Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. I do not profit from this writing.

Prompt 006

Precious

Kefka felt, undeniably, that his youth had come and gone. Literally. He wasn't even in his twentieth winter yet and his bones ached when he woke in the morning, while his first few steps would bring cracking and popping to things he didn't even know he had. The infusions had been a success in every sense of the word – or so they felt. Kefka couldn't help but feel like something had been overlooked, something very important, and something that he would need to know.

There was a swift rap at his door, and he ungracefully leapt amid a swirl of blankets and pillows that he called his bed. His room alternated between terribly hot and annoyingly cold, and so his nights were filled with a small extension of dreaming scattering the moments it took to kick the blankets off, and then go fetch them later when he worried he'd die of frostbite. Really, for as "important" as they made him out to be, he felt that this wasn't the best they could do with accommodations.

Of course, that was the new him talking. Ten years ago, a cage with rat droppings would have been better than that... place. He'd taken in the infusions within the full scope of their methods, using every instance as an opportunity to wipe his memory of the day before, and the day before, and the day before. Kefka could only move forward, and he did so with great effort, although to those around him it seemed effortless. If they only knew.

There was another knock, this time followed by a swift boot at the baseboard of the door, where the designers had been smart enough to put a thin metal plate, knowing people in the palace had a tendency to... kick. "On your feet, Palazzo!" came the voice from the other side. It was tenor and tired, but traced with irritation that it had the job of seeking out Kefka. "You're needed in the main hall. The emperor has something... Oh, just come and see, will you? The bloody sun isn't even up yet, and I didn't memorize my speech!"

He finally opened the door to find a young member bearing the Elite sigil on his armor. He was in full battle dress, and Kefka could see spots where the tarnish of blood had been wiped away; the armor, though, without polish, did not shine, and that was how one knew how messy a skirmish had become. This man was more shiny than dull, and Kefka pursed his lips.

"Have you just arrived back from the raid?" Kefka asked, his sapphire blue eyes narrowed in mixed emotion. If they'd just gotten back, why would Gestahl be sending for him? Unless he was in trouble somehow, which he decided was not out of the realm of possibility. But it would only serve them right; they had to stop trying to stick him in the same room with that angry little man they called a wizard to test his abilities thus far. The last time he'd scorched the man's beard off and slapped him on the rear with the broad side of his sword. He'd never heard so much indignant hollering in all of his life before that moment, especially not from a man over the age of forty. Well, served him right, too.

The Elite shifted impatiently. He was tired, that much could be told from the faint circles under his eyes, but more importantly, the man was sick of standing around in full armor when the part of the castle he was in was so warm. A bead of sweat worked its way firmly down his brow, and he made an angry noise. "Could you for once not ask a hundred questions and just come with me? I'm about to burst into flames," he said.

"Whining doesn't become you," Kefka responded bitterly. "I'll be out in a moment." He shut the door abruptly in the Elite's face, a roll of his eyes so heavy that it actually gave him a flicker of pain. The Elite were painted to be the Empire's best and most able, and yet Kefka had noticed that they relied heavily on brute force, which was effective to be sure – but why worry about that when they had begun to infuse people? Kefka certainly didn't think himself to be the only person who'd undergone it, and he had no reason to. It wasn't like he was some sick experiment by the Empire. They were just trying to get the formula right. And anyways, they'd plucked him out of that rathole home he'd been in, and that was enough. He refused to allow that place any more thought for the moment, and pulled on a shirt before splashing his face with some water from the washbasin.

He ran his damp fingers through his hair, trying to tame down some of the unruly nature. It was halfway down his neck, now, and growing quickly. It was the first time in his life he'd been allowed to have it long, and he intended to abuse that to its full potential if he could help it. As it stood, he looked fairly normal – and in fact, rather charming, if he overlooked the bruises and scrapes that he would garner over the weeks. They would heal; they always did. He didn't enjoy how scrawny he was, though, but that had been accepted long ago. His build was wiry (lean, on a good day), but with it came a certain flexibility and grace that the bulkier soldiers did not possess. He was the only one in the Emporer's charge who retained the ability to do a back-flip, it seemed. A useless, if not otherwise amusing, talent.

"COME ON PALAZZO I'M SERIOUS I'M REALLY GETTING TIRED OF WAITING WHY IS THIS PART OF THE CASTLE SO HOT – oh, there you are." The noise muffled behind the door grew tremendously in volume as Kefka opened it again, his features washed with serenity as the younger Elite bellowed at the wood. He stopped just as he realized he had Kefka's audience again, and straightened up. "Good. Let's go. He hates to be kept waiting," the Elite muttered, this time in an almost sing-song tone as though he'd been told the very same dozens of times. In truth, he probably had – Elite soldiers were generally much older, Kefka observed, so this one must have had some skill to have been chosen thus far.

When they got into the main hall, Kefka was utterly shocked at all of the people who were present. Every one of the Elite, of which there were fifty, was now present and accounted for. They stood on either side of the walkway, arranged in rows of five by five. Kefka became incredibly unsure of what was going on, or why it was necessary to call such an elaborate meeting. One of the Elite, a General, defected from his formation to step in front of the youth. Kefka noticed his armor was almost gray it was so dull, and inwardly flinched a little. There were spots where he had not even bothered to wipe the blood away at all.

"This way, Palazzo," the man said, his voice toneless as he turned. Kefka had to avoid the dress cape on the back of the armor, and resisted the urge to step on it as he followed. They all spoke to him like he were some sort of task, and it was beginning to grate on him. He continued to tail the General up the short burst of steps that lead to a large set of wooden doors, on the other side of which the General had candidly said, "You're really not going to believe this," before pushing them open and closing them swiftly behind him.

The Emperor stood, his arms folded in that way they always were. Age had begun to seep into Gestahl's features too, and Kefka realized that this was an unavoidable thing. Inwardly, some part of him was determined to live forever, but he couldn't tell if that was the magic talking or if he'd finally snapped. And then the Emperor was talking, and he had to blink to put himself back into the reality at hand.

"...as a complete success. More than I ever dreamed it could be. Do you have any idea... any idea what this means for us? For the Empire?" Gestahl was saying. He ran his hands through his long salt-and-pepper hair, though it was more pepper than salt for the time being. He looked beside himself with some emotion – Gestahl called it "delight", but Kefka knew that look on a man's face and he called it greed.

"Would you like to see?" Gestahl asked him, his voice eager like a child seeking approval. He was ready to show off the spoils of war, it seemed – despite the fact that the Elite had done all of the spoiling, it seemed Gestahl took credit for the final result.

"Obviously," Kefka said, holding his hands up in an 'on with it' motion.

Gestahl looked at Kefka for a long moment, unable to decide whether to sail into a lecture about his attitude or just move on with the show, but finally he decided that a lecture wouldn't do anyone any good. He held up his finger and then dashed to a door on the other side of the room. "Give her to me!" he hissed. There was a small argument to be had between he and one of the female staff members in his personal team before finally he emerged with...

A child.

A child he was heading straight at Kefka with.

"She's one of them!" he squealed, not unlike a girl.

A child. "She's no more than one or two winter's past, Gestahl," Kefka pointed out.

"They begged for mercy," he informed Kefka.

The child looked petrified.

"Do you think you should really say that in front of her?" Kefka ventured. This was all very shaky ground for him. He watched as the child's eyes went left, then right, then centered on him. He stared back, his own eyes narrowing out of habit. Why was she looking at him like that? "What is she?"

"She's a Halfling!" Gestahl exclaimed, his voice reaching a girlishly high octave. "Think, Kefka. Think of the uses! Think of what we could learn from her! I took her myself," he sang, his voice proud.

"You took her?" Kefka said doubtfully.

The child stared at him. She still looked petrified.

"Her mother was in the throes of 'Oh please, no!' And you said I never lifted a hand," he said, a rude laugh ripping through the room. Gestahl was beside himself with victory.

"You took her from her mother?" Kefka barked. That struck a nerve with him, to say the least. Why would Gestahl tell him these things, knowing Kefka had such a deep resentment towards breaking the bond of trust a child had? It was enough to drive him mad, and he slapped himself in the face, rubbing his hands over his closed eyes to try and reason with himself.

"Oh, stuff it," the Emperor said. "Always trying to steal the wind out of my sails. If you're so concerned for her, then you can be charged with caring for her."

The child was suddenly thrust at Kefka.

"What? That's ridiculous," he snarled. He held his hands up to ward them both away. "You're going to use her for research, why should I even -"

The child was trying to weigh out her options. She went between the dark-haired man in itchy clothing who shook her and yelled at her to the light-haired one who seemed marginally less intense. She looked back and forth.

"Then I don't want to hear any protests about how I handle my property!" Gestahl shot back.

The child reached for the blonde.

Both men stopped arguing.

"Absolutely not," Kefka sputtered.

Gestahl practically threw her to him, and Kefka had no choice but to catch her. He turned his body away so that she wouldn't be so vulnerable to Gestahl. The motion was instinctive; Kefka fully supported the idea of progress, but not from a child who knew no better and certainly not from one whose mother had just been slaughtered.

"It seems I have underestimated you, Kefka," Gestahl said gleefully. "Now I have one less thing to attend to."

"Wait! You know as well as I do that I can't take care of a child!" he shouted. Gestahl was already walking away, and so he hurried after him, the girl gathered in his arms. Gestahl waved him off without looking back, something about 'responsibility' and 'honor' and 'building character'. Kefka growled to himself. If he never heard another remark about what would build his character, it would be too soon.

The child remained stoic for the entire walk to find one of the women in the castle who had children. He was lead to a nursery, where he was incredibly uneasy – he felt he was far, far too much of a cracked egg to even be in there, but it was necessary for the time. He set her down on a soft mat, where she stopped being stoic and promptly began to scream bloody murder.

A string of words he wasn't proud of left his mouth as he slapped his hands to his temples. This was why Gestahl had passed her off. It had nothing to do with her being a Halfling. It had everything to do with her being a child. He began digging through supplies in the room, running them in front of her to see if they'd placate her caterwauling. She wasn't hungry, she wasn't thirsty, she didn't need to be changed, she didn't want to lay down. He snatched desperately at a doll someone had left in the toy chest; it was like a court jester, all white with a colourful garment and a silly hat. He held it up to her, and for a moment her eyes were frozen wide with fear. She reached out, took the doll, and threw it as far as she could, then continued to scream.

"I don't know what you want!" he shouted.

"Have you tried picking her up?"

Kefka whipped around, hands still motioning at the child to calm her down. In the doorway was an older woman who tended to many of the children in the palace. She nodded to him. "I just put her down!" he practically screamed. He had to – the child had not stopped.

"Just try," she assured him.

He tried. She stopped.

"Oh, I think she likes you," the woman said, a twinkle in her eye.

He looked down at her, wondering how he'd gotten stuck with a child when still felt like one himself. "Does she?" he asked stupidly. "How do you know?"

The woman approached him, and held her hands out. "Let me hold her?" she asked.

Kefka stared at her for a second, and then held the girl out. As soon as she was lifted away from him, she began to wail; she hadn't even exchanged hands yet. Kefka reeled her back in, shifting her weight so that he held her with one arm while the other allowed a hand to softly pat her back. He could feel her tiny chin against his shoulder as she buried as much of her face as she could into the forearm that wasn't anchored around his neck.

"I told you," the woman sang. "Good luck separating her from you now. Is this the one just received?" she asked.

Of course. Gestahl had to have been trying to find someone to pass her off on the moment he picked her up. Kefka felt his lips twitch in a sneer, but did nothing save nod.

"Well, please let me know if I can be of any assistance to you. It'd be best if she had a bit of stability right now, though. The details of the Emperor's acquisition of her are..." she trailed off. "She needs stability," she finally said, choosing her words carefully.

Kefka glanced down at the girl, who had relaxed to the point where he thought something was amiss – but she was asleep. He nodded to the woman and saw himself out, walking into the hall only because his legs were on auto-pilot. If he hadn't have opened his mouth, he wouldn't be in this situation right now. Of course, when did he not open his mouth? Gestahl liked Kefka's insight at times, but moments like today his reactions did not endear him to Kefka much. Still, Kefka knew more than anyone else there how important stability was. His life would have been completely different without it, but he struggled to believe it would have been any worse. No, it wasn't possible. Just because he was good now didn't mean he had been bad before; it meant he'd gotten lucky.

He had no idea how to handle this situation he was in, but one thing was certain: they'd have to pry that precious little girl from his cold, dead fingers if they wanted to take her from him. He could do that much.