There was something amiss. Garnet narrowed her eyes, her brow thoughtfully furrowed as she tried to locate the problem. Suddenly, she gave a start and thoughtlessly interrupted Zidane's look-a-like's tale.

"But your eyes," she exclaimed, "they've changed!"

The objects of her surprise narrowed considerably as his face melted into a scowl. It was like watching a large, dark cloud blot out the sunlight. She was, however, far too shocked at the change to note the man's sudden change of mood. His eyes had indeed changed; the golden brown had sharpened into an intense amber color, the color of anger, of rage, of hate.

Finally, he replied coldly, "Yes, I suppose they would have."

Of course, such a reply did nothing to answer the many questions bubbling up inside the young queen. It seemed that the confusion grew and grew like a living thing inside her, making her ready to burst if she did not open her mouth and voice them. It finally reached the point where she could no longer contain the turmoil; she took a deep breath and asked.

"But why have they changed? And why don't you seem to care? It certainly isn't normal. And this story you've told, it's interesting and all if it's real, but where is Zidane now and why do you look so much like him? And why did the Lifa Tree-?"

"Enough!" the man cried. "I've told you all I know about the Lifa Tree; no, I certainly don't care about the color of my eyes at a time like this, and I'm not sure why they change like they do. Can't you do anything but ask questions?"

Startled by the strength of his reply, Garnet took a step back. Then, remembering that she was the queen in this castle and he the impostor, she hardened her resolve and raised her chin slightly in a regal manner.

"You chide me, yet you have not answered the most important questions of all: Who are you, and where is Zidane?"

At the mention of her love's name, the man seemed to shrink back, less sure of himself and more like a lonely child than a strong adult. He seemed almost ashamed of her inquiries. Finally, he straightened and, with a look akin to defiance, answered.

"You do not ask easy questions," the impostor began, "nor do you ask easy ones. Zidane," here he stopped for a breath. "Zidane should never have gone back there. Someone should have stopped him...it was foolish."

Hearing such words from a stranger angered Garnet more than his outburst had before. "What do you know of Zidane? He went back to comfort his dying brother! Don't you dare try to demean such a noble act!"

The man's eyes softened; a sad gleam within them sent a stab of pity through the queen's heart. He had the look of a haunted man.

"No," he whispered, "I would not do that."

The silence stretched out uncomfortably, heavy and thick, pulsing like a living thing. They stood there, staring at each other, he with the look of a tormented soul, her with that of a stranger in an uncomfortable situation. Finally, with a light sigh, he met her confused gaze with his own melancholy one. His eyes, Garnet noticed faintly, had taken on more of a mellow color, something more akin to Zidane's soft brown than the stranger's striking amber.

"Garnet," he murmured, "I'm afraid…your lover is not going to be able to keep his promise to you…"

Emotion, icy in all its searing intensity, bolted through her, starting at her heart, flashing through her veins to the tips of her fingers and toes then back again, colliding in her chest and blurring her vision as her fears were confirmed by this man, this stranger who wore her lover's face.

Don't worry, I'll come back; I promise!

"But how do you know," she whispered softly, so softly that the impostor raised his brows and leaned closer to hear her. Then, louder, in numb denial she all but screamed, "How do you know?!!"

With real concern, he stepped close only to be shoved back by the teary-eyed girl. If she had taken the time to truly look, she would see clearly the war that he was fighting with himself. He had felt so torn; part of him desired nothing more than to comfort the ailing queen, while the other couldn't care less whether she wept or not. He was only here to fulfill a duty, after all.

Finally, he answered her. "Your highness, I was with Zidane; I know that he will never truly be able to return to you."

Is her lip actually trembling?

Indeed it was, like a delicate petal in a raging storm. The man shook himself; her emotions were not his concern; he must remember that.

"But how?" she cried desperately. She could not believe that her love was gone, that he was dead. "Who are you to come here, looking like him and yet saying that he is dead and cannot return to me?!" She lowered her head, tears bubbling over her eyes, finally reaching their peak and sliding gently down her soft, pale cheeks. "Who…?"

If Zidane truly was gone, then she was dead. What was the point in going on if she would never see him again? She should have gone back with him; better to die with him than live without his love!! The icy hand that gripped her heart also tightened her throat, making it painful to breath. She was nothing; she was dead.

Then a comforting hand touched her cheek and the ice diminished to a bearable chill. She slowly raised her tear-streaked face to find Zidane watching her with a sad, bittersweet look in his eyes. Unable to bear the horrible separation any longer, Garnet hurled herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and sobbing into his warm, familiar chest. All of her fears, all of her nightmares where finally being released; it felt good to finally just cry.

The impostor wrapped his arms around the young woman, stroking her hair thoughtfully. She would be ashamed of herself later, but it seemed as though she needed this; she needed to be weak right now; she needed to be protected; she needed Zidane more than she needed the truth. He closed his eyes, carried away by darker thoughts as he held the weeping queen of Alexandria.