Hyperion sliced through the Grendel's tough hide with ease, as if the scaly, hardened skin were as thin and flimsy as a sheet of paper. It wailed its own elegy as it fell to the ground, keening and mournful. Within seconds, the light faded from its yellowed eyes and its arms fell limp, ceasing in their desperate attempt to contain the monster's lifeforce.
When the creature's body remained still for longer than thirty seconds, Seifer rose to his feet and wiped the stained edge of Hyperion's blade on the rough fabric of his pants. One down, an endless stream to go. How that bumbling idiot had managed to keep all of the town's inhabitants alive, he still didn't understand.
He ambled over to the carcass and methodically skinned the beast; blood coated his gloves, making his fingers uncomfortably slick. Once he was done picking the carcass apart, he packed up his bounty and slung his bag over his shoulder before heading back for town. The Grendel marked the last kill and the end of his morning patrol, and he was looking forward to washing the sweat and grime from his body. As he made his way along the path, he winced at the pull of his muscles; physical activity hadn't hurt this much just a few years ago.
Down the hill, terracotta roofs and whitewashed stucco walls awaited him. He never thought he'd say it, but over the past ten years, the place had somehow managed to feel like home in a way that Garden never had. It had wormed its way into his subconscious, into his very being, and every time he left, he found himself counting the days until he could return. It was familiar now, and yet, still unknown, and no one here cared a whit about his past transgressions. Most people didn't even know who he was, beyond his name. They also didn't care about what came with his name—the history, the potential danger. That form of absolution was a luxury he couldn't find anywhere else.
Even though it had been ten years since the end of the war, he was still recognized in larger cities—places where he would've thought that people would be so engrossed in their own lives, they couldn't be bothered to meddle in his.
How wrong he'd been.
Still musing about the past and how he'd ended up here, of all places, Seifer walked up to his front door and pulled the keys out of his right front pocket. Quickly, he let himself in and kicked the door shut behind him, causing the pots and pans hanging on the wall to rattle. The house he lived in was small—extremely small. Even after adding the upstairs to the main floor, it was no larger than 750 square feet. It was only him, though, so it didn't bother him in the slightest. There was no room for "entertaining", no reason he had to pretend to be willing to have guests over for extended periods of time. No, the space allowed him to keep to himself, and that was something that he and the residents of Winhill agreed on: that Seifer Almasy—anyone really—was best left on their own.
After tossing his dingy bag at the base of the staircase and propping Hyperion against the wall, he took the steps two at a time to the bathroom. As he made his way there, he stripped off a piece of clothing with every step—his heavy leather coat tossed here, his combat boots kicked off there. With each piece of clothing he shedded, he felt more and more free. The second he was standing directly under the not-so-steady stream of lukewarm water, he felt the prior tension that had been settled between his hunched shoulders leak out of him. It then trickled down the drain with the now-murky water.
It was moments like these, moments where he wasn't constantly in motion, propelled by some invisible force from within, when his mind ran amok. When he'd first arrived in Winhill, still young and naively burning with passion, it was a habit he'd hoped would pass. He didn't have time—or the patience—to sit and wallow in his many regrets. After ten years of suffering at the whim of his own brain, he'd come to realize that it was just an aspect of his personality, who he was. As an eighteen-year-old SeeD hopeful, he'd needed to be constantly moving forward, and now, as a twenty-eight-year-old man, nothing had changed.
He massaged shampoo into the wet strands of his hair, working the suds through to the ends. As he went through the motions, random thoughts flitted through his mind: the contents—or lack thereof—of his fridge, the fact that he hadn't done laundry in a week, and that it was about time for Hyperion's regular maintenance. After all, his gunblade was how he kept himself fed and housed. He couldn't let it dwindle in quality and worth like he himself had.
That last thought disappeared and he chuckled at himself, though the sound contained more self-deprecation than actual humor. Is this seriously where my shit-show of a life has ended up? Daily monster patrol for some backwater town, and helping out random old ladies? What-fuckin'-ever.
His subsequent scoff was swallowed up by the echo of the running water bouncing off the walls of the tiny room. After rinsing off the rest of his body, he twisted the knob to shut the water off and climbed out of the tub, ducking so that he wouldn't hit his head on the metal shower rod. It wasn't exactly built for those fortunate enough to stand over six feet tall. Tossing the towel onto the ground, he traipsed down the hall—a total of four steps—and into his bedroom.
Lethargically, he rifled through the few items in his armoire, avoiding his usual garb. When he reached the end of available options, his fingertips lingered on his old, tattered trenchcoat, now an off-shade of grey from all the muck that had accumulated over the past decade. For a moment, he found that he couldn't look away, his mind flooded with memories of the war. As if breaking out of a trance, he started and reached for a shirt on the opposite end of the rack, dressing quickly in his usual outfit of choice: a pair of black canvas pants, and a short-sleeved black t-shirt. After trekking back out into the hall to find his shoes, he pulled his boots back on and thudded back downstairs.
A quick glance at the clock on the wall revealed that he had an hour before he needed to check in with the old lady, so he beelined for his fridge, feeling rather thirsty. As soon as he pulled the fridge door open, he let out an annoyed grunt; the only beverage on the shelves was beer.
Not that there was anything wrong with beer, but it was the only thing he drank nowadays, and getting completely shit-faced before making his usual stops throughout town probably wouldn't provide the best impression. But it wasn't as if the people of Winhill didn't already have him pegged. Seifer wasn't sure which was worse: living up to their expectations, or living up to his own.
He grunted again—though this one was more disgusted—and swiped the closest can. After he popped the top, he chugged it down before wiping his mouth and tossing it into the garbage.
"Hyne, you're a real first-class gentleman, aren't you?" he muttered to himself, running his hand through his still-damp hair.
With a weary sigh, he grabbed Hyperion and collapsed into the nearest chair. It groaned as his weight settled down on the already precarious legs. He propped his ankle on the opposite knee before resting Hyperion against his calf, and then reached over to pull the tub of gunblade oil over to him. If he'd still been living with Fujin and Raijin, Fujin would likely have ripped into him about leaving messes in his wake, and cluttering up the house. The beauty of it was that he didn't still live with them, and Hyne-damn it, he could leave his shit wherever the hell he wanted to.
Methodically, he dipped the accompanying grungy rag into the oil and spread it over the dinged-up metal. Once the entire surface had the perfect sheen to it, he set the rag down and grabbed the thin pad of steel wool, working it across the layer of oil. An errant spot that was still darkened with the slightest bit of rust caught his eye, and he rubbed the oil into it with the pad of his thumb, his forehead creasing in concentration. After it was gone, he wiped the blade down with the opposite side of the rag and closed up the tub.
Though the process of keeping Hyperion in top condition was time-consuming, Seifer had always found it relaxing in a sort of mind-numbing way. Instead of his thoughts running away from him, it was the exact opposite. The landscape of his mental environment was normally reminiscent of the cliffs nearby the orphanage, craggy and desolate. When he was working on Hyperion, though, it transformed into the beach beside those cliffs, even, smooth, with the waves gently brushing against the grains of sand on the shore.
Just as efficiently as with the oil, he filed the edge of the blade, bringing the previously dulled edge back to its original sharpness. Now that he was finished with the ritual, he ran his fingers along the full length of the blade, almost reverently. With that reverence came disappointment.
It was time to get back to things.
He rose to his feet and placed Hyperion back in its place against the wall. After stooping down to grab his bag from the floor, he slung it over his shoulder and walked out of the house. His first stop was the general store. Bemmet, the owner, was always keeping an eye out for Grendel hide because he said it was the best for reworking into decor and other things. Seifer had no idea whether that was true, but hey, the guy paid him good gil for it, so he didn't really care why Bem wanted it.
After pocketing his haul—a whole 313 gil—he hung a left and made his way out of town. As soon as the paver stones gave way to dirt, he looked up from his boots and peered up ahead, trying to peek in through the window of the house in the distance. A slouched shadow flitted in and out of view, obscured by the flowers that rested just beyond the window frame. It was impossible to tell who the shadow belonged to, but he had an inkling he knew who it was; he'd never had fantastic vision, but it seemed like the older he got, the less he could see.
When he reached the small house, before he headed inside, he leaned against the outer wall and stared out at the view. The shop rested close to the edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean, and the sounds of the waves could be heard ever-so-slightly from where he stood. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, deciding to smoke just half of it before he headed inside. He'd never quite kicked the habit from his younger years, but he really only smoked when he was feeling stressed or exceptionally bored. There were worse addictions in life.
A few minutes later, he decided he was done and stomped the cigarette out before turning and heading into the shop. The bell above the door jingled when he entered, and the elderly woman standing in front of the counter turned towards the door. When she saw Seifer, her wrinkled face scrunched up in a fond smile.
"Seifer. I was wondering when you were going to stop by." Her voice, though dry and quieter than usual with age, was every bit as warm and inviting as he imagined it was in her youth.
He rarely ever smiled nowadays—or at least, not a full, genuine smile—but the corner of his lips twitched upwards. "Hey, you know me, Amma. I'm never late. I get here right on time."
Amma chuckled and gestured for him to come closer. When he stood just in front of her, she wrapped her arm around his waist in an affectionate hug—that was as high as she could reach. While hugs had always made him feel strangely uncomfortable, he'd never been able to tell the old lady that, so he reached up and patted her back like he usually did. She stepped away and bent over to grab her watering can before continuing down the line of pots, pausing to sprinkle each one. In no particular hurry, Seifer trailed after her, inspecting a couple of the flowers every so often.
A few minutes of amiable silence passed before Amma glanced over her shoulder at Seifer. "So, how's today been?"
He shrugged one shoulder, fingering the delicate petals of an orchid. "Fine. Same old."
She straightened and looked back at him with narrowed eyes. "Are you really fine, or do you mean the opposite?"
With a quirk of his eyebrow, he glanced up from the flower and met her gaze. "No change is good, or so people have told me."
She rolled her eyes and started watering again as she retorted, "Yeah, but you and I both know there's no way you really believe that."
Seifer chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned against a wooden trellis. "Fair enough." He watched her work for a minute or so as the mid-afternoon sun filtered in through the window, warming his face. "I brought you those Grendel teeth you wanted, though I still don't know why the hell you had me pullin' monster teeth."
From across the shop, she called out, "I've told you a bunch of times, already. They make good additives for the plants once I've ground them up." Then, sounding rather irritated, she added, "And come over here, you know I can't shout."
Again, he chuckled, before pushing off of the trellis and joining Amma on the other side of the room. The amount of sass this woman held in her aged bones reminded him of the way Matron had chastised him as a kid. Granted, their personalities weren't alike in the slightest, but when Amma's voice took on that maternal, commanding tone, Matron's face always popped up in his head.
And with it came a fresh wave of guilt and regret, even ten years later.
Shortly after, Amma finished up her watering and returned to the counter. After stashing the canister out of sight, she held her hand out to Seifer. He shrugged his bag off and dug around in it for the little tin he'd placed the Grendel teeth in, and once he found it, he placed it in her outstretched palm.
She moved towards the register, like she did every time he fulfilled a request from her, and like every other time, he held up his hand. "I'm not takin' your money."
An exasperated sigh left her. "Well, I gotta pay you somehow. I don't take charity from people, even strapping young men like yourself."
"Yeah, well, it ain't charity," he said in defense, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
"Taking things for free is charity." She glared at him, before her eyes widened. "Oh! I've got just the thing! Stay here," she instructed, before walking through the archway behind her and out of view.
She returned momentarily with her fingers curled around something, and when she opened them over the counter, a key was now lying on the tiles. Confused, Seifer's gaze flitted from the key to Amma, and back. "What the hell am I supposed to do with that, melt it down for gil?"
"No, you idiot. It's the key to the shop."
"Okay," he drawled out. "What the hell am I supposed to do with a key to your shop? Let myself in during the night hours, like some creep?"
Amma rolled her eyes. "For a former SeeD, you sure aren't the brightest, are you?"
Seifer's mouth dropped open. As far as he knew, Amma didn't know anything about his past—none of the people in Winhill did. He'd never mentioned Garden, or SeeD, or his role in the war, and she'd never asked about where he'd lived before arriving in town. There hadn't seemed to ever be a reason to share, so he'd never brought it up. He knew how that usually went.
After working his jaw a couple of times, he croaked out, "You knew?"
"I've known who you were the moment you walked into the shop that first day," she admitted with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "Who cares?"
Trying to recover, he sputtered, "Well, first, I never actually made SeeD, so that's not really right, but second, why didn't you ever say anything? How can you say people don't care, when people always fuckin' care?"
Her eyes narrowed. "I might be your friend, but I don't appreciate your language sometimes, Seifer. Anyway, I don't care because that was a decade ago. I'm old, and don't have the time or the heart to hold grudges. Also, you're changing the subject. Are you gonna let me finish or not?"
Still taken aback, he gestured for her to continue. She pushed the key across the counter, closer to him. "Technically, this isn't really payment. I need another favor from you. I don't know if you pay enough attention to notice this, but at the start of every summer, I go visit my daughter in Esthar and help her out with her shop there. Hyne knows she needs it, because growing flowers in that wasteland is nigh impossible. She lost one of her biggest vendors recently, so I'm taking over for awhile and don't know when I'll be back."
She paused, and Seifer took the cue to nod, so she'd know he was still listening. After mirroring the gesture, she continued. "Until I return, I'd like you to watch the shop."
"Yeah, I'm missing how this is supposed to be payment."
Amma held up her hand. "You get to keep any of the proceeds."
Seifer raised his eyebrows. Amma's shop was the only flower shop in town, and even though there weren't that many people in Winhill, having the monopoly over the market didn't exactly hurt her profit. While the relatively new mayor of town didn't necessarily slight him in wages, he never said no to more gil. Still, it felt wrong taking the old lady's hard-earned funds.
"I don't know the first thing about keeping flowers alive," he said, in an attempt to dissuade her.
She rolled her eyes—why was it that he seemed to elicit that response from so many people?—and shook her head at him. "That's a blatant lie. I've groomed you to be the perfect gardener since the first year you started helping me out. You know what's good for which plant, you know how often to water them, and I saw you testing the orchids earlier to see whether they were healthy or not. I might call you an idiot all the time, but I know you aren't one."
It was stupid, but her small admittance of recognizing whatever little worth he still had caused warmth to blossom in his chest. People rarely looked hard enough to see the tiny—in his opinion, miniscule—flicker of its existence, but the rare occasions when they did always took him off-guard. Uncharacteristically flustered, he shoved his hand through his hair as he mumbled, "Yeah, sure, I'll watch it for you."
Looking pleased, like she already knew he was going to agree, Amma gave him a firm nod. "Good. I leave in the morning, so make sure you're here sometime around sunrise," she said as she wandered back into the interior room.
"Sunrise?" Seifer exclaimed, leaning over to peer into the room. "Amma, get back here! You never said anything about sunrise! You know I have to patrol first thing in the mornings!"
"I already worked it out with the mayor," she explained, walking back into the room with an armful of empty, stacked pots. "Besides, how much harm can a caterchipillar do, anyway?"
You'd be surprised, he thought as he swiped the key from the counter. "You're already makin' me regret this," he said, pointing the tip of the key at her.
Before she had a chance to respond, he turned and made his way towards the door, and it wasn't until he was stepping over the threshold that Amma called out, "Remember, Seifer! Sunrise!"
"Yeah, yeah!" he shouted back, just before the door shut. He paused on the dirt path for a second before facing town, absentmindedly twirling the key, lost in thought.
Amma had been right when she'd said he wasn't entirely clueless about taking care of greenery, but it wasn't exactly his forte, either. What if she came back and all of her flowers were dead, and the shop had gone bankrupt? What if people stopped coming to the shop because he was running it? Tourists were bound to recognize him, and if Amma had known who he was all along, he was sure other people in town knew, too. His thoughts threatened to spiral out of control, and he kicked at the dirt in frustration.
"Ah, what the hell," he muttered, trekking back towards the main section of Winhill. He'd already agreed to do it, and he didn't go back on his promises like some fuckin' pussy.
Three days later.
The cash drawer of the register closed with a jingle, and Seifer lifted a hand in farewell to the customers who were walking out of the shop. Three days of handling this little joint and he still felt incredibly awkward yelling out niceties like, "Have a nice day!" or "Thanks for coming in!" so he settled for a slightly less awkward, half-hearted wave instead. Niceties had never sounded normal or genuine coming from him.
It was still far beyond his comprehension as to why Amma had entrusted the shop to him in the first place. He was obviously way out of his element, and he felt like a fraud; he wasn't some normal guy who owned a flower shop and cared about his customers' satisfaction. Far from it. Despite that, he'd promised the old lady that he'd help, so help he did.
With a sigh that sounded more like a mixture of a warbled groan and a grunt, he swiped the watering can from the shelf below the register and moved out from behind the counter. He made his way around the room, absentmindedly watering the flowers and occasionally feeling the dirt in certain pots. He'd never admit it aloud, but it was kind of relaxing being on his own and watching the shop, with responsibilities that called for his attention on a daily basis. It gave him some sense of duty, a reason to move around, to work. Sure, patrolling the perimeter of the city to keep the monsters out was rewarding and kept him in good shape, but after doing it twice a day, every day, for the past nine years, perhaps it had been the perfect time for a change of scenery. It also didn't hurt that Gardening was much like gunblade maintenance in the sense that it kept his mind calm, even though the motions weren't very taxing.
Hyne-forbid anyone who knew him in the past see him like this, though. Ten years may have gone by, but he still had his pride, damn it.
As he was watering the lilies, his gaze drifted up and out the window, landing on the rolling waves of the ocean just beyond the cliffs. Unexpectedly, the sight projected him into the past, back to the first days just after the war, when he'd been recovering from having his mind taken over and scrambled.
He rarely spoke about those days—after all, the people of Winhill pretended not to know who he was, and therefore, had never asked him about the past—but still, they haunted him. It wasn't so much the actual events of the war that bothered him anymore. Of course he still felt extremely guilty for his part, and his mistakes, but there was no changing things or taking them back, so all he could do was live with the consequences.
It was the memories of his recovery that bothered him the most.
The sharp, lancing pains that had assaulted his brain for the first few months, tapering off finally at the six-month mark; the cold, all-encompassing shivers that had wracked his body, like he was a recovering addict; the haunted, sunken look his face had taken on as he fought to find a reason to live, without her, without purpose, with the heavy burden of failure upon his shoulders; the absolute silence in his mind once her voice had finally faded from his thoughts.
He never wanted to feel anything like that again. It was cowardly, and he knew it, but that was why he'd ran, why he'd left everything and everyone behind. It made him a shitty friend, and Hyne be damned if he didn't know that, too. Fujin and Raijin had been there with him through every step of his recovery, every sleepless night, every scream and every moment of panic—even though he'd pushed them away during the war. They'd forgiven him instantly and it was almost like the good ol' days, except for the fact that his brain had been all kinds of fucked up.
He just couldn't stand the way they'd babied him, constantly asking if he was okay or if he needed anything. He hated the look in their eyes every time they saw him; he could see them wondering if he was going to make it, if he'd survive this, and the concern and constant judgment tore him apart. Though he knew it wasn't ever intentional on their part, it still drove him crazy enough to leave only a few months after the end of the war.
Winhill had seemed like a convenient fresh start, a new beginning. When the captain of the fishing boat had explained that their initial route at the beginning of summer included the isolated village, Seifer had thought nothing of it at first. He'd never been to Winhill, and had never known anyone from the tiny town. Somehow, though, over the course of the next week or so, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Eventually, he'd informed the captain that once they docked near the village, he wouldn't be returning to Balamb with the crew.
He didn't even tell Fujin and Raijin that he had no intention of coming back when he'd said goodbye that morning. He suspected they already knew, with the way Raijin had practically crushed his ribs in a hug before he'd walked out the door, and the look that Fujin had given him with her single, all-knowing eye.
Ten years was a long time to go without speaking to two of your closest friends, the only two people in the world who'd really seemed to care about him, and he wondered how they were doing. He knew that, in theory, it was easy enough to pick up the phone. But if he called them, it was almost as if he was regressing somehow, giving in to his weak desire to have someone nearby who understood how he felt, what he'd gone through; every time he went to pull out his phone, something always stilled his hand. His first year in Winhill without them had been hard, having to cope with his relentless thoughts and sleepless nights on his own, but he'd managed to pull through—on his own, somehow. Calling them felt like a betrayal to himself, as stupid as that sounded.
A loud, chirping noise blared into his thoughts, and his right eye twitched at the interruption. A few seconds later, he realized it was his cell phone, and he reached into his front pocket and pulled it out, nearly dropping the watering can in his haste. Clumsily, he set the can down on the shelf and lifted the phone to his ear once he'd answered it, not bothering to check who it was.
"Hey."
"Seifer! I hope you're doing well?"
A decade had done little to affect Cid Kramer's distinctive voice, and it filtered through the earpiece, warm and impassioned. With an inward grimace of recognition, Seifer turned away from the window and leaned back against the shelf. Tucking one of his arms underneath the opposite elbow, he said, "I'm fine. How are you and Matron?"
"We're doing well. The kids keep us busy, you know how it goes."
No, he didn't. He didn't have kids. How the hell was he supposed to know how that went? "Uh, yeah, that's good. Right?"
"Oh, of course! Edea loves having them around. Listen, speaking of which, it's been awhile since we've seen you. I was wondering if you were planning to stop by per usual this year?"
"Per usu—" Something clicked in his head. "Shit, is it already almost July?"
Cid chuckled. "The official first day of summer was just a couple of days ago, son—" Seifer grimaced at the term. "—so yes, it's almost July. I know you normally come around the first week of the month, so we thought we'd just check in with you."
"Yeah, I—shit, I'm sorry. I lost track of time. I'm actually helping out a . . . friend . . . with a favor, right now. Damn it, I don't know if I can make it this year," he mumbled, rubbing his chin absentmindedly; his three-day stubble scratched at his fingers.
Hyne, did that make him feel like shit. It might be stupid, or useless, to think that he could make up for his past mistakes by doing things to offset his guilt now, but that's what he continued to do with Cid and Matron. Every summer, for the past ten years, he returned to the Orphanage for about a week.
He didn't do very much, just menial tasks like weed their garden—guess Amma was more right about his ability to keep plants alive than he'd thought—and patch up the walls and walkways, if needed. He never really helped out with the kids, mostly because they were all terrified of him, and sometimes, he wondered if he wasn't equally as terrified of them. Again, it was stupid, but being there, helping them, somehow made him feel like he wasn't a complete waste of space. He knew that even if he continued to help them over the remainder of his life, he would never stop feeling guilty.
That was just a fact, a never-ending penance he would pay until his last breath.
Cid spoke again, sounded disappointed this time around. "Oh, I see. I know Edea was really looking forward to seeing you."
Hyne-damn it. "I know . . . When I said I'd help out over here, I didn't even think about it screwing with my usual schedule," he replied, running his hand through his hair.
"No, it's fine! I'm glad that you've made friends there. It seems like you've really made it a home. I'm happy about that, Seifer. We worry about you, and it's a relief to hear that."
What am I, twelve again? "Yeah, thanks. Listen, maybe I can still make it out there for a few days."
"If it will disturb your responsibilities there, we understand, son. There's always next year."
That prompted a mental image of Cid, puttering around the Orphanage and trying to climb ladders to hammer stuff himself, perched precariously on a rickety rung before slipping off and falling to the ground, and the visual made Seifer cringe—this time, outwardly.
Vigorously, he shook his head. "No, look, it's fine. I'll work it out. I'll head out in a few days, and stick around for the weekend or something. I'm not gonna bail out on you guys."
To his surprise, Cid didn't protest. Instead, he said, "That sounds wonderful, I'll be sure to let her know." Quietly, before hanging up, he added, "Thank you, Seifer. It will mean a lot to her. Be safe getting here!"
Seifer let his arm drop, and his hand fell back against his thigh with a slight thump. He stared around at the shop, surrounded by the ambrosial scent of the flowers, and their vivid, alluring colors. Running his tongue along the back of his teeth, he tried to form a plan, but came up short. He'd promised Amma to watch the shop for as long as she needed him there, which, as she'd specified, she wasn't sure on exactly how long that would be. He couldn't just up and leave the shop unattended. Then again, he would only be gone for a few days, as opposed to his usual week, so maybe it wouldn't be so bad . . .
"What the hell am I supposed to do?" he questioned aloud, tossing his head back in frustration. It banged against the glass with a thud, and he immediately shot forward, cradling the crown of his skull.
"Hyne-damn it!"
A little over a week later.
The clash of the waves as they broke against the cliff face enveloped Seifer as he approached the Cape of Good Hope, nestled in the cabin of his little dinghy. Well, maybe "dinghy" wasn't quite the right word. His boat, a gift from the captain of his former fishing crew, did have a motor and a semi-open cabin that provided shelter from the sun, which came in handy. It seemed like the sun's rays always burned brighter and fiercer on the open sea than it did on land. Despite the added shelter, the boat was no bigger than his kitchen back home; the "deck" was only slightly larger than the size of the cabin.
Even though Seifer had tried to refuse the gift—he didn't have the most positive outlook on charity—the captain had been adamant. In Seifer's opinion, he hadn't done much during his employment to deserve such generosity, but for whatever reason, the captain had returned a couple of years later and insisted on leaving his spare boat for Seifer. Without giving him a chance to protest, the captain had delivered his produce and set off for Balamb once more, tipping his hat in farewell from the deck. As it turned out, the gift did end up coming in handy for Seifer's annual trips to the orphanage. Perhaps it had even been part of the reason he'd started going—a push in the right direction, so to speak.
When he was a few yards out from the shore, he headed out of the cabin to prepare to land. Gradually, he slowed the boat down until it was almost crawling forward, crouching to brace himself as he concentrated on feeling the bottom. When he felt the slightest nudge, he shut off the motor and subsequently hopped overboard, splashing into waist-deep water. With a plethora of grunts that proved he was most definitely not eighteen anymore, he pulled the boat farther inshore until the water was just above his knees. Quickly, with familiar motions, he turned the boat around so that the bow was facing open sea, and tossed the anchor into deeper depths. After grabbing his bag out of the cabin, he trekked up the hill towards the orphanage.
The closer he got to the front door, the more he felt that familiar sense of calm settle over him. He'd never really understood why or how it worked, but whenever he was here, it was as if all of his prior tension, and all the ghosts of the past disappeared—except the one that happened to live here, of course.
It was why he always felt so torn coming back.
Out of the entire year, it was the only week he managed to get sound sleep and feel truly rested. But at the same time, it left him with an underlying current of discomfort, likely due to the mixture of his lingering guilt and his pathetic attempts at impossible redemption. That, and even though he knew Matron was now the Matron of old—the one who'd bandaged his knee when he'd fallen, or baked him cookies because he'd complained about things never going his way—he still had a hard time looking directly into her eyes. All he saw was the molten, flickering gold of the past.
Up ahead, the glistening stone of the marble columns awaited him. As the sun hit them, they gleamed in a way they hadn't since he was a child, and he was filled with a rare sense of pride. He and Cid had repaired those columns themselves, and he had been the one to prune and nurture the gardens before the entrance back to their former glory. It was heartwarming to see the orphanage in such amazing condition, and a rare smile teased at the corners of his lips.
As he was staring up at the facade, the front door opened and Cid stepped outside to greet him with arms wide open. "Seifer! We're so happy you made it here all right!"
He shifted his bag on his shoulder as his smile morphed into a tight, less sincere version. It wasn't that he disliked Cid, but the older gentleman's enthusiasm and natural mirth often set him on edge. That, and his never-ending optimism. He reminded him of someone else in that manner, but he couldn't quite pin his finger on who.
Once his pseudo-father stood just before him, he said, "Hey, Cid."
"Come in, come in. We're already getting dinner ready and the kids are out on the beach right now, so the house is pretty quiet. I know how you prefer that."
Didn't that just make him sound like the world's largest asshole? Who hated kids? Instead of voicing his thoughts, Seifer shrugged and replied, "I mean, it's an orphanage."
Cid chuckled as he led the way into the main room. "I suppose that's true," he noted, continuing on towards the kitchen.
Seifer nodded, unsure of what else to say, and started to make his way up the stairs to the recently added second floor. He and Cid had built the additional floor three summers ago to make more room for the children downstairs. Matron had requested a couple of spare bedrooms and a bathroom be added for when guests came to visit, like Seifer or someone else in the original gang. He didn't speak to any of them—and hadn't since that final day during the war—but he was sure they visited when he wasn't around.
When he was mid-step, Cid hurried back into the main room and called out, "Seifer, wait!"
He froze, swaying ever-so-slightly as he fought to keep his balance. After setting his foot back down, he glanced over his shoulder at Cid, his brows furrowed slightly in annoyance. "Yeah?"
"Edea actually set up a more permanent space for you, since you come every summer. No sense in having you use that tiny old room," he explained with a chuckle that now sounded slightly nervous, if Seifer didn't know any better.
Considering he and Cid had built that room together, he knew that Cid knew that room was in no way "tiny". Suspicious, he trekked back down the few stairs he'd already climbed and hopped off the last step, landing back on the stones with a slight thud. "Okay," he drawled. "What about the other room?"
"It's being used for storage. Super disorganized right now. Follow me," Cid instructed, heading out the back door that led to the patio.
What the hell is the old man up to?
They traipsed down the path that wound through the garden, and just before they hit the flower field, Cid hung a left and led Seifer to the shed that stood on the edge of the property.
The fuckin' tool shed? Seriously? he thought with a sneer.
When they reached the door, Cid about-faced and gestured to the shed with an extremely misplaced look of pride—at least, it was misplaced in Seifer's opinion.
"Tada!" Cid announced.
He must've seen the look on Seifer's face, because when Seifer opened his mouth to speak, Cid hurriedly held up his hands and added, "I know what you're thinking: 'This is the tool shed. Why would they put me out here?' But . . . when Edea heard that you were still planning on coming out this year, she thought it would be the perfect time to renovate this for you, so I've been working on it all last week."
Instead of responding, Seifer squinted up at the shed, inspecting its appearance. It did look significantly cleaner than the last time he'd been here. The stucco had been cleaned off, the windows looked clearer than he'd ever seen them, and they'd replaced the door with something a bit heavier and more secure than the rickety old wood one that had been there before. Figuring the least he could do was give them the benefit of the doubt, he shrugged in acceptance.
Cid took it as a positive sign, and unlocked the door before heading inside. Seifer ambled after him, and once he stepped inside, he nearly dropped his bag in shock.
The interior of the shed looked vastly different than he remembered. There were no longer any cobwebs, or half-broken shelves that held various tools he often used in the garden. Instead, the floors had been refinished and on the opposite side of the shed, a small but still comfortable-sized bed rested against the wall. Next to it stood a nightstand, and in the far corner, a section of the shed had been separated to create a bathroom with a standing shower.
Speechless, Seifer's gaze flitted around the room, unable to stay in one place for long. Eventually, when he still hadn't commented on anything, Cid piped up. "Do you like it?"
He started and set his bag down on the cozy-looking loveseat that was just to his left. "Yeah, it's . . . you did this yourself in just one week?"
The older man's chest puffed out with pride as he said, "I did! I mean, Edea helped with some of the design choices, of course. I know nothing about matching color palettes."
Seifer chuckled softly as he walked farther into the room, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Where'd you end up putting all of the tools?"
"Ah! This was also Edea's idea. I don't know what I'd do without her," Cid said with a fond expression. He made his way over to the wall adjacent to the bathroom and slid open a pocket door that Seifer hadn't even noticed was there. "There wasn't really anywhere else we could put them, so we had to find a solution to keep them in here somehow. So she designed this door that slides into the other half of the wall, and the tools are all hung up in here!"
Impressed, Seifer joined Cid in front of the "tool closet". "That is something else."
Cid nodded, his eyes trained on the tools hanging up in neat rows on the wall. "Well, anyway, we didn't add a kitchen because she still wanted you to join us for meals and whatnot. But she figured a private space of your own would be nice."
His throat swelled with emotion and he ran his hand through his hair, trying to find the appropriate words to say. He'd never really had a space of his own, aside from the miniscule dorm room at Garden, and this had been built especially for him. Knowing someone had put that much thought and care into his well-being made him uncharacteristically emotional, and knowing that it had been Cid and Matron of all people, made his guilt grow exponentially.
As if he understood what Seifer was struggling with, Cid clapped him on the shoulder and headed for the door. "Dinner's at the usual time, so it's up to you what you do until then! We uh—there's a guest staying with us, which is why you couldn't stay in your usual room. If you see her around, just . . . I just wanted you to know she's here."
"Am I not allowed to talk to her?" Seifer questioned, crossing his arms in defense.
"No, no, of course you can—if you want to, that is."
"And why wouldn't I want to?"
Cid waved his hand in the air as he crossed over the threshold. "These things are . . . complicated. I'll leave it up to you, either way," he replied, before waving and shutting the door behind him.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Seifer asked the empty room, his confusion surmounting enough to be spoken aloud.
He stood there for a few minutes, stewing and gazing around the room. Eventually, all the fight seeped out of him and he crossed the shed to rummage through his bag for a change of clothes. He'd switched outfits at least once on his way here from Winhill, but if he was going to be meeting strangers and, inevitably, be surrounded by children, he might as well smell less . . . well, rank.
Hell, they were already afraid of him as it was. It might be a good idea not to make it worse.
Change of clothes in hand, he headed for the meager bathroom. As he was about to pass through the doorway, the wall of tools caught his eye and he paused, looking over at the now-organized assortment. The muscle in his cheek twitched as he contemplated whether to shower now, or try and get some work done around the orphanage, and eventually, logic won out. When he and Cid had passed by the garden on the way to the shed, it had looked a little worse for wear; Cid had likely spent more time and attention on remodeling the shed than ensuring his tomatoes were in top shape. There was no sense in showering and changing into fresh clothes now, if the garden needed tending to.
Plus, he did owe Cid and Matron for fixing up the shed for him.
Turning around, he headed back for the door and deposited his clothes on top of his bag. After stripping out of his t-shirt, leaving him in just a white wifebeater, he headed back out into the blinding sunlight.
Two hours later.
Hyne, when was the last time Cid touched these damn things?
Seifer fingered the brittle leaves of the tomato plant, grimacing in disappointment and disgust when one of them broke into little pieces and floated down to the dirt. All his hard work, gone. With a sigh, he grabbed the watering can from the ground where he'd set it beside him, and started on the long journey to breathing life into the plants again. Without constant vigilance, it was easy for them to quickly wither in the strong, relentless summer heat.
After resetting the stakes that kept the plants upright, he continued along the row, scoffing in disbelief every so often when he came across another one that was near death. When he was at the second to last one—the one that needed the most attention—he heard peals of laughter drifting up from the beach.
Matron must've sent the children down to play in the water today, due to the nice weather, and he glanced up from his work, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. As much as kids irritated him, it would take one heartless asshole to not smile at the sound of the children's laughter.
As he'd suspected, when his gaze flitted over to the orphanage, Matron was standing on the back patio with a tray in her hand. She was too far away for him to see what the tray held, but when he squinted, he thought it might be . . . lemonade? The thought of ice-cold lemonade had his throat drying up instantly, and he swallowed roughly, trying to assuage his sudden thirst.
When she glanced in his direction, he lifted his hand in a wave. It looked like she nodded in response, though it was difficult for him to tell. When his arm was halfway back down to his side, a slim, short figure stepped out from the orphanage and came up to stand beside Matron. From the distance he was at, he couldn't quite see their face, but something about them looked familiar.
Oh, must be their 'guest', Seifer noted to himself. Shrugging in indifference, he bent down again and got back to work on the tomato plant he'd been focusing on before.
Just short of ten minutes later, he was about to finish working on the final plant when a rustling of leaves from behind him caught his attention. Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing in suspicion. When nothing popped out, he turned back to the plant. He'd just driven the trowel into the dirt at the base of the stalk, when he heard the rustling again.
This time, when he turned around, he stayed put, staring intently at the still-broken column behind him. He didn't have to wait long, because a few seconds later, a face slid out from behind the pillar. Still, they were slightly too far away for him to see their face clearly enough, but he thought he might've recognized them. A girl? With brown hair?
They dove back behind the safety of the pillar with a squeak—Definitely a girl—and Seifer scoffed in amusement to himself before turning back to the plant.
Maybe it was an older kid that Cid and Matron had brought in recently—she'd looked small enough to be in her early teens, maybe. Either way, if she wanted to spy on him in hiding, he didn't particularly care. He'd had his fair share of gawkers, and though he didn't thrive on the attention like he had in his youth, he didn't care enough to chase them off, either. He knew some of the crazy stories the kids at the orphanage told each other about him; it had to have been hard not to try and fill in the blanks with their imagination. None of them had ever spoken directly to him, but they could always see him on the verge of the property.
Monster hunter, Galbadian murderer—that one hit a little too close to home—and some sort of monster-human hybrid. Some days, he wondered if he had been a monster. After all, how could he have done the things he'd done and still be considered human? He supposed it was the remorse, and intense regret, that made him human.
His morbid train of thought quickly sent him spiraling downwards into pitiful, self-hatred, and he violently jabbed the tip of the trowel into the dirt before running both his hands through his hair. When his fingertips reached the ends, they tightened, pulling the strands from his scalp almost painfully. He let out a frustrated grunt before rising to his feet and propping his hands up on his hips, gritting his teeth together as he stared off into the distance.
Hyne-damn it, I need a drink.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he pushed it out, disgusted with himself. He'd put that struggle of his past long behind him, and he refused to let himself sink so low as to go back at the first sign of stress, like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.
That was why the first year in Winhill had been so bad. The silence of his mind had been both a relief, and a curse. It drove him mad, and during the night hours when he tried to sleep, the whispers of her voice ghosted back to him like a long-lost love. He'd wanted to reach out and grasp the tendrils of her touch, but at the same time, be rid of her completely. In an attempt to drive her out for good, he'd gone on weekly benders, spending all of what little money he'd accumulated as a cadet and during the war. Over the course of a year, his addiction had spiraled out of control.
One night, when he'd been wandering the town, belligerently drunk, he'd stumbled in front of Amma's shop and passed out cold. She'd opened the shop door on him the next morning. Being the type of woman she was, she didn't let him make excuses for his problem. To help him shake the habit, she'd started giving him a different task every day, and eventually set him up for the patrol job.
She'd helped him out more than he'd deserved. He was damn sick of owing so many people for so many things.
Hitting a low he hadn't reached in years, he let out a sudden shout of anger and stomped back to his shed, final tomato plant forgotten. He threw open his door and it banged against the wall with a heavy thud; a spare trowel fell from the peg on the wall and clattered onto the wooden floor.
Collapsing onto the couch, absolutely drained of energy, he dropped his head into his hands with a deep, world-weary sigh.
Minutes ticked by, possibly hours, and by the time he lifted his head, Seifer wasn't entirely sure how much time had passed. Now, it was just past sunset, and the sky out his window was tinged with lavender and burnt orange. Just above the horizon, a slight haze of navy was creeping up; night threatened to take over.
Exhausted, and more than just physically, he rose from the couch and grabbed the change of clothes he'd planned on using earlier. He stumbled to the bathroom and slowly shut the door behind him, before reaching over to turn on the shower. After placing his clean clothes out of the water's spray, he stripped and threw his old sweaty clothes into the corner of the room. He stepped into the stream of surprisingly warm water and just stood there, his face pointed upwards towards the faucet.
Instead of his mind racing as per usual, this time, he simply felt . . . numb. The water washed over him, but he didn't feel the stress, tension, or regret leave him. They were too far in him; their claws had dug in too deep and refused to let him be free.
Again, he wasn't sure how long he stood there. When the water started to run cold, he shut it off and realized he'd forgotten to grab a towel. With a sigh, he grabbed his clean shirt instead and ruffled the wet strands of his hair, trying to pull the moisture out as best he could. Afterwards, he ran the damp cotton over his body and pulled on his underwear and pants.
He returned to the main room and draped his shirt over the end of the bed to dry. There was one other clean shirt in his bag, and he pulled it over his head, figuring he could wear the other one tomorrow. There was no way he was wearing the dirty one again before washing it, though. It was well past its use.
Now clad in clean clothing, he fell onto the bed, causing the blanket to puff out underneath him. With a deep breath, he propped his head up on his arms and stared up at the ceiling, noting one spot in the eaves that Cid had missed while painting. Somehow, that little moment of clarity in the fog of his past brought him back to the present, and he shook his head at his own moroseness. Old age was making him way too reflective.
His eyes slid shut, and he focused on evening out his breathing. It had been a long day of traveling, and then he'd thrown physical labor on top of that, so perhaps his body would be worn out enough to let him sleep for at least a few peaceful, uninterrupted hours.
Just a . . . little bit . . .
Her voice swirled through his dreams, transforming them into nightmares—the same nightmares he'd spent the past ten years trying to escape. When her voice grew more insistent like it always did, and the puckered scars in his shoulder from her elongated claws started to burn, he bolted upright in bed, ripped from his sleep. His chest heaved, and every inch of his skin was slick with sweat.
Pulling his knees up to his chest, he rested his elbows on them and ran his fingers through his damp hair—though whether it was from sweat or his earlier shower, he wasn't quite sure.
After his breathing slowed to an even, steady pace, he looked up, staring off into space at nothing in particular. Absentmindedly, he scratched at the stubble along his jawline, and the scritch-scritch of it filled the silence. When the sound threatened to drive him insane, he darted off the bed and proceeded to pace around the room. Every time he woke from a nightmare, which was every night, he was always left feeling extremely restless. Tonight was no different.
A few minutes passed, filled with heavy pacing, and finally, frustrated, he grabbed his leather jacket from his bag and scurried out of the shed. The coat was perhaps a bit too thick and long in the back for the weather, but it was the only one he'd brought. The length reminded him of his old trenchcoat, and that, strangely enough, comforted him.
He stalked out into the meadow as he shrugged it on and shoved his hands into the low pockets. Why he chose the meadow as a destination, he wasn't quite sure. Maybe because he knew it went on for miles, and he wouldn't feel claustrophobic like he had in the tiny five-by-five room he was staying in. Or, maybe because he assumed no one else would wander out this far at whatever Hyne-forsaken hour it had to have been.
Mid-stride, he glanced upwards and the sight caught his attention enough to make him pause. The moon was at its apex in the sky, surrounded by the never-ending smattering of stars. For whatever reason, the reminder that he was someone unimportant, miniscule in the grand scheme of things, brought him back down from his anxiety-ridden high. He threw his head back, taking in the entire view that stretched from one end of his vision to the other.
Lost in the universe, his eyes slid shut as he felt the tension seep out of him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He stood there in the middle of the meadow, unmoving and enjoying the cool night breeze as it caressed his face.
Out of nowhere, something smacked right into his back and he pitched forward, swearing under his breath in surprise. When he caught his balance, he spun around in annoyance. Standing right in front of him was the shortest girl he'd ever seen, except for one he'd barely known years ago. She'd stumbled back after running into him, and had spilled what smelled like brandy all over herself.
Okay, not a girl. Old enough to drink a whole fuckin' bottle of brandy, so I'm gonna assume woman. Wait . . .
Her brunette locks caught the moonlight, and he realized that her hairstyle looked somewhat familiar, though there was something just slightly different about it. Longer, he decided. A light went off in his head, and he realized she was the person he'd caught spying on him earlier. There was something about her that seemed even more familiar, aside from her hair, but the memory and recognition hovered on the fringes of his mind, and he couldn't quite pull it to the front.
Then she straightened, and he realized that he was staring straight into the vivid green eyes of the Messenger Girl from Squad A. One of the ghosts from his past. One of the reasons he would forever be paying his penance.
Selphie Tilmitt.
