And most of all, she was anxious to see her father, whom Karsh had informed her was making a promising recovery from his injuries sustained at Fort Dragonia. She'd longed to ask him about the details of that night, but time wouldn't wait for them, and she had been hurried out of the manor to safety as quickly as possible while her rescuers distracted the soldiers.

The boat ground noisily against stone and sand as it hit the shore, coming to a halt sudden enough to jerk the bodies of both passengers forward moderately. The Porre commander in front of her stood, ran his fingers through his sun-colored hair, and turned to the woman. "This is the correct island, Miss Riddel?"

Riddel inspected the land before them. Peeking out from between the lush leaves of the shrubbery and trees was a definite shade of black, the charred wood of the visible parts of Radius's shelter. "Yes, it is," she replied at length.

Commander Norris stepped from the boat, frowning as a wave crashing ashore wet his boots. Riddel stifled a laugh; it was the kind of dismay she'd expect from Karsh, who never stopped complaining if his clothes got unnecessarily dirty. In more than one way, these two men were so similar, though they were from different sides of the battle... it was a wonder that they could argue, it was more like looking in a mirror and declaring your reflection your enemy. Riddel gently took Norris' extended hand as he aided her in exiting the boat, with a soft 'thanks' and a smile.

"You are sure you will be safe here, Miss?" the commander inquired, knotting his brows slightly in worry.

"Do not be troubled," Riddel chuckled. "I am perfectly safe here. The others here will be sure of that."

"Then I must be going." Norris jumped back into his boat, careful to go directly from the sand to the vessel itself, avoiding the water wearily.

"You have a kind heart, Commander," she replied. "And my eternal thanks." She was only regarded with one last glance, one last nod, before the boat was offshore and the sound of the motor faded into the distance.

Once the boat was out of sight, and Riddel had waved her last goodbye, the thin woman left the sand of the shore in favor of the soft green grass that surrounded the lush forestry of the hideaway. Passing the barrier of trees, she finally came into full view of the charred shelter. It was upsetting, for this quiet hut had also held many a fond memory... of the times she'd been allowed to go there, that is, meaning only when she bothered the boys enough that they let her come with them to watch them train. Not that she wouldn't prove herself useful. Despite the usual view toward well-off women and their ill housekeeping abilities, she was an excellent cook. Riddel didn't hold back her smile, remembering Karsh and Dario, most of the time with Glenn in tow, running boisterously into the hut at the very smell of food being prepared, eager looks on all their faces while they asked how much longer it would take until done. Even Radius would peek in occasionally to comment on the marvelous smell, and Glenn would try to sneak in and get his hands on whatever it was behind her back, yet never once did he get away with it.

A fleeting flash of white caught Riddel's eye, standing out amongst the greens and browns of most of her surrounding. She halted, turning her head slightly to check the source of the distraction, and narrowed her eyes in confusion. A long white ribbon was tied in a strong double-knot around a solitary tree branch, clinging on for dear life in the strong winds that threatened to blow it away, never to be seen again. The watcher carefully approached, extending her hand to perhaps take hold of one of the two long, waving strands. But it escaped her with a slight change in the breeze, only to return and grace across the back of her hand with a feather-like touch that was almost like a kiss of formality.

Meaning to untie the oddly-placed object, the woman took a cautious step forward, but nearly stumbled when her white shoe stepped on a rather large chunk of displaced earth. Looking down to inspect the ground, Riddel gathered her long skirts around her ankles, noting the scattered pieces of earth all around her feet, and a shovel leaned against the same tree to which were tied the long ribbons, as well as something that had quite evaded her notice before: a rather large gray stone. In the fading light of the evening, from her angle, only the evidence of engravings were noticeable.

Riddel stepped back, carefully bending down to inspect the stone...

...so that's why that ribbon looks so familiar.

"Miss Riddel," a childish voice came from behind, "It's, like, good to see you're safe." The addressed gave a startle, looking back to see the youngest Deva watching her, concerned.

Marcy looked from the stone, to Riddel's teary eyes, and quickly turned her back. "Like, the General wants to talk to you, okay?"

"Marcy... what ha-"

The little girl shook her head. "Lynx." The older woman watched apprehensively as Marcy's fists clenched, her muscles tightening for a moment, then she almost went limp in her stand. "Just come in, Miss Riddel. It might, like, rain or something, and your father wants to see you."

Brushing herself off, the Lady of the manor complied, following the Deva as she nearly dragged her feet returning to the burned-out remains of the shelter. If Marcy won't tell me, she thought, maybe daddy or Karsh will...


It's amazing that none of them suspect me. Between their tears as they show me the meager gravesite, I half-expect to see those glazed-over sets of eyes glare at me with deep-seeded hatred. Or maybe I'm just paranoid. But in any case, they can't know... at least not yet.

It's one of those nights that I've opted to spend by myself, the only one I've had since I got back to the world in which my existence was ended ten years ago. And the blood of another loved one is on my hands now... Miguel. He forced us to fight him, forced us to kill him... and even though I'd accepted his offer to remain in the Dead Sea and become a timeless soul like he, Norris and Van refused for me. They brushed off my acceptance as the result of some kind of brainwashing trick that Miguel had seemingly played, and even if it was, it was a good one. But whatever the case was then, the reality now is that I can probably never go back to Leena. Her father is dead and it's on my hands. My furry, clawed, ugly hands.

I lean back on these hideous hands to look at the white ribbon waving over my head like some kind of banner of surrender, and wonder why I returned to this world at all.

Footsteps, light but not quick by any means, start to grow closer, and one of my feline ears gives a twitch. I assume it to be someone merely heading for the well or even to the beach, but much to my dismay, they stop right next to me. I don't look to see who it is, but they aren't quiet for long.

"You look like you need a little company." Van. "Besides, I'm not tired, and it's not like I have anything better to do."

Of course. Can't expect you to be compassionate, now, can we?

There is a long silence before he speaks again.

"You act like you were awfully attached to this guy."

I glare at the teen over the high collar of my black robes, but of course he isn't fazed. Just regards me with that same dull look he always gets when unimpressed. Sighing, he fumbles with the ridiculously large jade-colored bow on his waist. "Don't get so defensive," he replies to my expression. "I meant nothing by it, well... not until you got that look anyway. Now I wonder."

Snorting, I turn away.

"And the others think I have an attitude problem," Van retorts, adjusting his violet hair. "Sheeze, you're touchy, Serge."

Just go away, I want to say. But I remain silent... as usual.

"I mean, it's not like I would have a problem with it..."

There he goes, assuming again. Just because you're like that, Van, doesn't mean you can detect it in others. Just stay away, will you? I know what you used to do... to pay your rent, must be easy when a foreign military is running around your town all the time... and I don't know whether to pity you or feel disgust.

As he looks up at me, catching me prodding the flowers propped against the tombstone, I can tell...

He doesn't know whether to feel pity or disgust.

Damned perceptive kid. Van's the only one that has perhaps guessed the truth, simply by watching me when it is brought up, and I wouldn't put it past him to watch me sleep, but graciously, he keeps silent about it. For all his attitude, for all he's said and done, I've got to hand it to him... the kid is smart.

"You want me to leave," Van concludes.

There he goes again.

"Fine." He stands, holding to his red-lined hat as he does, peering at me in a bored fashion over his glasses. "Just don't sit out here all night. If you don't get any sleep and try to fight, you're screwing us all over."

I return to watching the white ribbons blow in the wind.

I surrender.