XI. In Which There Is Significant Action and Subsequent Drama

ooo

Sabin looked over his shoulder as he walked away, watching the little house and dilapidated old barn fade into the distance. The smell of tomato soup wafted away around the shores, and soon he was alone again.

Judging from the rising moon it was just past seven o'clock. He had at least four hours to spare. No, not spare: bide. This wasn't a leisurely stroll. Hell, if any of his impressions could be trusted, tonight would be the most important thing he'd done in ages.

Both Master Duncan and Edgar had chided him for being so distracted. Now he was paying attention, and he didn't like what he saw. He'd spent years learning to gauge adversaries by their most minute gestures.

I've never met anyone who can accurately assess a situation half as fast. Compliment notwithstanding, Sabin wanted to be wrong. The alternative was too terrible to believe. On the other hand, if he didn't believe it, he wouldn't be camping out on the rocks.

Being too hasty would ruin his plans, but being slow would invite disaster. Timing was key. In the meantime, he could meditate on his goal.

Lord, let me be mistaken. And if I'm not... He visualized Terra tucking her little charges into bed with the customary goodnight kisses and tender hugs. At least let everyone be safe.

Thoughts of the children blurred with the surrounding landscape. He could hear their giggles on the wind and see their eyes in glittering pieces of quartz. In everything was Terra, warm and green and comforting, and the barrage of sensations made him sweat. When was the last time he had been able to really meditate? When had he last wanted to? He tried to sort through the images, only to end up more overwhelmed.

Relax. They're going to be fine. How long had he been thinking of himself as responsible for the family? Master Duncan was right; he'd been going in this direction ever since his first visit to Mobliz. He wasn't quite sure how it had happened, or what it meant that he cared so much, but he didn't really mind, either. All he knew was that he'd started by visiting a friend and somewhere along the way he'd picked up sixteen kids. Maybe Edgar could borrow a couple to keep Parliament off his back.

Even if things had been going this way (what way?) for three years, he still didn't know how it had happened. Why had it taken a trip to Figaro to understand that he belonged somewhere else? He hadn't understood anything until everyone started saying what he should've known all along. How could he have been so oblivious to something so important (but what?)?

You just don't think! That was the source of most of his life's problems, really. Sabin preferred to feel, cherish, and do things before he thought about them. Life was too short and too fast to sit around considering possibilities. Reflecting was for later, for remembering how great it all had been. There was no point in thinking about something he hadn't even done.

If you ever applied half the information you pick up on...Well, that was what he was trying to do here. He only wished all of the information he'd gathered would lead in another direction. The conclusion he had filled him with dread.

He noticed the moon almost directly above him and turned around. He walked slowly, lightly, and silently, focusing every molecule on the task at hand. When he caught sight of the village he was so intent on his goal that he didn't give a thought to anyone inside. Anyone but---

Sabin knelt by the entrance, holding his breath. The moonlight was just bright enough to provide an unobstructed view of the kitchen. He could see the cooking pots, the bookshelf-table, herbs hung against the wall---and a dark, lean figure at work. He strangled the urge to burst in swinging and calmly opened the front door.

The man called Macilvain glanced up. He was bent lithely (hurt his legs, huh?) over a lumpy burlap sack on the floor. His eyes flashed, but he immediately turned away.

"I had a feeling you'd be back," he said.

There was a pause. "You tried it anyway."

"What can I say? I've always been the confident type," he grinned, spreading his arms as though to invite an opinion. "But if you don't mind my asking, where did I go wrong?"

"You want a list?"

"It might help to know for future reference." He moved to hoist the bag over his shoulders, but stopped short when he saw Sabin's expression. "What, can't a man make a living?"

The anger he felt became cold loathing. "This family is poor. They can't buy, sell, or even trade. How can you take what little they have?"

"Poor?" Macilvain repeated incredulously. He pulled the Ragnarok out of the bag, followed by a familiar-looking bustier and a few necklaces. "Do you have any idea how much these are worth? They could settle for half a lifetime with just one ring!"

"They're hers."

"They're the last relics from the Age of Gods! These aren't just weapons and armor, they're...they're treasure!"

He was clearly desperate, switching tacks in hopes of finding anything that would save his neck. Only one person on earth was innocent enough to believe something so idealistic, and Sabin had personally washed his pants after a long night at the bars. The man wasn't a criminal; he was an actor, and a lousy one at that.

"You repaid the person who helped you by---"

"Whoa, whoa! Give me some credit! I'm a hired man," he said, thumping his chest with pride. "But it's as she said. I was out scouting when I wrecked my boat, and she took me in. A couple weeks later I came back down to do the job."

"Get out."

"Sure." He picked up the bag again with a would-be menacing smirk. "It's not worth it, by the way. I might not be the most convincing guy out there, but I know enough to travel armed. Besides, you don't seem like this is worth all that much to you. I'm sure you don't think it's worth more than anyone in this house."

Although Macilvain was eager to assume as many personas as he could, Sabin could tell he was no murderer. It was more empty pandering, intended to shock him into submission. Worse yet, any struggle inside would almost certainly wake the children. He had to yield on this one.

"You're right," Sabin stammered. He tried to mask the contempt in his tone with fear. "I...I couldn't ever risk their safety."

"Didn't think so," the other crowed. " 'Course, I'd appreciate it if you stayed in the living room. I might have a ten-inch blade, but I'd rather not take my chances."

He knows I would beat him, but he's counting on me being slow. "Yes." He stepped away, bowing his head. The other man swaggered past, loot and all, and disappeared into the night.

Sabin waited seven precise seconds before charging after him. He succumbed to pure adrenaline, unaware of his surroundings even as he flung open the door with enough force to tear it off its hinges. He moved with the easy grace of a hunting animal, and for an instant he relished his unfettered energy. The world outside his target ceased to exist.

In a few short bounds he'd caught up to the thief, who was scrambling towards a rowboat on the shore. The motions of seizing, tackling and subduing were so smooth as to seem like a training exercise. It wasn't until he heard Macilvain's voice between shallow, ragged gasps that the primal instinct dissipated.

"Almost made it," he was panting. "Just a little further..."

"You almost got away with stealing from orphans. Are you proud of that?" It should have been a lot easier to take the situation in stride with his opponent in a choke hold, but he didn't feel any better. The slightest flex of his forearms would end things for good, and he couldn't help but question if he'd find it satisfying. Death as judgment...?

He recalled a rainy day in South Figaro when he had found Vargas ankle-deep in blood and surrounded by corpses. "Why should I assume everyone is equally capable of making decisions?" he'd shouted. "Why should I even assume everyone is equal at all? Are you saying I should have respected the lives of bandit scum? They were terrorizing the townspeople!"

When is it right to decide who lives and dies? When does it stop becoming the defense of others and personal justice?

You would have killed Edgar, Terra, Locke, and even me.

But this man...

Sabin abruptly loosed his grip and rose, sickened by his loss of self-control. Why had he been so blinded by passion as to contemplate murder? Even if it was just an idle thought, it spoke volumes about his lack of discipline. No one had been in any danger. The threats were only arrogance and bravado. What was the loss of a few items in comparison with everyone's safety?

In the end it was a matter of principle. The act itself was reprehensible, but the idea was a lot more stomach-turning. How could anyone take advantage of a family that worked so hard to make ends meet? How could anyone live alongside them while doing it?

What right do I have to be so incensed? he wondered. I didn't have a mother. Both my uncles were executed for trying to kill Father, and most of my cousins committed treason. We had just as many internal wars as external ones.

I never had anything like a loving family, so why do I care so much about protecting this one?

It belatedly occurred to him that he'd answered his own question.

"Private Macilvain! What happened? Are you...Sabin?" Terra hurried towards them, barefoot and shivering in a flimsy cotton camisole. "I thought the wind had blown open the door, and then I heard..." She noticed the half-opened satchel. "What's going on? Do you need help?"

He'd made no effort to escape this time; he had apparently resigned to a slow and painful punishment. He lay flat on the ground, massaging his neck. "Oh, Terra," he wheezed. "I'm glad. I wanted to see you one more time before I left."

"Get up," Sabin spat disgustedly.

"Sabin! Why are you being so---" Her mouth opened in surprise as Macilvain reluctantly stood up. She squinted into the patches of light. "Without your crutches...are you better?"

Only Terra could look at a near-stranger with suddenly perfect limbs and have no suspicions. She could more easily believe a miracle than a lie. You really are too good for this world.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he said, sounding less than contrite. "I didn't mean for it to turn out this way. I especially didn't want you to get involved." Then, like a nobleman performing a deed of great charity, he graciously held out the bag. "These are yours, aren't they?"

She took the bag and shifted it to one knee for a better look. "My old corsets?...and pendants, and armor, too. What is all this doing here? Were you...were you going to take these?"

Macilvain paused, genuinely taken aback by the extent of her naiveté. He stared at her with amazement. "Terra," he said, but now there was a kind of reverence in it. "I'm sorry."

The moon came out from behind the clouds, bathing the beach in pitiless pale light. Every flicker of repulsion, bewilderment and sadness was amplified tenfold. Sabin tried to speak, only to find himself unable to articulate his feelings. There was too much to say; he wanted to lash out and lecture and console all at once.

Eventually the moment passed, and what had been such a striking scene returned to an ordinary autumn evening. Terra gave a little sigh.

"I think you should leave," she said.

"Y-yes, right." Macilvain cast a nervous glance at the monk, who was still brooding. "If that's...really, I'm sorry. I never should have..." He finally seemed to realize no amount of speeches were going to help and crawled into his rowboat. For the first time his complicated facade vanished, leaving in its place a reckless young man flushed with shame.

He's just a kid. Sabin felt even more guilty about his initial reaction. He wouldn't have hurt anybody. He wouldn't have been able to hurt anybody. He doesn't even know what he's doing.

This isn't right.

Terra must have been thinking along the same lines, because she ran out to the edge of the shore. She lifted her chin with newfound determination. "I don't think I'll be ready to see you for a while," she called, "but sometime in the future..."

Although he had just started paddling, Macilvain was startled enough to drop the oars. He fumbled for them, almost overtipping the boat in the process. "Wh-what?"

"Come back," she said warmly. "You said you didn't want it to turn out this way, and I don't either. So maybe this doesn't have to be the end."

Even after having been friends for five years, Sabin couldn't remember ever having admired her more. Grace, selflessness, compassion and forgiveness in the face of iniquity---the order in Figaro might as well canonize her. Hell, he'd lead them in it.

It's my duty to forgive, too. "Yeah, come back in a year or two," he agreed. "I think you should. And hey, who can eat Terra's tomato soup and not come back?"

Macilvain gawked unsure whether to think of them as incredibly generous or completely insane. He'd stolen from one, threatened another, and both were grinning at him. "I...uh, if you say so," he mumbled, obviously more baffled by kindness than violence. In a few short strokes he was halfway to the sandbars.

Sabin watched the boat recede to a tiny dot on the horizon. He drew back, waiting to be flooded with relief, but nothing happened. All he felt was regret and exhaustion.

"Well," he said at last, "you did the right thing."

Beside him, Terra hugged her arms for warmth. "I can't deny someone a second chance."

"Nobody can." I almost did. I might have, too, if I hadn't stopped to think. I was so passionate about getting justice that I forgot what that justice represented. He made a note to do penance in the morning. Thank you, Vargas, for reminding me why I fight.

"When we faced Kefka, we said we didn't care what state the world was in as long as we had it."

"Terra..."

"Sometimes I think I want the world to be different than it is, but then I remember those words. This is everything we fought so hard to have. I don't have any right to complain."

How could she have such a stern, self-effacing outlook? "Don't think of it that way. In the beginning we were fighting for change, because that was most important. The more dire things got, the less we had to hold on to. Now we have something again and it's natural that we want to make it better." Sabin was bashful about his own ineloquence, but he couldn't think of any other way to say it. "It's the same as it ever was. We've always wanted things to be better."

"I don't know." She turned away, staring back over the water.

He considered letting her stay there. After all, she was an adult; she didn't need to be coddled. But adult or not, it was well past midnight in near-freezing weather and she didn't have so much as a decent shirt. He'd be a lot more comfortable if she took time to be alone inside.

"Let's head home," he suggested. When she didn't respond, he gently draped his winter jacket over her shoulders. "If you really want to stay out, you should at least stay warm."

"N-no, you're right." They walked all the way back up the hill together without another word. Sabin couldn't help but wish there was something more he could do.

He remembered ambushing Edgar when he became too frustrated with work. "Cancel all your appointments!" Sabin would shout, upturning the mahogany desk and exulting in the parchment storm. "That's enough for today! It's beautiful outside. Go hike!"

Edgar's response would usually be incredulous, if not downright belligerent. "You know very well I'm in a compromising position! How on earth am I supposed to 'go hike' in the middle of a preeminent---" Sabin didn't care; he usually only listened to the beginning and ending of anything he said. Years later, it seemed Setzer had taken his place as official king-harasser, and it was nice to know there was somebody out there equally dedicated to driving Edgar to distraction.

But what about Terra? She might not be a powerful politician, but she needed people to help her, too. When they'd traveled together, she had always been the center of attention. Early on Setzer had noticed how awkward she felt with no memories of her own and he had taken it upon himself to share his past with her. The others had followed suit. Even though she couldn't recall any of her childhood, at least she had been able to recite Cyan's entire patrilineal history.

Now that you have memories of your own, who listens to your hopes and dreams? Who's there to offer support? Who barges in on you and takes you out for a day to just relax?

It's not selfish to think about what you want every now and then. It's only normal. If you don't think of yourself, you lose your ability to relate to the rest of the world.

I wish you'd tell me more about what it is you're feeling, especially at times like this...

ooo

Terra stared up at the old sloped ceiling with its rotted rafters. She'd always found it strangely soothing. It was fascinating to look at something that had outlasted so much destruction. She often fell asleep counting all the tiny notches in the wood, but tonight, seven hundred and thirty-two notches later, she didn't even feel tired.

What did I do wrong?

What should I have known?

Her skin prickled as the numbness slowly went away. Sabin had been right, of course; it was stupid to stand around outside without a coat. Some thicker blankets would have helped, but the children needed them. I should make some more before winter sets in.

They're probably already cold. I can't provide for them...I can't even defend them...

"Hey, Terra."

She rolled over, rubbing her eyes. Sabin stood in the doorway with a look she couldn't quite place. He seemed visibly restrained, as though there was something he was keeping from her.

"Is everybody okay?" she asked.

"They're fine. Still sleeping." He knelt down at the edge of the bed, and she instinctively scooted towards him. "Pretty lucky, huh? Most of the younger ones wake up when it's barely raining."

Terra nodded, watching him closely. She hadn't known what to think of his letter or his sudden departure. All she could think was that he didn't care enough to stay. In retrospect, she realized how wrong she had been. He'd gone out of his way to protect them without even being asked.

'Friend' doesn't seem like enough for somebody who does so much.

It hadn't been a slip of the tongue or her exaggerating a small favor. It really was true.

"Sabin? How were you able to tell?"

He let out a deep breath. "It's not like I was sure from the beginning, if that's what you mean. I didn't want to say anything until I knew. A lot of it comes from being old, I guess. The more you travel, the more you learn about people. You can tell when somebody's trying to get a sense of how powerful you are, or if they really believe what they're saying.

"Besides, the international police force was dissolved a year ago. I remember everybody in Figaro being up in arms about it because there wasn't enough money to sustain the effort. He was either lying or hiding behind an old identity, but I wouldn't have trusted him anyway."

"You wouldn't have..." she murmured.

"No, I didn't mean it like that---"

"But it's important, isn't it? That night in Figaro, the noblemen told me Mobliz was unsafe. At the time I thought they were just trying to scare me, but...I don't know. If I'm putting the children in danger, I shouldn't..." Her voice rose with frustration and helplessness. "I just want to do what's best."

"You're raising kids the world forgot and making them into happy, healthy people. If you can think of something better than that I'd like to hear it." He sounded so resolute that Terra was taken aback. How can he have so much faith after what I did? He shouldn't have to step in for my mistakes.

She reached for his hand, only to find she wasn't feeling quite as bold as she hoped and ended up timidly brushing his fingertips. "Will it be easier when I'm older?"

"What, having somebody betray your trust? No." It was hard to see his face in the shadows, but Terra thought she could make out a pensive frown. "You have to keep loving everybody anyway, though. It doesn't matter if it happens once or a hundred times. If you ever start thinking that it's easier to ignore people than help them, you get cynical. There's a balance to it all."

It was such simple, wise advice. The world would be a better place if there were more happy monks around to help people. "I know it's not good to believe too much, and it's not good to be too suspicious, but I feel like I'm never going to know what that balance is. I think it's easier to trust everyone."

"Yeah, and that's why..." Sabin trailed off, resting his hand over hers.

Why what? Why you're here?

Because... She tried to thank him, but the words wouldn't come. Maybe I don't have to tell him. Maybe he understands.

"How long do you plan to stay?" she asked. "Now that you're back for good, I mean. Or are you?"

"Two or three weeks. Is that all right?"

"Yes, of course. I'm glad."

Somehow there was nothing else in the world but the house and the moon and their hands, and Terra wondered if she'd already fallen asleep. Everything about Macilvain became a distant memory, hundreds of years in the past. She felt a strange, pulsing tension she couldn't articulate beyond I'm glad...I'm glad...

But the exhaustion pushing down on her eyelids was real enough. She settled back into the pillow with another sigh, shaken but content. She could rest; it was all over. More importantly, everyone else was safe and sound.

Sabin crossed to the other side of the room and hoisted himself up onto the windowsill. He leaned back, letting one leg hang out over the side and folding his arms.

"Sabin...?"

"Don't worry, okay?" He smiled---not one of his broad, ridiculous grins, but a strong sort of reassurance. "Just sleep. The longer you stay awake, the harder tomorrow will be."

Tomorrow? Tomorrow meant cooking, cleaning, and explaining Macilvain's sudden disappearance to children with no notion of theft or thievery. Terra blinked. Surely they were too young to be learning about such terrible things, and yet...

Even if nothing bad ever happened, they can't stay children forever. There's a balance to it all.

"Thank you for coming home," Terra blurted, and immediately wished she hadn't. She quickly pulled the sheets up high and turned over, embarrassed. Now that had been uncalled for. Why couldn't she have let things stand as they were, when everything was just starting to make sense?

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere."

Not going anywhere... She knew what he'd intended (or did she?), but it was still comforting to hear. It amazed her that three months of uncertainty had come to such an abrupt end in one night. After nearly giving up hope, assuming he was going to stay halfway around the world, here he was: propped up by the tiny bedside window to watch over them until dawn.

"Good," she said, closing her eyes and floating away.