Those who we remember most

A Final Fantasy VIII Fanfiction

By Fateweaver

Prologue

When The Western Wind Blows

The western wind brings a peculiar time of year; a time where comrades join arms in celebration in a glorious dance to remember fallen comrades. It is a wind which ushers in glorious fireworks displays who explode into bursts of juicy color upon a starry backdrop to the old and well-known anthem. Sound, dance, light; all fill the air's chilled wake, glorious and triumphant, brimming with sorrow.

The western wind's carnivorous, cold, snap stings wholly in the heated throats of those who train their minds at the Balamb Garden. It skewers their sticky saliva and drowns the heat in their breath, scrapes with malevolent accuracy across every wound received, and brutally blows against their bodies should they dare attempt a return trip home. Swordsmen feel the wind's presence on their swords, commanders feel their thoughts sweep away, and teachers are blown from their students—absentminded, all of them, with a forlorn wish and hope.

"Come back to us' their vacant minds weep, hollow and tormented, 'Come see us once more.' There is no lenience for them, no mercy or act of god to sate their steadfast resolve. Only the dead, cold, grasp of the Western Wind holds in their minds. Even after thousands of bloodied sunsets and cratered sunrises, their voices left unheard and their wishes unanswered. The rasp, whispered tone of the grieving victims of the murderous wind carries itself to the Graveyard, a haven of unspoken words, for the malicious spirit's evil deed.

The Wind's boney fingers reach through the hearts of the faithful as they stand over the four tombstones of their missing comrades and murders their gifts and flowers with iced,
calloused precision, murdering all meaning for their presence. As the wind dances out of the Garden, the air becomes thick with the scent of roses, dandelions, tulips, and even rosemary. The verdant incense then fills the grieving hearts and minds of Balamb Garden, bringing them back to a time when flowers were not a remorseful occasion. As lovers and friends alike gather themselves from their grieving souls, the Wind brings to life its singular cohort in its evil deed. Remorse rises from the far reaches of their day-to-day minds, a living. breathing, thing who travels from home to home and heart to heart in its never-ending journey to ensnare the grief of all who have lost. It breathes its charred wind onto the dress of the SEED and soon is worn on every sleeve; the finest, purest black that never sheds or wears away. Their sleeves become black evil so pure that it wraps around their hearts, entrances their minds, and forms a mask on their faces, a glove around their fingers, and a silvery dagger in their calm voices.

With every breath, it draws nearer and nearer to their minds, presenting itself as both hope and doubt, and nearer and nearer to ascending from fiction to fact. With every joyous burst, it grows stronger and stronger, blacker and blacker; crushing, pressing, and smearing its dark thoughts onto their hearts. Every scrape shed, every tear felt, every absent mind and uneasy glance brings it back to life. So it is said that when the western wind blows, the joy of the past dies, hopes and dreams scatter on the wind, and every task becomes a momentous chore of titanic proportions.

They say that the day that those four tombstones were erect the wind began to blow. Whether true or not, the western wind blows for them—always for them—and with the wind comes the memories of those four heroes; lost and never found. The people of Balamb place replicas of their weapons on display--four glinting, majestic, and terrible instruments of destruction—to both remember who wielded them and to warn those who would walk their treacherous path. Those who are unlucky enough to walk under the arch of the four weapons feel a heavy burden on their hearts; children look up with innocence, tilting their head in confusion, and their parent's souls fill with that depressing sorrowful incense of crushed dreams and fresh flowers.

The worn eyes of those who remember, the sword of those who fought valiantly, the western wind which brings the scent of flowers, and the thick coat of sorrow painted onto the faces of many; these are for and why the western wind blows; for the tale, for the excitement; much like the wind's former owners.

There are those who know the Wind by experience, rather than myth and rumor. They were there when the four vanished on the wings of Ragnarok never to be seen again. These five people gather each year at the Graves and say little, satisfied meagerly in wishing collectively for their safe return. One leaves flowers, one leaves rosemary, one leaves a daffodil, the next leaves a white dandelion, and the last leaves a black cardinal; it is their tradition now. They look at each other, maybe tell a tale or two of the past, and then depart; all of them wondering: "Will they return on the wings of Ragnarok? Will we ever be able to see them again?"

They watch the sky that night, their sorrowed hearts hoping that the black reality in front of them will part with the glint of the Ragnarok's brilliant metallic sheen; that they'll be able to welcome their comrades with open arms and tears of relief; they hope against hope every year and feel the crush of defeat, all of them silently cursing, one of them louder and more passionate than the others.

Her hands buried in her leather gloves, she gnarls her teeth and coughs up tears, her red cheeks and veined eyes puffed and red. Her mind well-remembered that day she told him to stay and he brushed her hand off his shoulder. She remembered the cracking visage of Squall as he sauntered down the corridor to the Ragnarok. When she followed, he pushed her off the ship. With the ship's engines ringing in her ears, she never heard him say it, but she remembered his lips clearly still. 'I love you.' That is what he had said as she stretched her hand out, screaming her anger at his betrayal, cursing at his sense of duty and passion. That was his excuse for these years of sorrow. That was his commitment and his vow to her as he turned and walked away, his body swallowed by the dragon now as they flew on the wings of Ragnarok.

She was a different woman now, but she still felt the echoes of him in her heart. He had never said it before, not once in the ten years she had known him, but he told her that night as they—Squall, Quistis, Zell, and Irvinne—flew off into the sunset, never to return and fulfill the promises they had made. "We'll be back before you know it," Irvine had boasted when she protested their leave. "It'll be fine," Quistis had told her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Tch! We're not amateurs, y'know. Besides, I've got some dogs waiting for me when we get back," Zell had reminded her with a wink before jogging off to the ship. Nevertheless, they didn't come back, it wasn't fine any more, and the hot dogs had become raw and filthy in her mouth. They had lied to her, broken their promises, left her, and her love had betrayed her at the time she needed him most.

"You have to stay," he had commanded her, pressing his hand on her swollen belly, "you have to. For our kid, Rinoa, do it for him if you won't for me. This battlefield has no place for you. Stay. I will be back someday for it someday. Until then, stay strong." The words were bitter and hollow now and she still committed to them but his child—his child was never born. It had died in her womb that one evening, when the western wind blew for the first time. The wind came and took her child, her love, and her friends.

She hated the western wind with all the force and fibref her body and mind. She hated Squall, and Zell, and Quistis, and Irvinne, and all their promises, hopes, and dreams that now burned in her eyes and heart as innumerable flaming swords ever gnashing and slashing at her heartstrings.

She always felt the pull on her chest; when the pinpricks of sorrow attacked her, and the fits of rage and sadness burned into her this time of year. She glanced up through her melted mascara and eye shadow, stared at the reflection of the broken and battered girl in front of her. Placing her hand on her stomach and lowering her head and shame, she whispered in her hoarse voice, "I hate you, Squall. Why do you keep tormenting me? Why? Did I do something terrible to you too?"

She stared at her reflection, touching her hand to the cold glass, and swallowed a sob with a bitter face, "It was me wasn't it, Squall? You wanted me to come after you—wanted me to keep playing our little game. And when I didn't come—you felt this sorrow too?"

The darkness didn't respond and she fell deeper into the pitch black mood she was in. Grabbing a nearby bottle, she eyed it warily and stated to the room, "You know I told you that one time: I hate alcohol." With that, she up-ended the bottle, nearly choking on the tears that were threatening to erupt again, and slammed its empty shell back onto the wooden bed stand next to her. Rolling over on her side, she looked out the window onto the brilliant sky glistening with stars as fireworks began to erupt, her eyes tearing as she smelled that cologne he had grown fond of before. Balling her fists, she whispered angrily, "I can still smell you, damn it—I can still smell you right here next to me. Why are you torturing me so?" Slamming her fist against the soft mattress, she swung her legs over the bed, charged out of the bedroom, crying, "damn you, Squall," and ran to the only place where she knew she would find company, compassion, and a caring hand at this hour.

The door slammed behind her, filling the small apartment with the dead air that always filled it in her absence. In the corner glinted the Lionheart, the sword of her beloved, gathering dust and cobwebs, never to guard Rinoa again, and in the air outside Balamb garden, the western wind howled its fury.

Dark clouds gathered on the horizon as the fireworks exploded and in the gunpowder glaze of the moonlight, the Ragnarok sailed through the clouds to Balamb garden. Gripping the helm tightly, Squall stared at the fireworks, his beard now thick and rugged. Placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, Quistis, similarly unshaven, smiled nervously underneath her light-blonde gotee and scarred face, "She's waited for you, Squall, I know it."

With darkened eyes, Squall replied, "She hates me. If I know her as well as I did then, I know that she hates me for what I've done to her. My child—he's growing up right now. This will be the first time he's ever seen me—I've waited so long to see him. I wonder if she told him about me."

With a bit of gruff humor Irvine asked, "And how do you know it's a 'he'? Afraid you reared a girl, scarecrow?"

"Humph," Squall replied, releasing his grip from the helm and crossing them over his chest, "after what I've done to her, I doubt she would've had the strength to raise a daughter—that's how I know."

Irvine grimaced, returning his view to the console and piloting the Ragnarok in, "Sheesh—you have to be so grim all the time? Ever since Zell--" Irvine's mouth closed softly as he saw through the cockpit glass Squall's eyes darken considerably.

"We don't talk about Zell," Squall reminded Irvine with a scathing, hushed whisper. "There's a reason why I asked you to not speak of him in such a manner, and you have to go and run your mouth, Irvine," Squall's voice cracked as he growled and walked out of the cockpit, "Damn you, Irvine."

The doors slid open and close for Squall as he stormed down the corridor, his foul mood ripping through the ship like a hot knife through warmed butter.

"Quistis," Irvine asked with pain in his voice, "I'm sorry. Please, go help him—I don't know what to do with him any more. …No," he corrected himself, pushing the autopilot button and throttling the engines to hover-mode, "this is my responsibility. I've got to do this." He raised himself from the seat, tipping his ripped and torn hat at Quistis. As he walked to the door, he asked her, "Do you think someone can forgive himself?"

He paused at the open door as Quistis slowly placed both hands on the helm, staring at Balamb Garden and its fireworks, "That's a question that Squall has never answered."

Irvine stared at the fireworks for a moment and nodded. "Yeah—but you know him better than me. Will he be able to handle this? Balamb, I mean, and maybe even Rinoa. That is what we came here for but—I have my doubts about him."

"The only thing I can do is hope for the best sometimes," Quistis said softly, "sometimes that's the only thing we can do." A dead silence filled the room as Irvine stood, unable to reply. His mouth quivered a little and his eyes darkened as he turned away, as if she had slapped him across the face, to face the opening door, muttering in a hushed and forced tone of voice, "Hey, keep those words to yourself, little lady. That's not fair."

"I know," she responded, her voice quivering a little, "but those are the only ones that came—the only ones."

Irvine opened his mouth to reply but recognized the tremble in her voice—the same tremble from before. With a sigh, he whispered, "Yeah—I know what you mean when you say it that way. I feel that way too, y'know—so does Squall." With that, he calmly went through the door, off to find Squall and apologize.

As the fireworks danced in front of her, Quistis sobbed quietly, in a low voice, "Yes—but he's the one who loved me."

"--I am deeply sorry to announce that SEED is unable to field your request," Cid muttered as he paced back and forth, dictating to the computer, "we do not have the manpower to carry out such an operation at this time. Please try again in a few months when we have more recruits. My apologies, Cid." With a gruff sigh, he stopped and sat down in his leather chair, reading the letter earnestly, but it was no use.

"Delete letter," he stated with frustration, watching as the letter vanished off the screen. Leaning back in his chair, he sighed and reached for the small glass of wine he had poured for this occasion. Raising it high in the air, he spoke loudly, "To those who we remember most, I dedicate this toast, in recognition of their fifth anniversary—kampai." With that, he downed the wine and coughed violently as the burning toxin slid down his throat. With three pounds on his chest, he ignored the burning fluids and cleared his voice.

"Display weather report." A graph of barometric pressure, ambient temperature, humidity, wind speed, and other weather information appeared in his glasses and he grunted. "Looks like it's going to be just as cold tomorrow—must be that westerly wind from the north again."

Folding his fingers onto themselves, he placed his hands onto his belly and cleared his mind. "You've been gone for five years," he spoke aloud, "and I've failed in trying to find you every year. I don't know why I keep doing this fruitless endeavor but—display Ragnarok Position Tracking Satellite."

The information replaced itself with a map of the world, and as with every year there was the map and Balamb Garden—no sign of the Ragnarok. He stared at the map for thirty seconds, unblinking. "Why am I doing this," he muttered as he reached for the power button but stopped cold in his tracks as a yellow blip appeared next to Balamb Garden. Eyes widening, he sat forward in his chair, staring at the radar screen. "There's no way that after so long you'd just show up, right? You would call us. You'd tell us where you were before now, right?"

The dot lit up brightly again, about fifty kilometers from the Garden's current position. "Could it be, that after all these years—" he cut himself off, standing up from his chair and lowering his eyebrows as the blip resonated again, this one stronger than the ones before. "Begin engine start-up sequence and begin Garden wide broadcast profile--transmit to all speakers in the Garden. Also, load music profile 'Squall', play on all external speakers—maximum volume. Attention Balamb Garden, this is Headmaster Cid speaking, and I would like to warn you that the Garden might be moving within ten minutes. We may also have an inbound transport headed for the Hangar, please prep it for landing procedures immediately. Thank you."

"They're playing that song," Irvine muttered as he walked down the corridor to Squall's room, "the one they played when we left five years ago—do they remember?"

As she collapsed against Selphie, Rinoa faintly heard that song playing again. "Damn it, why tonight?" A concerned expression fell on Selphie's face as she reminded her, "We have to remember them, silly. For some," she added with a hint of sorrow, "that memory is music."

Alone in the cargo bay, Squall stared at the red, metallic floor angrily. He didn't want to go back to Balamb. After so long, so much must have already changed. He wasn't even sure he would recognize Rinoa or Selphie—Gods, Selphie. He remembered that she had a crush on Zell at one point—they had been discussing going to a movie or two before they had left all those years ago. If she knew what became of him, she wouldn't be the cheery girl he had been introduced to back when Ultimecia was still a threat.

His mind clouded with images, he subconsciously called out for one of his Guardians. The room instantly dropped ten degrees in temperature and a cold wind bit through Squall's clothes, sinking into his flesh viciously. As the wind died down, he felt a gentle, stone-cold hand softly place itself on his shoulder.

"You called me, Child, so I come," Shiva stated as she shimmered into being. "How can I be of service, Squall?" She eyed the sullen man as she always did, assessing his status. "You look troubled—and I do not feel any malevolence nearby. Is this of a personal nature?"

Squall nodded.

"What can I help you with then?"

"She hates me—Rinoa does."

Raising an eyebrow, Shiva replied, "Oh?"

"What else can she do," he muttered angrily as he stood up from his seat, shouldering off the gentle hand of the Ice Goddess, "I've abandoned her for five years, made her rear my child, and I haven't even the guts to call her right now and end her pain. She has every right to hate me."

With a cautious voice, Shiva carefully stated, "She is her own person, my child, and she makes her own decisions. In doing so, she may have clung on to hope instead of the despair you assume."

"But can a man be forgiven for such things?"

Shiva smiled quietly, walking around to the front of Squall and embracing him softly, "There are worse things that a man could do—and none of these things you have done." Gently stroking his hair, she added, "I believe that she believes, deep down in her core, that you will return one day as I look forward to you calling me every hour—though in a different way, I assure you."

Something inside Squall snapped as he stood there, uncertain of what to do as Shiva embraced him in a warm, yet cold, motherly love. A tear fell from his eye as he lowered his head to Shiva's shoulder, returning the embrace. "I miss her, but this scares me," he whispered.

"I know, Squall, I could feel it when you called me," tightening her hug a little, she contemplated for a moment. "I know that I am bound in a strange way to our laws, but I would like to propose breaking one for you, Squall." Softly, she pushed Squall out of their embrace and placed a hand under his chin, smiling warmly.

With tears streaking down his cheeks, Squall stared and waited.

"It has been law for many years, almost as many years as there have been callings to us, and that law states that a Guardian may not ever take a human to our plane. This is so to ensure that one of our greatest secrets is never revealed—I am one of its keepers. Would you like to see my world, Squall?"

Confused and uncertain, Squall narrowed his brows. "You have a world?"

"Much as you have your own plane, we have ours," Shiva explained, "though I assure you ours is much less festive than yours."

"I'm not sure," Squall admitted, "I don't even know why I'm asking you for advice."

"It's not an unusual thing," Shiva admitted, "Those who call us Guardians do not always do so in times of survival. There are times we are called when, like now, our Children simply need our ear and kind demeanor, and other times Children call us in order for them to express their gratitude for us in a physical way. Once, when I responded to the cry of one my Children, I found a batch of fresh cookies waiting for me and my daughter asking me if I would attend her wedding," Shiva giggled lightly, "Of course, I had nothing to wear for the affair but I did attend. The cookies were excellent as well."

"So then what is your advice, Shiva," Squall asked as he wiped his tears with his sleeve.

With a kiss to his cheek, Shiva shimmered out of being and stated, "Tell her what you told me and all will be well in due time, my child. Call me tomorrow and I shall show you and her around my world—this will help ease her concerns."

As the last wisp of Shiva vanished, Squall heard her hum in his mind, "Thank you, Child, for calling me. You are my favorite Son."

"Favorite Son," he repeated, "You've never called me that before."

The far door of the cargo bay slid open to reveal Irvine. Scowling, Squall stated, "Let's get this ship moving. I want to see Rinoa and we have a whole Garden full of people to meet."

Taken aback for a moment, Irvine rubbed the back of his head. "Squall, are you okay?"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"I mean—you look blue in the face. You're shivering, even."

Blushing a bit, he stated, "Oh, it's nothing. I just opened the bay doors to get some fresh air. It's a cold night tonight and I lost myself watching the fireworks."

"Huh. Alright, whatever you say, Mr. Boss—let's go meet some old friends, and maybe even some new ones."

"Lead on, Kenneas," Squall stated as they left the cargo bay for the bridge.

"Look, about Zell, I'm sorry—it's just…" Irvine began as the cargo bay doors closed.

The Matron's eyes slowly opened, her demeanor calm and knowing. Looking out her bedroom's spacious window, she stated, "So the children have returned—wonderful. I shall prepare for them immediately, and inform my beloved." Summoning her clothes from her dresser, she dressed herself in seconds and walked from their bedroom to his office. As the door opened to reveal Cid hurriedly placing several calls and numbers to several people, the Matron stated, "My love, they are here—they are coming. I can feel their presence again in this world."

Staring up from a pile of reports, Cid nodded. "I know. We are ready for them, but I've got a ton of reports and such to file to get them listed as 'alive' and so on and so forth. You'd think that four reversals of a declaration of death would be an easy task."

Her eyes narrowed softly as a sour expression fell on her lips, "My love—you'll only need three reversals: one for each Quistis, Irvine, and Squall."

Cid folded his hands together and lowered his head. "I see."

"I am sorry," she stated in as comforting a tone as her matronly conditioning allowed, "this came as a surprise to me as well."

Pushing aside one of the documents, Cid asked, "Is there anything else I need to know?"

She pondered for a moment and turned to the door. "I will go greet them myself. Wake Rinoa—she needs to see this." With that, she left the office.

"But is that really a wise idea," Cid pondered as he called Rinoa's apartment, "after five years without him, this one has to wonder."

Quistis gathered herself finally, sitting back in one of the chairs on the Ragnarok's bridge, and was watching the fireworks contemplatively. "I wonder if they will even recognize me and Selphie—what am I going to tell her. What do you say to someone who has been waiting five years for their beloved to return home, whose hope will be crushed by what you say—how do you tell your best friend that her beloved wont be coming home. How do you say, "'Zell isn't coming home, Selphie; ever.'"

A/N: I will try to be regular with updating this fan fiction but I admit freely that I am a bit of a scatterbrain. If you think I am taking too long to update, please feel free to e-mail me and ask for the next chapter's status. Thank you for reading, reader, and I kindly remind you of the review button at the top and bottom of this page. I would love to hear what you think of this prologue or story. Please use it if you feel the urge to respond, or e-mail me if you really want to let loose! Until our next chapter—Fateweaver.