Disclaimer: I don't own anything, as you can see from my sad, sad face. That includes the rights to Final Fantasy VIII, those creepy hospital machines, and to Carl Sandburg's beautiful poetry.
Fool's Gold
By giggleplex
Chapter 3: Murmurings in a Field Hospital
(They picked him up in the grass where he had lain two
days in the rain with a piece of shrapnel in his lungs.)
COME to me only with playthings now. . .
A picture of a singing woman with blue eyes
Standing at a fence of hollyhocks, poppies and sunflowers. . .
Or an old man I remember sitting with children telling stories
Of days that never happened anywhere in the world. . .
No more iron cold and real to handle,
Shaped for a drive straight ahead.
Bring me only beautiful useless things.
Only old home things touched at sunset in the quiet. . .
And at the window one day in summer
Yellow of the new crock of butter
Stood against the red of new climbing roses. . .
And the world was all playthings.
- Carl Sandburg "Murmurings in a Field Hospital"
It was a drizzly day when she left.
Seifer suspected that even the skies or whatever supernatural forces decided the weather and rain, could feel the depression lingering around Matron's orphanage that day. He hated the rain.
A nice young couple from Dollet had come by the seaside orphanage three times before they made a final decision. The woman was short and slender, and tugged on the ends of her coat when she was nervous. Her red hair was tossed together in curls, like carrot shavings. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, sporting an impressive mustache and equally impressive biceps. Seifer was not impressed.
While they cautiously toured the stone walls of the place he learned to think of as "home," he avoided them like he avoided Selphie. She was annoying, but he couldn't tease her like he teased Zell because she was, well, a she. Besides, she hit a lot harder than Zell and could even use magic, when she was sure Matron wasn't looking.
His self-imposed solitude during those visits did not earn him any favors from the couple in question, who frowned and muttered things about him being "antisocial." However, his method of solitude was not joined by anyone besides Squall, who had his own "antisocial" issues (that had nothing to do with Seifer at all).
Least involved with his silent protest was a particular blonde tomboy who upturned her nose at his gruff disrespect of their visitors. He imagined her giving them a tour of the orphanage, and teaching them the secrets of making a perfect sandcastle with razor-sharp precision. She probably would try to boss the couple around like she tried to boss the rest of them.
Distant from the hubbub, Seifer was the last to know that she was the very one they had chosen as their new child.
When he heard the news, he was confused, and then angered. He didn't know why he cared so much about Quistis going away—it was not as if he was jealous of her, as he wanted nothing to do with the foster family. He didn't care about her either—well not that much.
In fact, he teased her with as much vigor as he teased Crybaby-Zell. Only, she didn't cry. Instead she was known to swell up her chest with a forceful breath, narrow her eyes and twist her mouth before charging at him like a madwoman. Seifer had gotten faster since he arrived, because Quistis could still knock him over with the force of one of her tiny fists.
As he stood there in the drizzle with his hands shoved stubbornly in his corduroy pockets, he glared at the couple from Dollet. The woman shivered while clutching onto her husbands long coat. The man's mustache twitched every few seconds, betraying his impatience.
Edea looked worriedly at her children, wringing her spindly hands. She finally settled a pleading look at Seifer.
"She's been in there for nearly a half an hour, perhaps you could check on her, Seifer?"
He cocked his head to the side, and crossed his arms.
"Please, dear?" Her violet eyes begged him to not demonstrate his infamous attitude that moment. He took pity on her and uncrossed his arms.
There was the barest of nods before he turned abruptly and stalked meaningfully back to the orphanage.
She hadn't shared a room since Ellone left, so she was at the farthest end of the wood-floored hallway, in the smallest room. Despite the fact she had only gone to pick up her bags, the door was closed. Seifer felt a tugging downward on his lips.
Stepping quietly, he inched closer to the door, sensing that something was wrong.
Wait, he realized, is she . . . ?
Seifer pushed open to door without further preamble.
Quistis was difficult to spot, wrapped up three times in an oversized duvet that Matron had made for her. Her red face contrasted horribly with the orange blanket that seemed to have devoured her. A little tuft of blonde hair stuck out and shook gently.
She was crying. Despite this, he could tell she was trying to stifle her sobs in front of him.
"Go a-away." She took a deep shuddering breath and fled deeper into the duvet.
If there was one thing that Seifer hated more than anything, it was being told what to do. If there was one thing that Quistis did best, it was telling people what to do. Clashes between the two of them were bound to happen and they had, many times, since Seifer came to the orphanage by the sea.
This initially seemed like nothing different.
"I don' wanna," Seifer sneered, bending over her with his hands shoved into his pockets. "plus d'ya think I would come here without any reason? Matron told me ta come and get ya."
"I'm not gonna go." Came a voice, somewhere in the bedcovers.
Seifer tipped his head to the side with his eyebrows raised.
"Then I guess I'm gonna go instead!" he teased her pointedly "They're gonna take me away and you'll still be stuck here!"
"Then GO!" she suddenly hurled off the blanket "Just GO AWAY!"
He stood there, shocked at her red-rimmed eyes and furious countenance. Dried tears mixed with fresh trails down her blotchy cheeks, her lips contorted and trembling. Those fine eyebrows that ordinarily held so much poise for such a young face, were knitted forcefully like blunt swords.
Seifer stared. If he had noticed that he was staring in utter shock, he would have turned away and denied it. But he could not see himself and the emotion of astonishment seeped through his eyes like green glare from a car's headlights.
"Huh?" he said, mostly to himself.
"I don't wanna go! I don't wanna leave! I don't wanna leave all of you behind, because I'll never ever get to see you guys EVER again!"
She began to cry again, bowing her head so the tears fell directly on her blankets rather than her cheeks. Her slim shoulders shook with the force of pure misery.
Seifer still stood, silently. His hands were forgotten at his sides, rather than coolly placed in his pockets.
He had thought she would be overjoyed to leave them, to be loved and adopted—to succeed where the rest of them had failed. She was always like that, competitive to a fault and abhorrently full of herself. But maybe there had been something he had missed while living with her, even for as long as he had.
Maybe . . . she wasn't as similar to him as he'd wanted to admit.
He became humbled with the simple thoughts that had humbled this golden-haired, blue-eyed pillar of strength.
Yet for some reason, he did not feel it necessary to deny anything when he stepped over to her crumpled form and placed his arms around her.
His tiny fingers met each other on the other side of her, creeping together and holding her tighter. Each tremulous sob shook him as well. It was the first hug he had ever managed and it was awkward and unruly and sissy-like, but the thought that it might be possible to calm her with the gesture, formed in his stomach as a warm feeling rather than in his brain.
He rested his head gently on her bony shoulder.
Miraculously, "bossy little Quisty" reigned in her pride at Seifer's unexpected gesture. The two of them sat silently for what seemed like longer than it really was, until her shaking slowed, and ultimately stopped.
Seifer felt her take a deep shuddering breath, and let it out again. She sagged in his clumsy grip. He felt the urge to sag as well. It was as if he had been crying all that time as well.
He didn't want to say it. It was cruel, and although it hadn't stopped him before, that feeling of meanness almost stopped him then.
"You should get yourself together. Matron told me to come, and she might get here soon if we don' go back."
Quistis took another deep breath, smoother than the last.
"I really don't wanna go."
"I didn't wanna leave home when I came here," he told her "but after I came I liked it a whole bunch."
She gave a half hearted laugh.
"You always say you hate it."
Seifer let his eyes trail downcast, but she didn't see because his arms were still around her. "Well . . . I lied I guess."
She wriggled, and he let his arms fall.
"Really?" Her face turned toward his, eyes hopeful and mouth partially opened. Some of her tears had mingled in her bangs, and it caused them to clump up crisply, like straws hanging over her forehead. Gold straws.
"Uh huh."
He didn't meet her eyes. But he meant it, and she could tell. She could always tell what he was thinking.
"You should get packed."
Quistis did not reply, but Seifer stood up and tugged away the blanket. It was so big that when he tried to fold it, the blanket simply crumpled up again. He heard a giggle as it finally fell over his own head, much to his embarrassment.
The blanket was tugged off his head, and the first thing he saw was Quistis, holding onto two corners and gazing at him with an expectant smile. Her cheeks were still blotchy, but she was smiling . . . and he couldn't help but smile too.
They folded her blankets and placed her blouses and well-worn trousers into her suitcase (Quistis was not fond of dresses, so she left them). The two of them said nothing, but offered reassurances with smiles and playful physical jabs with articles of clothing.
When all was packed and she placed her felt hat over her messy, clumpy hair, Quistis was ready. She was not overjoyed, but determination had returned to her and Seifer could see it in the way she stood and looked at him.
He wasn't sure if it was his embrace, or his words, or his companionship or if Quistis really had the determination all along and needed a little time to come to grips with herself. But she was no longer sobbing and denying her right to have a normal life. Seifer felt a hint of pride for himself, and for her.
She was wearing the only dress she was bringing along. It was large and pink had had two layers of white petticoats, as well as a white ribbon tie around the waist.
She suddenly realized she was staring. Her eyes immediately averted and one gloved hand crept up to her still-messy hair.
"I need to get my hair cut. It's getting too long."
Seifer smiled in the way that would later make strong women swoon and break the most indestructible hearts. He was still a child, but it was the first of growing up.
"You should let your hair grow out, Quisty. It makes you look more like a girl."
Her head shot up. Instead of blushing or looking embarrassed, a slow smile crept to her lips.
"Quistis? Seifer? Are you in there?"
Seifer blinked at Matron's voice and Quistis heaved up her unwieldy suitcase as if nothing unusual or emotional had ever transpired. After a swift knock, Matron poked her head in with a slightly annoyed expression.
The little girl with golden hair wobbled out the door. Seifer shoved his hands back in his pockets.
"Seifer?"
He turned, and found that Quistis was looking at him again.
"I'm gonna miss you Seifer."
He stuck his nose in the air.
"I guess I'm gonna miss ya too, Quisty."
She bustled out of the door and the last thing he spotted was a little whirl of petticoats completely unsuitable for a person like "bossy little Quisty."
FLASH.
Petticoats became a worn pink skirt. There was no door or Orphanage, only those icy blue eyes and the glare of his disarmed gunblade. He was in pain.
FLASH.
He should have died. It was the last time he saw her.
He should have screamed. He did.
Wanderer eventually found his way outside the hospital, beyond sliding glass doors and dying potted plants. He did not remember the act of walking out of the building and settling down on a weather-beaten wood bench, but he jolted to full consciousness eventually and was not terribly concerned.
First, he tried calming himself by coming up with some decision, some worthy justification. This only succeeded in frustrating him further. He ended up pacing, clenching his fists to the rhythm of his quickened heartbeat, and with no answers.
Second, he pulled out a soggy cigarette. It took him a while to light it, but it gave him something to do. He had thought the taste would calm him with it's smoky familiarity.
He looked at it, poised delicately between his pointer and thumb after the first drag. Then he pointedly let it fall from his grip and stomped it out with more force than necessary.
It tasted like blood. Even water tasted like blood.
He was still feeling slightly ill when the same nurse from before barged out of the automatic sliding doors with a frazzled look on her face. She ran up to him, breathing heavily.
"You," she said, pointing to him "you're the man from before. Your friend, the one you brought in, he's screaming and none of us are strong enough to hold him down long enough to sedate him!"
Wanderer stood flabbergasted for only a split second before he ran inside the hospital, quick with his long lanky strides. Momentarily, the dilemma was forgotten.
He wished they hadn't put him on oxygen.
After the wild thrashing incident, the Fool contracted even more damage to his spinal chord as well as his lungs, hence the breathing mechanism. Now, with a spindly mask strapped over his face, and his face even paler and more . . . dead, the scene seemed so much graver.
Wanderer did not even notice that the rest of the nursing staff had already departed to other such "emergencies," most likely involving people more beloved than the one they had just left. He sat on a crooked plastic seat by his mechanical bed, staring at the IV tube that was inserted into a large vein in the Fool's right arm.
This last bout of trauma not only took its toll on the injured man in the thin hospital gown, but on his so-called savior as well. For an undeterminable time, he stared. He breathed as the whirling medical equipment breathed; to the tune of beeps and distressing lights that flashed green and red.
He couldn't hear outside the cocoon of nondescript curtains. It was as if this little area, with just the privacy of sight, was in an altogether more private setting. It was its own dimension, and Wanderer was alone with his thoughts and the scarcest reminder that there was another, half-alive being in the same plane of existence.
The curtains, he noticed, were vinyl or some sort of material that would be easy to sponge off. It would be easy to wet a sanitized paper-towel and wipe over the curtain like a counter. Unlike the Wanderer's growing paranoia, it would be easy to clean up the blood.
He suddenly felt a bit ill. Shakily, he stood, shutting his eyes and feeling dizzy from stress or from a lack of rest or from a lack of food. Or a combination of those three reasons.
A stumble slowly turned into a pace. He didn't know why he was still there; it wasn't as if he was waiting for anything. He wasn't considering Dr. Primrose's proposition. The Fool would not wake any time soon.
His pacing became more furious as memories of injustice came back.
He stopped suddenly, shaking his heads as if that would help relieve the thoughts. His eyes found themselves on the electrical output of the "room." Thick, bulbous plugs stuck like leeches, powering those whirring machines that were making him more uneasy with every breath.
It would be so easy, he could so easily end it all and end the Fool's glorious story by unplugging those rubber leeches. He would have died in battle. He would have set an example.
It would be so easy . . .
"Excuse me, sir."
Wanderer turned slowly to face a petite middle-aged woman with a kind face and crow's feet on the edges of her hazel eyes. Her brown hair was showered with coarse strands of gray that fell neatly to her shoulders and curled in at the ends. She was dressed in a well-worn trench coat and matching cap, and judging from her black leather gloves and a grip on car keys she looked as though she had just arrived, or was just about to leave.
He said nothing to her, but she did not seem to mind. Her lips narrowed into a thoughtful, almost puckered expression that brought out a few more lines in her face. She walked over to the unconscious man.
"I don't mean to bother you." She stated, her eyes glancing over the machines and the corpse-like presence of the man attached.
Wanderer was really in no mood for politeness or conversation. He threw himself down on the chair, feeling more exausted than ever.
"Did you bring him in?" she asked, turning.
He looked up, and dropped his head to his upright palms, feeling a migraine forming behind his eyes.
"Some of the nurses have said that you haven't left since you brought him in." her voice continued "You really ought to get some rest yourself, or you might just collapse. I've seen it happen. Gosh, I've seen it happen to other doctors!"
"You're a doctor?"
He was angrier than he thought. It obviously showed in his voice, because the woman looked taken aback by his question.
She, however, was not so faint of heart as to be frightened. Her neck lengthened and her eyes shined with authority.
"I am, and I'm giving advice that you should really consider. There's little you can do for him by waiting here."
"Look," he snarled "it's not my decision to use him for your sick experiments. I'm not leaving because I don't know what you'll do to him. That's your intention, right? Get me out of here so if he dies during your tests or whatever, it seems like some sort of an accident."
She gaped at him.
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"I don't trust anyone." His eyes narrowed.
Her eyes widened.
"You think I'm going along with Primrose's plan!" She suddenly ran a hand through her hair "Do you honestly think me that immoral?"
"Everyone has morals, just not always socially acceptable ones." He stated.
"Well, I can assure you," she advanced on him "that not only do my morals condemn such thoughts as possibly unsafe testing on living people, but the oath I took when I became a doctor pointedly condemns it as well!"
He felt a bit dizzy, and clutched his head again. She continued.
"Besides! I'm an anesthesiologist!" she cried "What on earth would I do with brain testing?"
He felt a hand on his shoulder. When their eyes met, he noticed that her expression had softened, but still retained the power inherent in her face. It was a motherly countenance.
"I remember enough from medical school to judge that you're truly hurting yourself by staying here, both physically and psychologically." She sighed "Please, for the sake of my conscience, go home or ask one of the nurses for an extra hospital bed to rest on. As much as I'm sure it hurts to here it, there's nothing you can do for him. There's nothing we can do for him . . . if he does wake up, it will be through his own determination and his body's ability to cope."
Wanderer felt the hand on his shoulder tighten, and he was beginning to lose hope. He was ready to heed her advice, and the advice of his aching head, and postpone his pacing and worrying for the evening. Just as he was ready to get up again, something in her speech jolted him to reality.
"I don't even think the best doctors in the world or even Selphie Tilmitt, or—or Quistis Trepe could heal him!"
His head shot up, with his fatigue momentarily forgotten.
"Wait . . . who is Quistis Trepe?"
Author's Notes – Sorry if that seemed rushed near the end, I'll fix it up if I get any complaints. Erm . . . this chapter is a little shorter than the last, but I admit it's rather boring, and I thought it would be good to keep it a little short. Well, the next chapter should be a bit more eventful, expect all of those teenage hormones and overly dramatic scenerios that we all know and love (come on, I know you like "Sixteen Candles" or "10 Things I Hate About You" even if you don't admit it).
Well, it will probably be a little different. Since we're dealing with killers rather than teenagers who drive jeeps somewhere in LA. In any case, stylistically, it will be similar to the previous chapters. I'm really looking forward to writing it. Gah! My Quistis is going to be so hardcore, just you see!
Anyway, I don't have any of the next chapter written, so it will probably take about a week or so (possibly shorter if I get enough encouragement, haha, you know me). Look for it, if you're still interested!
This story is really a treat for me, since the rest of what I write is so angst-ridden and whatnot. Hopefully there is enough light-heartedness that you don't feel like killing yourself at the end of every chapter. There is a happy ending in sight! Well, eventual sight at least!
Please review, and I will be sure to pointedly love you love you love you. Thank you so much for reading!
giggle
PS – Hoodoo, I'd just like to thank you in particular for your kind encouragement. I can't reply to your reviews so I hope you get this message anyway! I really do appreciate your continued interest in this story, as well as the rest of you who have stuck with it. A big extra thank you for you.