Visions of Peace

by Elessar

FF6: Devastated by the Imperial Civil War, a leaderless, divided Empire only hastens the encroaching shadows of another Dark Age. Our heroes fight to ensure peace for all peoples of the world, but can even they halt the inevitable ruin of civilization?

13. Firestorm

The Thirteenth Chapter - Firestorm

Cyan closed the door with a sigh. It was already long past dusk and the small tent he had pitched would be lacking firewood for the night. He picked up his sheathed blade, strode off the creaking cottage deck and into the thick snow.

"I'm surprised that you can do this everyday," Paisley remarked.

Cyan turned around. Paisley was on the porch, sitting on an old stool and staring in the direction of the camp. A playful boyish smile was on his face as he lowered his book. Irving had been inside the cottage watching over Cyan and Relm. The two men usually switched roles daily, either to avoid becoming complacent around the two Returners or because the job of watching over them was as boring as watching paint dry.

"Moments like these are those that will be treasured for a lifetime," Cyan responded as he replaced his sword at the hip, "though perhaps you cannot appreciate such joy."

Paisley frowned for a moment, and then his face brightened in a manner that Cyan knew was forced. "Well I guess I'm too young to understand, but at least I'm helping you by not enforcing the time limit."

Cyan grunted, unwilling to thank the Imperial for such an insignificant display of kindness that was clearly calculated to throw him off-guard. He turned away from Paisley, eager to get away from the deceitful Imperial.

"You know, I always wanted to ask you something, Cyan."

Cyan kept walking.

"Why aren't you overseas leading your people?"

He missed a step. Cyan turned around and glowered at Paisley, who had stepped off the porch and into the darkness around the cottage. The young soldier had decided to follow the Knight a few paces behind, still holding his book in one hand.

"It's a tough question, isn't it?" Paisley had put on an irritatingly fake look of innocence. "I've been thinking about it day after day but I just can't seem to find an answer. I guess you don't have one either."

Cyan folded his muscular arms. "There is nothing difficult about thy question," he answered. "Truly, I could ask a similar one of you, Imperial."

Paisley raised an eyebrow. "Really?" he clicked his tongue. "And what might that be?"

"How one could be so lacking in moral fibre that he dares raise a blade against one's own countrymen." Though it was worded like a question, there was no doubt in either man whether an answer was desired. That did not stop Paisley though, who continued his charade and gave an unwarranted response.

"You surprise me, Cyan," his voice sounded slightly strained, as if he was doing his best to not act rude. "Would you not follow your liege to hell and back?"

Cyan frowned.

"General Meras has made it clear the magnitude of injustice that the New Order has wreaked upon the Core. But even if that were not true, I would not think twice before striking down the rich, heartless scum that have bled my home dry," Paisley pointed at Cyan. "Would you not do the same, Knight of Doma, if your King spent his entire life sitting upon a throne and constantly taxed you and your family until they didn't have enough to survive the winter?"

There was a hint of emotion hidden beneath that voice, pain or regret, which Cyan responded to with a degree of compassion. "A tyrant must be fought, but to slay your own countrymen, that is an action I would never endeavour."

"And what if they weren't so much your countrymen? What if your Kingdom was so large that it was divided into province after province? What if the inner ones, filled with nobility and long since corrupted by politics, plundered the poor provinces until they were crippled, sickly and dying?"

Cyan reluctantly mulled over those words as he watched Paisley's freckled cheeks puff in anger, years of repressed pain surfacing in his speckled brown eyes. Though he was a dangerous soldier, Cyan could see that Paisley was still young, still immature. This was a man that had been forced to grow up all too fast, forced to suppress the child inside and put on a cold-hearted countenance.

"The people of the Core don't care for us. They're just a bunch of well-to-do snobs that grow rich off our suffering. They've been protected from the monsters for so long, avoided war, disease, famine, drought... they think the world is their oyster! They're not my countrymen; my countrymen live here, in this province, serving in the armies of General Danielle Meras. We will not suffer anymore while those in the Core lounge about draped in velvet and silk, drinking wine and debating merits of the latest fashion trend!"

For Cyan Garamonde, he had heard rants like this all his life. Even squires occasionally had such views of the world, lacking the education to see what sacrifices were necessary for the greater good. He had trained many a child, guided them along the path of knighthood or into the army until they matured. Many of his students had joined because they had no choice. It had been the only way to feed their families.

The pain in this child's eyes was all too familiar to Cyan Garamonde. "And that's why you follow this woman, your conqueror," he replied in a soft tone.

"She cares for us!" Paisley scowled. "She's lived here and suffered with us. She sees with the same eyes as we do. Why do you think so many divisions were busy putting down monsters when she needed us in the Core? I was in the Wilds engaged with dragons while my friends died in the Siege of Vector. They were fighting for our future, standing boldly in front of beams of fire and ice, while I went around safely patrolling the countryside. General Meras cares for the safety of all. If she takes the throne, then we'll never starve through another winter."

Paisley's voice broke and the kid quickly spun away in shame.

Cyan silently watched the child walk away. His throat felt dry for some reason.

---

Locke Cole had died.

The ice was crystal clear; all that had been necessary was to wipe the powder off the top. He stared at his reflection in the frozen lake and touched at the scar that ran down the side of his face.

There was nothing there. Like all the wounds he had suffered, the scars had disappeared when Terra healed him. No sign that his cheek had been split apart, his chest had been cut open, his throat slashed, or his back pierced. It was as if Gwendolen Ford had never happened; he was as alive as he ever was.

But the fact remained. Locke Cole had died.

His fingers ran down his chest, amazed that there was skin, muscle and bone in the proper places. It was a ghostly feeling that continued to plague him. Every waking moment, he would look down and expect that his chest was open and spurting gallons of lifeblood. Nightmares plagued his nights; the scene at Gwendolen Ford would replay in his head over and over again.

He still remembered those events vividly; the metallic lifeblood -- his enemies' and his own -- could still be tasted on his lips. He knew those memories were burned into him now. His every motion, every death-dealing strike, was committed to memory for eternity.

Locke Cole had, once again, failed. He laughed out loud, but it was a pathetic noise that was devoid of any joy. An incompetent, miserable failure. A man whose promises were hollow, with a long history of barely scraping by disaster after disaster. His only successes marked by the people he surrounded himself with; friends that were capable of keeping promises with the swing of the sword. They were the ones that had maintained the promises he swore. Him? He just flailed on the sidelines impotently.

His fist made no discernable dent in the thick ice. Locke's face twisted as he thought about how events had unfolded. His mind went over everything he had done and the frustration had finally settled in.

He had the commitment, the ability, and the willingness. He had even given his life. Yet it was still not enough. That realization hurt him more than anything. He had done his best, pushed himself to the limits, and still atonement was out of reach. Even the greatest of sacrifices was not enough to find forgiveness.

What more could he do? What more was required of him?

What do you want from me?!?

His fist pounded into the ice over and over again. Even beneath thick sheepskin gloves, he could feel the slick, sticky wetness of his bloodied knuckles. Each blow was accompanied by a jolting sensation that traveled up his arm and down his spine. It was a great feeling, better than anger or frustration. He continued to pound the surface of the lake.

Locke stopped, not because of the pain or concern for his own well-being, but because something had occurred to him.

It was an obvious pattern, now that he noticed it. His failure at Narshe at been his first, but little could be done in the face of the ancient Tritoch. In Thamasa though, the forces Kefka had brought were overwhelming. In Albrook he had been surprised by Marcus. Aboard the Floating Continent, Davis had stepped in with Magitek Armor. In Tzen, Danielle had ambushed them. In the Wilds, Farin had to spur his men into action. In Strachan, Norris had blown away the behemoth with his spells. And in Fanshaw...

The puzzle pieces clicked into place, one after another. The frustration melted away as the answers became clear.

Locke Cole stood up, only now noticing that Anthony had been watching him with a great deal of unease. He rubbed his fists absentmindedly, soothing the bloodied knuckles as he approached the archer.

"What were you thinking?" Anthony growled at him. His bow was out and he did not make eye contact with Locke. He scanned the cliff-face on the other side of the lake. There was nothing nearby. "I'm getting tired of this act! That's the third time this week and I can't cover for you any longer. You keep slipping off on your own and I will report you to the Colonel. I cannot risk your insubordination bringing the enemy down on all of us!"

Locke smiled.

"Sorry about that, Sergeant. It won't happen again."

---

Four days they had spent near the feet of the Strachan Mountains. They were close enough to make day-long trips into the Imperial Core, yet far enough so that the New Order's troops did not catch them. It had taken just shy of a week to reach the area; Fanshaw was quite far to the southwest and a snowstorm had also slowed them down.

"The Colonel's back."

Terra Branford got up from a comfortable spot against an old pine. She smiled at Anthony. The dark-haired soldier looked better than the rest, but even the medic's face was bandaged. His shoulders were wrapped tightly beneath the armor, and untreated superficial cuts accompanied every patch of bare skin. His bow and nigh-empty quiver were strapped to his back.

"Thank you, Anthony," she replied. "You've been very helpful."

Norris slipped into their campsite with Gossman following closely. The mage had a frown on his face, though his beard hid that fact quite well and instead made him look deep in thought. They were the only two that had gone to scout ahead.

Terra had few details on what befell Norris' handpicked team. Their numbers had dwindled heavily though, and though she did not know all their names, the missing faces still added to a sorrowful burden. Those that had survived were hurt badly; it had taken most of the week for her to heal all the broken bones. Terra had tried to coax the story out of Sherwood, the only soldier she knew now, but he was even more introverted than usual.

Terra couldn't fault him. The Civil War had taken Clarkson's life as well.

The rest of the soldiers remained quiet whenever she questioned them. They would thank her for healing them and then it was back to business. Most avoided her at every opportunity, and though she had not been on friendly terms beforehand, it was quickly becoming a source of irritation.

Aside from herself and Anthony, only Miles arrived to greet the Colonel. Though numbers had been halved, their mandate stayed the same. The Empire was at war and even were they not professionals, there was no time to relax and tend to emotional wounds.

"Well?" Miles asked between bites. The one-eyed soldier was chewing on the leg of a wolf. A pack of five had attempted to ambush their camp while they had been setting up. Their freshly-roasted corpses had cheered up the solemn crowd; the scent of delicious meat reminded everyone how terrible Imperial rations really were.

"Nothing new," Norris replied. "The western roads are deserted, but the tracks we found definitely suggest that at least four regiments' worth of men had recently marched by."

They had left Fanshaw and made their way deeper into the Core. Now they were closing on the Imperial Capital. The roads leading to the center of the Empire were well-kept and fitting for their prestigious roles. Magic had been used to smooth out stone, flatten the land, and build vast bridges. Such roads were without peer, serving as blood vessels for a city of over a million. Those same roads were now used for the New Order's armies, providing supplies and reinforcements with unparalleled efficiency.

It also offered a chance for spies to discern the strength of the Core's armies.

Norris took a seat on a thick, snow covered tree root. He pulled his hood down and brushed back his hair, revealing the deepening wrinkles on his wizened face. "The facts are impossible to ignore now. Alysworth is besieged about a day's north of Maley's Point," Norris sighed. "I don't what's going on over there, but I can hear the relentless, never-ending string of explosions. Miles, prepare to pack up. We're going back."

"Why would we do such a thing?" Miles asked. "Our position is advantageous and it's not like eight of us will do anything to relieve pressure on the army."

"The roads supplying Caleigh's forces appear to be regularly patrolled," Norris explained.

"Unexpected," Miles growled softly. "I didn't think the Core had that kind of strength remaining."

Norris nodded. He ran a hand through his messy grey hair, pulling at it in frustration. "It appears that they're a lot stronger than we were told. It's probable that the New Order is deploying new recruits and mobilizing veterans. The entire Core is moving. I'm not sure what to make of it."

Terra frowned. "I thought the New Order's policies were crippling their people and starving thousands. Why would anyone join the army of their oppressors?" she asked suspiciously.

Silence. The Imperials all knew the answer, but none dared voice it. It was treason to voice such things.

Norris avoided Terra's gaze. "We have enough disturbing news to report and little of it makes sense. Guessing is pointless," he declared. "We'll make our way north tomorrow, out of the forest and onto the plains. That'll give us a closer look at the encampments stretching southeast of the capital, hopefully without exposing us. It has the added benefit of getting us back to the army faster, our thin supplies are dwindling and we can't risk staying out here much longer."

With those words, the three soldiers got up and began to pack up camp. Norris headed north, where Sherwood and Locke's sentry position was located, when Terra caught up behind him.

"You've been ignoring me," Terra reproached as she matched his brisk pace.

Norris turned his attention to her. He hid his emotions extraordinarily well, but she noticed that his gaze lingered on her hair.

"I've been extremely busy, what with losing many of the best, most trustworthy soldiers I have ever served with. Scouting this region would have been much easier once our numbers were bolstered by the teams that had already infiltrated Fanshaw, but now we're fewer than we started with." Norris answered plainly. "I'll be honest though, I haven't been keen to find spare time..." he turned back to her, clearly staring at her hair now, and frowned. "And considering what I witnessed, I don't think you can blame me."

Terra folded her arms, her bloodied wolf-mantle peeking from beneath the standard whitewashed cloak. "Norris, I did everything I could to save Clarkson," she said with a frown. "He saved my life more times than I can count and..." Terra missed a step, surprised at the emotions welling up within her. She cleared her throat and tried to focus. "If I cared about your threat, I would have killed you the moment I saw you."

"I am well aware of that."

"Then there's no reason for you to be afraid of me," Terra exasperated. "I'm no different than I was a week ago," she tapped between her breasts. "I'm still me."

Norris looked at her from the corner of his eyes. He burst out laughing. "Ridiculous! I don't know where you got the idea in your head, but I'm not scared of you. And while seeing you turn into a white-winged angel of death was a definitely a surprise I could have lived without, I don't suddenly think of you as another person."

"Then why avoid me?" Terra asked, perturbed.

"I'm worried," he explained with a smile. "There are enough things on my mind that I would prefer not having to address every little matter, though I suppose I can't delay addressing the shroud any longer..."

"The shroud?" Terra echoed. "Wait, you know what that darkness is? I wanted to talk to you about it the morning when we were leaving Fanshaw. I felt that weird aura from Anna a number of times."

"From Anna?" Norris paused in mid-step. His wrinkled face got more wrinkled. "Are you sure?"

"It was the first time I ever felt emotions through magic," Terra answered confidently.

Norris rubbed his eyes and sighed. "This answers a question of mine, but a host springs up to take its place."

"So you know what it was? I mean, you know its name," Terra pressed, intrigued by the older mage's knowledge.

"No I don't. It just sounded good," Norris explained with an embarrassing grin. "I've never encountered anything like that darkness before," his expression grew serious again, "but I don't think it was emotion. Maybe you don't know what your limits are, but I haven't discovered anything new about myself for several years now. We both felt the same thing, so I believe it was spellcraft."

"But the aura receded when I healed Anna."

"Really?" Norris hummed and murmured to himself. He grumbled under his breath a few times, and then growled. "But considering how widespread it was with our ambushers..."

"Speaking of which, who were they?" Terra could tell that Norris didn't know much more than she did and decided to change the subject.

"I'm not willing to say for certain," Norris answered as he once again picked up the pace. "But there is no doubt they were, at least once, working under the Maverick."

Terra remembered that infamous name. Locke had told her about the atrocities committed by the conqueror of Maranda, and not even Danielle -- a fellow General -- had good things to say about the tyrant. "How do you know it's him? It could be the pretender..."

"Anson Tilton? Certainly not," Norris paused as he ducked under a low branch. They began to climb uphill, towards the lookout point where Sherwood and Locke were located. "I know they were assigned to Maverick Drummond because I knew one of the Magitek Knights who attacked us."

"One of the...? There were more?"

Norris nodded. "There hasn't been time to debrief you, but you were not the only one to face magic. I was forced to kill an old colleague that day."

Terra thought she heard an undercurrent of emotion in the Colonel's voice. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I didn't realize how much you went through."

"Everyone went through a lot, especially you," Norris pointed at her hair.

Terra touched the grey strands of hair that were pulled back into a ponytail. "A lot happened that day," she acknowledged quietly. Her posture became just a bit taller.

Norris looked Terra up and down once more, his gaze still lingering on her grey hair. "I won't pretend to know what you went through or what caused this change. But it does worry me that even with several decades separating us, our hair color matches."

"It won't affect me," Terra responded.

Norris pursed his lips together with concern. "To say that the spells you unleashed were powerful... well, that's an understatement. And I'm no fool, I know Locke was dead," his voice was nothing more than a whisper now, easily masked by the sound of their footsteps breaking through hardened snow. "So much power... I don't know what it might have cost you; perhaps the change is related. But when I'm unsure of something magical, it means my men are downright frightened."

"It's just the color of my hair. There's nothing to be worried about," Terra defended herself.

"It's magic, and everyone knows it. For me and you, we don't think it's a problem. I can tell that you're as lively as you were before the change, maybe even more so. But for guys like Miles and Gossman, they're not magically-inclined. They're scared that you were spelled by something horrendous, and then their imaginations run wild. It's not good for them."

"I suppose I could dye my hair again," Terra offered, well-aware of how easily people grew afraid of magic. "Though I still think this is a bit more natural than green."

Norris laughed, his joyous expression bringing a smile to Terra's face. "When we get-"

Terra suddenly spun towards the left. She was not alone, Norris had done the same. The older mage's hand was up though, his expression deadly serious and as his long grey hair blew back in an unnatural wind.

A crossbow bolt, its tip glinting of a yellowish liquid, floated in the air. It was suspended in mid-flight, clearly astray from both Norris and Terra but still too close for comfort. Terra pulled up the wolf-skin sleeve around her left arm, an orb of fire igniting just beneath her palm.

Norris and Terra both focused on their attacker in the distance.

Locke frowned. His arm pointed away from them, but that was only because another had pushed it aside. Sherwood was whispering something under his breath, clearly angered by Locke's action. The blond-haired Imperial growled as he pulled Locke's arm down.

"-too sensitive-" Terra could barely make out what the two were saying.

Norris was already making his way towards the two men. "What was that?" he was clearly agitated that he had been attacked, even though the bolt would not have hit him.

"Sorry Colonel," Locke replied.

Terra and Norris both frowned.

"Nothing to report up here, sir," Sherwood added before Norris could recover and continuing questioning. "Are we headed out?"

"Yes," Norris slowly took his gaze off of Locke. "Get your gear together. We're leaving within the hour."

"Sir," Sherwood saluted. He pulled on Locke's sleeve and the two men wandered back into the woods, presumably to pick up their packs.

"That was strange," Norris muttered as Terra joined his side.

Terra watched Locke's back as he disappeared into the field of trees, her hands resting against her hips. She had tried to speak with him since Gwendolen Ford, but he always had some flimsy excuse and slipped away. It had been infuriating, but she gave him the space he seemed to need. Still, it had been over a week...

The grey-haired half-Esper knelt, picking up the crossbow bolt with her gloved hands. She rotated the piece of ammunition between her fingers, examining the yellow glaze that had been applied to the tip. She brought it close to her nose and took a quick sniff.

Her frown deepened even more.

"Listen, Terra... I've been thinking about the shroud. You're right. This is a matter that cannot be ignored forever."

Terra dropped the crossbow bolt and directed her attention to Norris.

"I have a proposition for you."

---

It had been a long time since he saw her face. His heart skipped a beat when he saw her again, his breath quivering as he found himself overcome with emotion. His wife, his beautiful wife... and his son, still smiling at him. Their faces were full again, no longer gaunt from the poison.

But then the fires consumed them as they screamed his name. It had been a recurring nightmare, to imagine Imperial Magitek Armors storming in front of Castle Doma en masse. The Imperials had been bold enough to establish bases within visual range, arrogant enough to believe that Doma artillery was smashed, their cavalry routed, and infantry too few. Yet the Imperials still held their base effortlessly, nothing Cyan had done could change the fact that the Imperials were simply too numerous to fight.

They would have burned Castle Doma to the ground. Their cursed black machinations would have stormed within range, easy pickings for archers that no longer breathed, and let loose torrent after torrent of unholy flame. Everyone in the castle would have perished, trapped by the very walls that should have protected them.

Cyan had been lucky, that nightmare was never reality. Leo Christophe had been a man of honour. He had been unwilling to torch the castle because there had been so many women and children within. Yet the General was rejected thrice; his words fell on the deaf ears as he bargained for Castle Doma's surrender. Though the King had wanted to protect his people, he had been unwilling to submit to the arrogant Imperials. And even though his sleep was plagued by nightmares of Imperial Magitek Armors lined-up, hundreds, thousands... their red beams melting even solid stone, Cyan had said nothing to his liege.

His sword decapitated an Imperial pikeman.

Warfare had rules. When Kefka -- whose very name made his blood red-hot -- had taken over in Leo's absence, those rules had been broken. Until that day, Cyan had grudgingly respected the Empire. They were disciplined, well-trained, filled with intelligent officers and men of strong character. The war had been harsh but Cyan was experienced and decades of fighting had desensitized him.

Then came the poison, and Cyan had wanted nothing more than to see the Empire crushed and burned to ashes; another power-hungry domain that would be buried and forgotten in the annals of history. He had spent what seemed like a lifetime working with the Returners, binding together loose confederations and city-states of the Northern Continent under a common banner. He had done all in his power to raise an alliance that could threaten the Empire, until they had contacted the Espers in another realm.

To see an Imperial base aflame as it was, fences broken, barricades abandoned, and guards dead at their posts... it was a spectacle that he had dreamed of many times. But instead of happiness at a fantasy fulfilled, his heart pounded with dread.

Another Imperial soldier in the vanguard, a crossbow strapped to his back and short sword drawn, collapsed into the snow with his head split open.

Cyan reached the crest of a hill. Still hidden behind snow-covered evergreens, his gloved hand pushed aside a curtain of needles and revealed the collapsing defence of the Imperial supply depot. Ordered squadrons of five Magitek Armors, the smaller type he had seen in the forests of Doma during the latter days of the war, marched through the supply depot and fired their elemental cannons at concentrations of the defending forces. Dozens of soldiers surrounded each squad, protecting the pilots until the defences had been weakened. Walls, barricades, even towers fell at an astonishing rate.

The attackers were orderly in their systematic slaughter of the Imperial base. They did not give into bloodlust as they stormed through their former comrades. They turned the open ground between the base and the forest into a deathtrap, archers and mounted cavalry held in reserve to ambush any that tried to escape. Cyan knew at once that this was the New Order he had heard whispers about. This was Danielle Meras' enemy, the forces of the newly-crowned Emperor: Anson Tilton.

An explosion was heard from the back of the base, shaking the mountain with its ferocity, and then a fireball could be seen escaping out of the cavern tunnels. Thick black smoke rose into the air, adding to a great mass of dark clouds that had already formed from the rest of burning supply depot.

Cyan made up his mind. His eyes traced the shortest path to rescue Relm. There were no other thoughts on his mind, though he quickly mapped a detour towards Imperial command units. The New Order was too organized. They were fighting a textbook battle and that did not provide the chaos he needed to escape with Relm.

His cloak fell to the snow-covered ground.

Cyan Garamonde, Knight of Doma, did not fight for retribution or vengeance. Knowing this, he gripped his sword with more strength than he had felt in the past year. His eyes ignored the winter sun and its bright reflection upon the well-trodden snow. His blade struck true, ignoring plated armor and severing even chainmail. Bodies fell to the ground with each perfect blow, but Cyan was not one to admire his handiwork. He sheathed his sword once more and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.

More explosions were heard in the distance and thick knots of black smoke plumes rose high into the sky. The sun had just risen -- the enemy had attacked at dawn -- and Cyan barely made out the shapes of riders through the glare. Three men were charging directly at him: an unknown element that had somehow crossed the open field outside the range of positioned archers.

There was no anger in his heart, not this day. Only righteousness filled him: the need to protect and save a single life that meant more than the hundreds of fresh corpses in front of him. He was a Knight of Doma, not some lowbrow mercenary that was skilled in the way of the sword.

The riders were almost upon him, their weapons drawn when they realized the man before them would not cower.

Potent muscles in his right arm flexed as he drew his blade from its sheath; one fluid motion, an explosion of power from within. The longsword stopped as quickly as it had started, still horizontal to the ground.

Behind him, a spray of blood erupted. The first chocobo collapsed to the ground and crushed its rider beneath.

The second man was on him in the blink of an eye as the third flanked on the left. Cyan ducked under the swing of the second rider's sword, his own blade singing its deadly song. There was no wasted motion, two lightning-fast cuts and he gripped the reins of the last chocobo. He pushed the rider aside, chest opened with a deadly gash, and encouraged the bird forward. The base flew by at a dizzying pace, fences trampled, cadavers aplenty and cabins aflame.

The command unit Cyan had seen earlier had not yet moved. They noticed Cyan far too late, even though he was a rider that bore none of their colors. They had been over-confident; most of their protection away to speed-up the dismemberment of Danielle Meras' supply depot.

The chocobo trampled over many an officer with its powerful talons, bodies crumbling beneath hundreds of pounds of muscle and metal. Cyan's sword cut the men to his sides, but his mount had read his mind and killed almost as many as he did. The screams of the dying fell upon deaf ears and the few men that resisted were not enough. Within a minute, the entire upper-command of the New Order's battalion was dead. Cyan even killed several messengers retrieving orders for those at the front.

He hurried the bird towards a path that was burned in his memory, the same cobblestone trail that he had trod through for so long! It was reassuringly deserted and Cyan hoped that the New Order had decided to dismantle military targets first.

No such luck; the New Order was still Imperial and its tactics barbaric as ever. The cabins were all ablaze; Magitek Armors had blasted through the area and even set the frost-covered trees on fire with unholy magic. White hot flames devoured the log cabin that had been Relm's home, the deck outside littered with the bodies of Imperial soldiers. It would creak no more; most of it was burnt to a crisp and crumbled to ash even as Cyan watched.

Fire. Cyan's eyes watered as he fought the feelings of despair. It was happening again.

"Relm!" Cyan screamed with all his might. Not again! Not another child!

His head pounded in anger. His knuckles were white as he gripped his sword painfully. Not again...

An arrow grazed his shoulder and reminded him that he was defenceless. He was not even wearing leather armor, much less the proper plated mail that a Knight was known for. His chocobo leapt into action, but the storm of arrows was too much and both rider and bird fell to the ground.

Cyan rolled in the snow, his black hair swirling around his neck. His face was red with rage and once behind cover, he tore an arrow out of his shoulder. The pain was nothing compared to the realization that these men of the New Order had taken her life. Water dripped down his cheeks; sweat, tears, and melted snow mixed together.

His scream of anguish was cut short when he saw a faint glowing trail of blue light. It led from the back of her burning cabin, almost invisible in the midst of fierce orange-yellow inferno.

Relm was alive.

A brief grin came to his face, pride welling up from her display of intelligence. No doubt the magic was invisible to anyone but he, similar to how she played chess.

Cyan Garamonde charged recklessly, afraid the fading blue light would disappear forever. Arrows tore through his tunic and pants. Warm blood dripped down his arms and his legs burned from opened wounds, but he noticed none of it. Cyan moved at such a blind pace that he tripped over something hard, metallic, and black. His face hit the snow but he was on his feet instantly. He spared a glance at what he had fallen over.

It was a Magitek Armor.

The shielded cockpit was something new, but there was no mistaking the symbol of Imperial Might. This one was broken and the pilot inside pierced with many arrows. The machine had collided with an evergreen and collapsed to the ground, leaving one leg out like a tree root to trip Cyan. Still, the rest of the weapon seemed undamaged, and Cyan was an expert at determining whether Magitek Armor had been permanently disabled or not. His heart pounded twice as hard when his conscience caught up with the heretical thoughts of his mind.

The dead pilot was ripped out of his seat without ceremony, and Cyan Garamonde pushed buttons he had only touched once before. The words of Sabin drifted out of the fog that surrounded memories of that fateful day. Any and all feelings of unease at touching such machinery were ignored, moral qualms rebutted, fears burned away in a firestorm of need.

IMC-0839, Light-Patrol Class Magitek Armor, roared to life.

---

Yet another lash finally dropped him to his knees, and then even they buckled as another tore across his back. Tears of rage flowed freely, but there was nothing he could do as his head slammed into the unfriendly stone floor.

He could feel the blood dripping from the more brutal blows, welts opened from repeated strikes. His entire upper-body seemed aflame, not a single spot unafflicted by injury. His breaths came out in ragged gasps, causing him more pain as his throat was hoarse from screaming continuously. Sabin Rene Figaro gritted his teeth and put every bit of effort into staying conscious.

"Enough," a female voice without feminine qualities ordered. "Prepare it."

Red-hair framed a shadowy face. Sabin's vision seemed to waver and he could not concentrate for long, but he knew this particular tormentor. He knew her intimately.

Something was draped over his face so that he saw nothing. Both hands and legs were shackled by chains, though the latter with enough slack so that he could shuffle his feet and mimic walking. His head still spun with dizziness, he was so weak from the lack of both sleep and food that the grievous injuries throughout his body were almost an after-thought.

"Move it, savage."

He grunted as something cold and blunt jabbed into his side, sending renewed flares of pain down his spine. He was sure that he had a cracked rib or two, and the skin was red and flaking from rope burns. His back burned from the whip and there was a dull throbbing sensation in his forehead. His arms hurt whenever they were brushed against and he swore that his fingers did not respond when he tried to wiggle them.

Sabin shuffled forward blindly as they commanded, turning corners and up numerous stairs. At last he stopped, there was someone was ahead of him and he knew from experience that acting slow and dim-witted was better than showing motivation and strength.

He was shoved forward and all of a sudden, the damp, putrid smelling air that he had breathed for ages vanished. Instead, his lungs welcomed the brisk, fresh and cold winter air.

Winter.

Despite being unable to see, he could feel snow on his bare feet and ice-cold air soothed his naked, welt-covered upper-body. At last, Sabin had an idea how much time had passed. It had been difficult to judge whether it was day and night, he had been imprisoned within a dungeon that delved deep beneath the surface. There was never fresh air and certainly no windows to look outside.

Sabin's own internal clock had been broken rather quickly. He couldn't keep track of all the times he had fallen unconscious from overwhelming pain, lack of breath, drought or starvation...

It was winter, Sabin repeated to himself. Winter. These bastards had kept him locked up and tortured him for an entire season.

While there were certainly moments when recalling even his own name had been difficult, the last stretch had been lacking the excruciating pain he had tried to grow used to. Not once had he given in, and until the recent past, little mercy was shown. As a result, he was always half-awake, weak and rarely thinking with a clear-mind. But now...

"Put it into the wagon."

That voice. He focused on how much he loathed that female voice. It was cold, authoritative, and lacking any sympathy at all; he had heard her thousands of times from every angle, in every state of mind but a clear one.

Sabin felt hands grab a hold of his shoulders. He was lifted off the ground and was thrown into the air. With a crash, he landed in a thin bed of straw and rolled into the side of the wagon. He grunted again as his head smashed into something hard and unyielding. His chains had caught the side of his face and dug into his twisted leg.

The world was spinning again, but something was new.

Light.

The mask that had covered his face had been ripped off and Sabin narrowed his eyes as bright illumination flooded his vision. His eyes watered when he realized how long it had been since he had seen the light of day.

From his wardens there came cursing and orders barked, but no one moved to cover his face again. Sabin didn't stretch his good luck. He made sure he wasn't drawing any attention, and only after several minutes had passed did he roll onto his side. At last, he could see more than just the frost-covered wooden planks of the wagon and bits of straw scattered about.

Another wagon was behind them, chocobos standing around looking bored while some dozen brown-leather armored soldiers were carrying crates and stacking them atop each other. It looked like supplies, so Sabin surmised they were going somewhere far. Yet another dozen soldiers were standing guard, but none paid him any heed.

The sight of red hair caused Sabin's blood to boil. He could see her now, directing men to do her bidding. It was her, he knew it. He could recognize her from any angle. Every time he had collapsed to the ground in a pool of blood, or was pulled out of the water barely-conscious, or he let the darkness take him as they drove spikes into his body, or even when he was screaming while lightning coursed through his veins... every time, she had been there. She oversaw everything with a grin on her face.

Sabin glared at her back, as if he could burn holes through her with the intensity in his gaze.

Rolling over imperceptibly as the guards of his prison began to hop onto the wagons themselves, Sabin's imagination ran wild with what he would do to escape. The winter air had sparked something within him. He knew today, there would be a chance. This day would be unlike any other.

"Well savage-"

Sabin bit down on his lip as a vicious kick tore into his broken ribs. He tried to not cry out in pain, but the second -- faster, more brutal -- sent him head-first into the wagon side. Stars exploded in his vision and his head began to swim nauseatingly. He couldn't muster the strength to even roll over into a more comfortable position, instead he just laid there half-conscious in a crumpled heap.

"-I told you it's futile. The Patrician has finally agreed," he felt her breath against his ear. "You're all mine now."

The red-haired warden was all Sabin could concentrate on, his vision hazy as he stared up. She stood tall over him, a sneer on her face, with her arms folded. Grey robes, gloved hands, and a condescending look that told him he was nothing more than an animal in her eyes.

He would kill the Imperial bitch. The thought of that brought a smile to his face.

"Such a slow learner, but I won't tolerate it anymore."

A blow to face, and the world was black once more.

---

Cyan was amazed at the ease of which entire formations of Imperial soldiers vanished before repeated blasts of fire magic. The elemental cannons of the Magitek Armor had been something he had faced many times, but being on the other side of the targeting crosshair certainly had a different feel. A feeling of superiority rushed to his head. With the push of a button, dozens of men -- their hopes and dreams -- vanished in a blaze of crimson light.

He wondered why he had never done this before.

During the war, they had captured several Magitek Armors on particularly successful raids. Though they had been outnumbered in many cases, superior minds coupled with righteousness had seen them victory when none was expected. Some of his Knights had commandeered the machines, but Cyan had reprimanded them for such dishonour. Still, there was word that other Knights had gone so far to keep the machines for as long as they could until they were either killed in combat, or the Armor stopped moving of its own accord.

Perhaps had they a few Armors, the war might not have been lost.

As another concentration of New Order troops -- gathered in front of the caves and too far away to endanger Cyan -- disappeared in a blazing magical inferno, he felt invincible. He was like a god.

In that instant, he was repulsed by what he had done; by what he was doing. His stomach turned and his conscience screamed at him.

The distraction was enough for a strange white blob to catch the leg of IMC-0839. Suddenly, the machine was immobile, stuck to the ground by a mass of unyielding adhesive. A fire-beam followed, the Light-Patrol Class Magitek Armor collapsing as its right leg melted into a bubbling mass of dark metal. Cyan jumped out of the cockpit just as two more beams tore through the Armor's chest effortlessly, passing through delicate gears and pistons. A forest fire sparked to life and marked the termination of IMC-0839. The Armor would never move again.

But Cyan Garamonde was already on the ground and charging down an unmarked path. He felt no sorrow for the loss of the Imperial war machine. Instead, he concentrated on the blue trail that Relm left for him. It was growing stronger now; he was catching up! Footprints in the ground could be seen, hidden poorly due to haste. They led behind the base and around the mountain, across frozen creeks and unblemished conifers. The blue light led to a small cavern, its dark insides delving deep into the earth.

He drew his blade and entered with as much caution as possible. His eyes slowly adjusted to the pitch-black tunnel; the blue light showed its magical nature by glowing yet not illuminating the inside of the cavern. Cyan walked at a hurried, but controlled pace. His heart beat so fast that he was afraid it could be heard in the silence.

The tunnel branched out a few times and Cyan would have easily been lost in the maze had it not been for Relm's trail. It felt like an hour in which he wandered half-blind through the dark, paranoid of ambushes, fearful for the life of a child, but in all likelihood he doubted it was more than ten minutes. Finally he could hear the crisp clackering of lit torches. Dark walls curved left and right until suddenly, they were lit by flickering orange-yellow light.

Cyan was not a stealthy man, but one did not live as long as he had and not know prudence. His steps were noiseless as he rounded the final passageway. He pressed up against the rocky walls and looked around the corner.

Amazingly, there were several dozen soldiers in a large tunnel. They were sitting on top of crates of machinery and conversed quietly. Railway tracks ended where they camped, and it was obvious that the railcars would lead out of the mountain, not deeper where they could hide from the overwhelming forces outside.

Then his heart skipped a beat. Relm was pacing back and forth in the midst of the soldiers, impatient and uneasy. She jumped when he stepped into the tunnel, his foot stamping down loudly.

The Imperials all spun around at the noise, most bringing their weapons of choice into position. Relm was all smiles though as she ran towards him. "Cyan!" she cried out, louder than was prudent.

"Shh!" the soldier beside her, Irving, put a finger to his lips. The squad visibly relaxed when the little girl in their midst identified the intruder though, even if he didn't look to be one of theirs.

Cyan scooped Relm off the ground and hugged her close. "Well done dear one, well done," he whispered.

She beamed. "I knew you'd find us," she said with a hint of pride. Still held in his arms, Relm leaned back and took a good look at her saviour. "Are you crying?" she asked with a frown.

Cyan blinked away the unexpected wetness. "Not at all," he answered with a smile.

"Well, Cyan Garamonde, I knew you were thick-headed, but I honestly didn't expect you to track us," it was Paisley who spoke. He still pretended to be an inexperienced lad, but the fake-nervousness in his voice had disappeared.

"That's Garamonde?" one of the men whispered.

"You mean the Relentless?" someone else farther away said.

"Quiet! He might take offence to that!" yet another silenced his friend.

Cyan lowered Relm softly before addressing Paisley. "What's the situation?"

Paisley looked around. "Why are you asking me?" he said.

"The game is up," Cyan growled softly, irritated by the continuing act. "How long do we have to hold out here before reinforcements relieve us?"

Paisley narrowed his eyes and showed a sudden burst of suspicion that was nowhere near boyish.

"One of the men outside brought news that the assault is falling apart. It seems as if the New Order commanders suddenly lost grip with reality," Irving stepped between Paisley and Cyan. "We have orders to hold this position, there's a store of fuel in the tunnel beyond," he pointed behind him, "and word is that one of the enemy captains is organizing a strike."

As if bidden by those words, footsteps were heard from main entrance of the tunnel. "They're coming!" a young man shouted.

Cyan looked around and realized that nearly all the men here were rookies. They looked young and inexperienced. It was understandable that Danielle Meras would transfer men that would be a liability on the battlefield and staff them in less meaningful positions behind the frontlines, but that strategy was about to backfire.

It was also disturbingly similar to his last days in Doma, when all that remained of their once glorious army were young children whose fathers had fallen months before. They were no more than boys that had been given a bloodstained sword and sent to the butcher where they might take their first swing before dying upon the blade of the enemy. These Imperials were not as untrained, but the similarities could not be ignored.

"Paisley, take command," Cyan said as he stormed through the crowd of rapidly panicking soldiers. "I will stand beside you," he declared.

Paisley scowled at Cyan with disbelief and surprise, but as he heard the echoing battle-cries of the enemy, he turned around and began issuing orders loudly and authoritatively. The boyish smile was gone, replaced with the cold detachment of an officer in the Imperial Armed Forces. It seemed the rookies responded to his change without question, they stood firm in formation and did not waver as booming cries of the enemy grew fiercer.

"Dear one, stay behind and do not stray," Cyan whispered to Relm. He had lowered to one knee and brushed her hair aside. "Do you understand me?"

Relm nodded. "I'll help," she stated passionately. A sparkle of yellow light danced from her palm.

"Just keep safe," Cyan knew better than to argue. He stood and took up position beside Paisley, behind a few men that were lucky enough to have tower shields. His mind analyzed the possibilities and planned his and Relm's escape in the midst of chaos.

"Listen Cyan, I just wanted to-" Paisley started.

Javelins slammed into tower shields with tremendous force, several of the boys buckling from inexperience. The screaming of the enemy was so loud that Paisley was drowned out.

Then a man behind them, one that did not look out of place beside the bulk of Irving, raised his fist into the air. His shout was lost in the deafening noise of the tunnel, but those around him did not mistake it. They joined in, and soon the makeshift platoons were chanting as one.

"For the glory of the Empire!"

"For the glory of the Empire!"

"FOR THE GLORY OF THE EMPIRE!!!"

The ring of metal rang clear as a thundering charge slammed into tower shields and readied pikes. The battle had begun and Cyan watched as those at the front were crippled and killed. Bodies hit the ground with spearheads embedded deep the chests of young men. They were falling back, how could they not against such a vicious assault? Inexperience could not stand firm against experience, and several dozen more collapsed before the Knight of Doma made up his mind.

Cyan raised his blade into the air and caught the torchlight, his ferocious cry cutting through the metallic clash of blades.

The symbol was not lost on the defenders, and Cyan's bullrush was joined by dozens of equal mind.

Cyan Garamonde decapitated his enemies and spun in the thick of action. It was difficult to tell who was who and instead of allowing that to slow his blade, Cyan charged deeper. No arrows flew and elemental beams were silent. There were no distractions; this was an honourable battle between warriors. Cyan felt a rush of adrenaline and cried in triumph as Imperial after Imperial fell before his blade. His retorts were unstoppable, his thrusts unparried, and his slashes opened multiple men at once.

The New Order fell back and Paisley's command stormed forward to fill their place. Cyan was quickly surrounded by Imperials that were now his allies and instead of following their lead, he held back and searched for Relm.

"No!" Cyan screamed. He charged with all his might.

Relm barely avoided losing her head as a spear thrust past. A blast of ice came from her fingertips and smashed into the face of her attacker. As he fell to the ground, face dripping with blood and screaming from pain, a second man attempted to sever the young magic user apart with his broadsword.

Spells were dangerous at such close proximity, and Relm's hair was suddenly shoulder-length as the blade passed inches above her neck. She screamed, yellow sparkles dancing uselessly from her fingertips. Her right hand gripped a knife -- proportionately a short sword considering her size -- in a defensive stance. But it was clear to any trained warrior that it was mimicry; she knew little more than how to brandish the blade.

With a roar, Cyan cleaved the man's head off. He maintained his guard but no one was near. "Are you alright, dear one?" the Knight asked.

Relm nodded, her face flushed and breaths coming out in ragged gasps.

Cyan saw that the side-tunnel he had entered through was swamped with men. Of course the battle would rage there, he thought with disdain. "Follow and keep close," he said. It was time to make his move.

He left a trail of blood as they made their way to the only escape route, wading into the thick of battle as Cyan swung from side to side. It was easy defending Relm when she was close. Her height offered an advantage of non-interference, so that she could be within his circle of influence without affecting his blows. Her magic helped a bit, generally blunting a fast charge before he slew the attacker. In this manner, the pair approached the side-tunnel.

Cyan was dimly aware that Paisley was behind him. The Doma Knight turned about and dropped two more pikeman, moving towards his escape route. The battle was thinning out and it was clear that the defenders were winning.

Paisley fought with two short swords, swinging them about like knives. It was without grace but killed nonetheless. But the Lieutenant was in Cyan's way. The Knight of Doma fought at Paisley's side, his Doma-forged blade crippling the arm of a large axeman before slashing across the chest. He turned, intent on accidentally killing Paisley.

The young officer was overextended, both swords locked with the blades of another man. Behind him, a New Order soldier prepared for a mighty thrust of a spear.

Cyan slew the pikeman and followed through by killing Paisley's opponent. The two men locked eyes in the midst of the battlefield, torchlight flickering in their eyes. Surprise was clear on each man's face.

The moment was broken as another of the New Order stepped into their path. Paisley slew the unlucky interloper before charging back into the chaos. Seconds passed, Cyan doing little more than defending as he thought about what he had just done. He searched for Relm and perhaps try to salvage what remained of his plan. She was close to his feet, a questioning look clear on her face. Her mouth formed words that were drowned out by the sound of battle, but Cyan read her lips clearly.

And then the battle was won. A cheer could be heard from the men as the New Order retreated, barely one in ten had lived long enough to turn tail and even then, their survival was still debatable as the momentum reversed. The once-inexperienced rookies were victorious and overwhelmingly so. They had held the line of defence and pounced on enemy footmen that had grown too comfortable with archer and Magitek support.

As someone closed in behind him, Cyan spun and almost killed without reservation. But yet again he paused before blade met flesh.

Irving had a bright smile on his face and clasped Cyan's shoulder. "I saw what you did!" he cried out with the gusto of a man who had seen the impossible. "Cutting your way through dozens of soldiers, defending the little girl at the same time, all just to save Paisley!" he shouted between ragged gasps. Irving pulled Cyan into the crowd of soldiers. "Sir Cyan coming through!" he shouted in a deep rumbling voice reserved for Sergeants.

Men raised their fists in the air as they cheered his name. Cyan looked around in wonder as they chanted for him. Young men, most still bleeding, shook his hand, patted his back or clasped his arms. They were all smiles as they thanked him, praised his bravery and complimented him on his heroics. Several offered him water from their canteens, others foul-smelling spirits from their secret stash, and there was even a teenaged-girl -- holding an axe with the experience of a lumberjack twice her age -- that actually batted her eyelashes. Irving pulled Cyan through the crowd, the makeshift platoon was still several-dozen strong and spread throughout the railway tunnel, until they reached Paisley.

The officer turned to him, his blades still dripping blood. Paisley had been amongst the men that charged after the retreating New Order soldiers, killing them all to the last man. The boyish face with a cold demeanour looked Cyan in the eyes. First impressions had been proven wrong.

Twin blades slammed into the ground and silenced the crowd of bloodied men. His fist went to his heart.

"Three cheers for Sir Cyan Garamonde!" Lieutenant Paisley shouted as he raised his fist into the air.

The echoes of the Imperial soldiers rumbled throughout the mountain.

---

Sabin wiped the blood off his mouth.

He leaned against the cold bark of a tree trunk, ragged breaths misting in the winter air. His foot idly kicked aside a broken wooden wheel. It wobbled and rolled, until it was stopped by a fresh cadaver. Their blood was still warm, steadily melting through the hard-packed snow of the ground. But they were dead. All of them were dead.

Sabin had ensured that.

The sky was blue and the sun beat down upon him. He smiled underneath that wonderful warm light, free at last. He had lost track of the days while imprisoned in that deep, accursed dungeon. He pushed aside the dark memories of those days, for the hurts were still fresh throughout his body. His ribs were cracked, he had open welts all over his skin, his right arm seemed to groan in pain every time he raised it, and even all his nails had been pulled out.

One blood-red eye slowly rolled to the right. He gazed past the broken carcasses of the wagons, several bodies collapsed both on top and beneath them. He ignored dead chocobos as well, heaped against great unyielding pines. The snow-covered dirt path was unbroken ahead, and in the distance, it looked like a deer...

Sabin's gaze paused on one crippled body. A leg had been snapped in half and twisted behind the back. One hand was a mangled mass of flesh, the other swung side to side; it was attached only by the skin. Red hair had been caught underneath spokes of the wagon wheel. She should have been dead, but Sabin supposed not everything could go the way he planned; certainly not in recent memory had anything gone as he planned.

He bent down despite the groans of protest from his back. He lifted the chin of the woman who was very close to death, and glared at her straight in the eye.

"Still alive?"

A sneer appeared, despite the pain it must have caused her. The entire left side of her face was already purple and black, and the right would soon follow. Despite trying, Sabin felt no sympathy for her.

"That's a yes," he answered his own question. Sabin stood up and stretched once more, inadvertently letting a moan of pain escape his lips. He hurt all over and no matter how he tried to ignore it, it was too much even for him.

"You can't escape," a raspy whisper was all she had been capable of. It was followed by coughing and the sound of blood gurgling within the throat as the woman struggled to breathe.

Sabin glanced down at his former jailor. He smiled at the irony. "Yes, I think you said that quite a few times trying to break me. Fortunately, just like that constant blather about inevitability, you were wrong."

More coughing... and a strange flick of the wrist.

Sabin caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. He had seen many gestures like that in the past while. It had been almost all he could concentrate on, as he steadily memorized and stowed away each unconscious inclination. In a flash of the eye, his hand slapped down against hers, and he followed through with a vicious strike to her broken leg.

An ear-piercing scream echoed throughout the countryside.

"Nice try," Sabin growled. "I should have known you would never beg for mercy, you Imperial magic-wielding bitch."

She must have been seeing stars, for her eyes rolled in their sockets while she twitched uncontrollably. Sabin waited for her to regain her senses. He knew she wouldn't die just yet. In the meantime, he crossed his legs and meditated. Instead of inner peace though, all he could do was think about the past. Funny how that was, when he locked in a dungeon away from the light of day and barely conscious from the pain of torture, he tried with all his might to recall fond memories and better times. Now all he desired was solace and that was being denied.

Of course, his heart was still beating furiously. Adrenaline pumped throughout his veins and his head throbbed. If he didn't concentrate, everything would become blurry. He didn't really remember what he had done or how the wagon had ended up in such a manner. It was all just a haze of blood spraying in his face, people screaming all around him, and the impacts against his fists.

The sound of coughing; she was finally conscious again. Sabin took a seat beside her on the cold, densely packed snow. He didn't mind sitting in half-frozen blood, the pants he wore were not his and neither was the crimson puddle. He leaned against the broken wagon beside her.

"Now we're going to have a long talk," Sabin said. He glanced over at his jailor. The world seemed to spin a little and the outsides of his vision were filled with snow. "You're going to tell me everything, starting with where the hell Siana is, or else your last hours on this world will seem like eternity."

"The Patrician personally chose me for this," the woman gasped. "You won't break me, savage,"

"This won't be the first time you're wrong," Sabin replied impassively. He grabbed a spoke and tore it out with one hand; a splintered makeshift spear would do. "Let's begin."

---

Cyan wiped the sweat off his brow, the drops of salty water almost freezing the instant they left his hands. His breath came out in ragged gasps as he basked in the pleasant sensation of overcoming physical adversity. His heart was pounding and his head was spinning, but the exertion was a welcome distraction. Exercise always felt great once it was over.

He had not climbed very high; it had been a hike up an old trail. Rope was unnecessary and Cyan doubted that it would be difficult to make his way back down the mountain, even in the pitch-dark night. His pack hit the ground noisily; it was filled with survival gear just in case he decided to make camp. His sensitive ears made out a low rumble to the east.

In the darkness of the night, under heavy cloud cover and with nary a torch in sight, Cyan looked towards what he assumed to be the Gap of Reddenhurst. It was difficult. He was unfamiliar with the area and its landmarks. Even with superb nightvision, Cyan could not make out much. The Knight of Doma almost wished he had the pair of lenses that Edgar possessed; binoculars to assist one's far-sight. He had avoided and detested such mechanical tools in the past -- they were an unnecessary crutch that men should not have to depend on -- but their usefulness could not be denied.

But that rumbling, it was such a familiar sound. Like raindrops in the night, it was almost relaxing in its consistency.

Noting that not an evergreen needle was vibrating, Cyan decided to ignore the rumbles and instead got comfortable in a bed of moss. The day had passed and he was in need of solitude.

No, he was in need of a friend to speak to.

With Sabin on the run and Edgar sailing the high-seas, Cyan Garamonde realized he had no one to turn to and rely upon for support. It was a depressing thought, one that made him ache for Elayne. He was alone, surrounded by the Empire, and filled with conflict.

The situation was of his own making. A moment of doubt, the briefest of brief, had caused him to hesitate when he could have slew Paisley. The result would have been escape with Relm, away from the Empire and away from the strife of the Imperial Civil War. He could have easily protected Strago's granddaughter until they found seafaring passage back north, or perhaps escape east as Sabin had. It had been such a perfect plan.

But it was not him. He was a Knight of Doma. How could he turn his blade on an ally in battle? Such treachery was far beneath his station. How could he sink so low, even for Relm's sake? Was that not the reason he ran away from the Imperial celebrations? Because the overwhelming shame was too much?

Cyan sighed loudly. He did not think he could have lived with the dishonour of striking Paisley down. The man was an assassin, of that he had no doubt. He was of low-character and were he in Doma, Cyan would have brought Paisley as a criminal to be tried and executed. Yet not only had he had paused when given the chance to cut down such rabble, he had even protected the man. Had he simply held back, Paisley would have died to the blade of their common-enemy. Surely that was an honourable end, for it was battle and Cyan was simply too slow to save his overextended ally.

No. He could lie to others, convince them otherwise... but he could not lie to himself. How could he face Elayne again if he had fallen into such disgrace? How could he uphold the banner of Doma with such dishonour?

Doma... the Imperials in the tunnel had reminded him so much of those final days. It turned his stomach to make the comparison, but he could not ignore the truth. Both the men of Doma and the men of the Empire had reacted the same way, looked up to him for support and followed him faithfully against a superior foe. They had both fought with... honour.

Cyan ground his teeth in frustration. Rescuing Relm would prove difficult if he was reluctant to bring his blade to bear against her wardens.

In the distance, the night was suddenly lit by an unearthly red glow. The ambience abruptly disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Cyan bolted upright. He recognized that glow in the pitch-black night. How could he not? It had plagued his nightmares for months.

A Magitek Fire Beam.

More appeared and disappeared, but the beams had not stopped firing of their own accord. They cut off too quickly, without the slow cool-down that all elemental cannons employed. It did not gradually fade but was quick, like a candle snuffed out by the wind.

Then came the flares. A multitude of bright fireworks were launched into the sky, and ending that display of coloured lights was a single yellow spark that glowed brighter than the rest. Cyan felt shivers down his spine. He knew that the Imperial Army only communicated in such a manner during their direst hours. Barely a moment passed before humanity played God.

Fire rained down from the cliffs. Red beams of light lit the battlefield as they blasted through the frigid air, gouts of flame spiralling around each pillar of magical inferno. Snow vanished in a heartbeat, and each wide-spread beam tunnelled into the naked ground for a brief second. Then came the explosions; fireballs that lit up the night and rose sky-high while a ring of flame expanded from the center of each impact. In that light, Cyan could see the thousands of men that were charging entrenchments within the Gap of Reddenhurst. There were so many that it looked as if the hills themselves were moving. Cyan whispered a prayer for the departed souls that would soon follow.

In seconds, hundreds of men were vaporized in a red haze of magic, and hundreds more fell to the ground covered in flames. They screamed in pain, reached out for the help of their dying comrades, and perished a nameless death. Those that had families would be remembered and missed, never again to see the faces of their loved ones or to watch as their children grew. But many more had no families, no lovers, and would simply be forgotten. They would just be another corpse, part of a numerical statistic that would be associated with the civil war. Their hopes, their dreams, and their lives would never be remembered.

But upon the field of carnage and death, the dying had friends. They had comrades that did not forget, did not ignore, and were not numbed to the screams of pain. Hundreds of Armors upon the field opened fire with their elemental cannons. Beams of flame and ice crashed into the mountainside, illuminating the smooth, magically-hewn walls of solid stone that protected what Cyan knew to be the Gaston Cliffs. The sight of Magitek Armors upon the cliffs could be clearly seen in the magical cascade -- their immobile positions given away the moment they fired -- and so it was that the Imperial Army tore apart the mountainside. Dark unnatural stone did not give way to hundreds of elemental beams, instead the pillars of energy broke apart and splattered down the mountain as a storm of cascading liquid flame. The base of the mountain was consumed in an inferno, a forest fire of such magnitude that it nearly illuminated the entire Gap of Reddenhurst much like the sun.

Those upon the Gaston Cliffs returned fire, not just elemental warfare, but thousands of fire-tipped arrows rained down upon the armies of General Meras. Armors were consumed in miniature fireballs that dotted the plains, too numerous to count, but did not falter in the face of imminent death. In retort, ice and fire magic tore through the mountains faster than either alone. First the sky-blue storms, then the raging infernos of hell. The sorcerous stone could not hold back such energy and buckled, beams burrowing their way into the rocky cliffs and cleaving them apart. The avalanche that followed could barely be described as such, as the peak of a mountain had been shorn away and collapsed into the raging firestorm below.

Barely ten minutes had passed as two of the greatest armies in existence engaged in warfare, and already the world would be scarred forever. It trembled in anticipation.

Cyan's military mind followed the display coldly, making sense of what he saw and what he knew. The Imperial had three types of Magitek, the small ones that he had piloted, a larger one that was their mainstay, and an artillery unit that was so unwieldy he had never seen it deployed in warfare. The mainstay made up the majority of those upon the ground; without the overwhelming power of those units upon the cliffs, their sheer numbers, excellent support, and superior coordination had quickly overwhelmed the outermost war machines above them. However, those cliffs were still rife with the largest of Magitek. It was a stalemate, artillery that was a threat but held back; for the cost of firing was to reveal their positions to a fatal counterattack.

The Imperials were adapting to the tactics used by their former comrades.

Cyan watched, breathless, from his vantage point high above the scene of battle. He could not make out details, but for the veteran of the Doma War, that level of detail was unnecessary. He was more than intimate with the Imperial War Machine. And as the minutes passed and the death toll rose, as chocobos were slaughtered and men skewered, as Magitek Armors fell and fortresses exploded, Cyan came to a single, undeniable conclusion.

The Empire was dying.

And his heart, the heart that had suffered through the deaths of thousands of close friends and countrymen, the heart that had languished through the callous killings of his liege and the Doma nobility, the heart that had died when Elayne and Owain had departed aboard the Phantom Train... that heart felt empty.

All his work in the past year had been for a single goal. Now that had been achieved, and the Empire would surely fall in the warfare that was to follow. Yet... he felt nothing. No sense of victory, happiness, or even an air of smug contentment that he had avenged his family in some small fashion.

Cyan turned away from the carnage -- from the sight of a single cavalry charge led by someone as devoted as the men who followed were fanatical -- and thought about what mattered... what truly mattered to him.

An hour into the Third Battle of Reddenhurst, a climatic showdown between two factions of the Empire that would decide whether the next dozen years would be that of continuous warfare, Cyan Garamonde began the steady climb down the mountainside. The Knight of Doma had known that no amount of Imperial blood would ever bring back his wife and son, but had not realized how little it meant to him whether the Empire rose or fell. As he carefully made his way through the thick brush and deadly cliffs -- his ears assaulted by the sounds of battle -- he only thought of one thing.

Relm.

---

Sabin had still been staring in mute horror long after the sun set in the west. There was simply no reaction that could convey the disgust and hatred that flowed through him.

The woman had cracked in the end, and perhaps another time Sabin would have been ashamed of what he had done. But it was difficult to feel any sympathy for someone that had tormented him for such a long time. Even the seasons had changed during his imprisonment, and every waking hour in between that had not been spent screaming in pain had been spent trying to hang onto sanity. He had drifted out of consciousness as often as one blinked, perhaps more when he considered the growing pain in his eyes.

His chief tormentor called herself a Compatriot; apparently she was of the Patrician's inner circle. Between her inane rants about the place of magic in the world and its disgusting lack of order, Sabin had learned that he was far from the only one she had... 'treated'.

He wasn't sure whether she was truly delusional or highly skilled at deceit. The things she had said about Enlightenment and the Guild, it was just too incredulous to be true. She gave no impression that she was stupid, far from it. She was a Magitek Knight, one of the Empire's finest. Whatever had caused her to fall into such insanity was truly disturbing.

Before she died though, Sabin had gotten the location that Siana was being held at. The so-called Compatriot had resisted naming names, instead referring to them as savages and animals. Sabin had worked long in order to convince her otherwise. If anything she said was to be believed, then Siana was in Pierpoint. It was all Sabin had to go on. He was apparently to be transferred there as well, for they had felt that their testing of new methods had come to a conclusion and they would use older, tried and true techniques.

Experimentation to achieve what end, the son of Figaro did not know.

Sabin had not bothered hiding his escape. No one had arrived throughout the day as he interrogated the woman, and he doubted many travelled to Pierpoint by that route at all. Instead he had feared that the city was far away and too heavily populated to safely infiltrate.

He had been wrong on both accounts.

Sabin began to breathe again; his mind finally finished digesting the shock that would leave permanent scars in his soul. Long after sunlight disappeared and Pierpoint was flooded by darkness, a despairing Sabin looked up at the hanging corpses once more and his heart seized in anguish. He fell to the ground into a cushion of snow. White flakes covered his face, melting almost immediately as they touched his skin. They ran off his cheeks and mixed in with the salty tears that flowed without reservation.

Sabin had never seen anything like it, nor did he ever wish to see such again. They had been children. Children! How could anyone have done such a thing?

The sound of footsteps! Sabin pushed himself off the ground and opened his mouth in shock.

It was a man in blood-drenched rags that hung haphazardly from his body. In the night, Sabin could not make out much detail. He knew the man was turned away, and his hair was dishevelled with patches of dirt forcing the strands into giant clumps. It was another escaped prisoner! His hopes renewed at this development, Sabin dashed over to his fellow captive.

Only several feet away, the prisoner suddenly dashed off down an alleyway. "Wait!" Sabin cried out. "I'm on your side!"

The martial artist almost slipped on a patch of ice as he turned the corner, but quickly regained his balance and chased after the only other living soul in Pierpoint. Sabin had to find out what had happened and whether this fellow had been through the same ordeal as he. They were linked together by a common enemy; surely they could cooperate to survive.

Sabin's heels dug into the packed snow as he came to a halt. Mouth agape, the martial artist watched in surprise as an axe tore through solid stone. The escaped captive was a blur of motion, swinging his huge double-bladed weapon wildly, and toppled pillar after pillar of an obscene tribute -- it was a marble fountain but skeletons were piled into the dish and frozen in a pool of unknown liquid. The fugitive was gripped by an uncontrolled storm of anger that Sabin had never seen the likes of. The martial artist thought his fellow captive was screaming at one point, but he couldn't seem to figure out exactly what the man was saying.

The man dropped his axe and from the rubble, picked up a metal beam that might have once braced a ceiling. He swung it from side to side and knocked down a building by its foundation, then tossed it aside. He picked up the axe again and suddenly, Sabin realized that this was making quite a bit of noise.

"Hey, stop that!" Sabin cried out. "I know how you feel, I'd join you if my hands weren't so sore, but you're going to bring them down on both of us!"

The escaped captive stopped, but only because the monument had been destroyed. He jumped to the ground, landing on both feet, and then dashed off again.

"He's absolutely crazy," Sabin growled, beginning to grow impatient. Even if he caught up with the insane man, it probably wouldn't help his odds of survival. Actually, it might worsen them quite a bit.

But Sabin ran after the man anyways. If only for the company, for craziness was still better than nothing. But the shape was always ahead of him by one step and never responded to his desperate cries. It was impressive how much stamina the former-captive had, equivalent to Sabin's, if not better. The martial artist ran through the deserted streets of Pierpoint after a crazed fugitive, trying his best not to notice the corpses that surrounded him. It was not difficult to follow; there was always a trail of rubble left by a mighty battle-axe or the sound of incessant screaming.

Another patch of ice! Sabin cursed as his knees hit the snow and he slammed headfirst into the ground. He rolled onto his back -- head swimming dizzily, nose bloody and bells ringing -- and forced himself back to his feet.

The other man was gone.

Sabin cursed his foul luck. He started to wander the pitch-dark streets, listening carefully for the noise that the crazy man must have been making. Twice he walked into a building before he managed to straighten his path. As he continued down the road, he noticed that many of the bodies that had once hung from nooses were on the ground, and many more obscene monuments torn down. He swore that just earlier that day, he had been staring blankly at them for hours and they had not been in such a state. But no one had come by recently aside from the fugitive and himself. Certainly the other man could not have had so much time -- considering the state his body was in -- to destroy so much.

And then he bumped into another pillar. His eyes followed the wooden shaft to its top and the eyes of a child, forever frozen in her death throes, stared back at him.

Tears ran down his face anew. In the darkness of the deserted city of Pierpoint, Sabin cried for all the innocents that had died here. All the women and children that had been killed in what looked to be a ritual fashion, sacrificed for some evil god. It was a blessing that the sun had sunk beyond the horizon, for seeing all the spikes in which bodies were driven whole, skins torn from flesh, bodies mutilated and twisted into obscene devilish statues, it might have driven a man insane.

He still felt dizzy, his head swam and Sabin continued to wander away. It wouldn't be until the next day, when he had woken up, that he would note that the damage to those evil displays was not done with a sharp tool. Tens, maybe hundreds of blunt impacts had broken the evidence of malicious crimes against humanity.

It wouldn't be until the next day that Sabin Rene Figaro realized he could not speak, his throat was so hoarse. His fists would be bloodied and bruised, his feet were swollen and his back seemed to ache with every movement.

But if anyone cared to listen, they could still hear words screamed over and over again, echoing through the dead city of Pierpoint.

"Empire of murderers!"