I watched my son leave that building without another word; as if Seifer had taken with him Squall's ability to speak. The sun bore heavily down on me as I stood by the window in the execution room, long after the clearance of the body and the merciless intrusion of the press, and I observed the lonely footsteps of my distraught only child.
What I thought was too many separate things to wind into one conclusion, but they were overrode by the black, horrific sense that I'd just made the greatest mistake of my life in choosing country over family. The hollow sound of Squall's boots hitting the unwavering pavement outside was tantamount enough to that notion, and I swallowed the lump in my throat as if to avoid paying him disrespect. My tears would be an insult considering the act that I had just committed and however much I cried, I would not bring him back. I could only watch him as he walked out my life; slow, exhausted movements as if all his blood had been drained and he had nothing left to keep him standing.
The subdued howl of the wind interrupted my anguished thoughts and I watched with little interest as it picked up the dry leaves scattered across the path Squall walked. Autumn was so close then, but I had forgotten completely about the change of season what with my consistent striving for political harmony. Still, the rusty, forgotten leaves did not inspire any kind of admiration or contentment in me and I saw them as little more than dead forestry, diverting my attention instead towards my lost son. Shrouded in black, he was a forlorn figure in the warm, autumn afternoon. The sun and the husky orange of the leaves contrasted to his miserable figure of darkness and I only had myself to blame for it.
I know, though, that his reaction will leave me confused for the rest of my days; like some sort of mystifying death sentence. He turned only a little, halting in his steps and stared up at the sky as if it would give him the answers. Eyes focussing on the flight of the leaves, whipped up from the stony ground all around his lithe, small figure, he stopped dead for a few moments. The burnt orange skeletons danced in his path, wound around him in rhythmic spirals, creating a visage of some autumnal spirit trapped on Earth. He reached out a shaky hand to clasp one, observing with a look of agony the movement of the swirling spirals, and placed it in his pocket.
Within a few seconds of blinking, he started walking again.
-END-