Of Air and Angels
By Dragonbait
Chapter Four
Just such disparity,
As is 'twixt air and angels' purity,
'Twixt women's love, and men's will ever be
John Donne—"Air and Angels"
«----»•«---»
In Galbadia, a phone rang in the Caraway residence. General Caraway groaned and picked it up. "Yes?" he said brusquely.
"Have you heard the news?"
"What news?" Caraway had never been a patient man. The voice on the telephone sounded familiar, but the retired general couldn't quite place it. Looking at the only framed photograph on his desk of a radiant and beaming Rinoa with a rather embarrassed but also beaming Squall on their wedding day, Caraway found that he had the patience to deal with this anonymous caller. "Hurry up and get to your point," he ordered, half-expecting to hear a click on the end of the line.
"Esthar has been attacked." The line went dead.
Scowling, Caraway pointed the remote at the television. A scene, not unlike the one witnessed some previous hours earlier by Squall, showed on the screen. There was chaos and destruction, as though the Elvoret that Galbadia had disturbed at Dollet all those years earlier had whipped through the city, creating havoc in its wake. The Lunar Cry held no comparison to the destruction of Esthar. Swearing loudly, much to his own dismay, Caraway picked up the phone again, dialling the direct line of Laguna Loire.
«----»•«---»
"A terrorist attack rocked Esthar City to its very core today." The newsreader tried and failed to look saddened by this. "While Esthar officials are still working to determine the cause of the blast, along with the identity of the terrorist group, seven hundred Estharians have been confirmed missing."
With a disgusted sigh, Squall Leonhart turned off the television and rolled on his side to face his wife. This was going to be a major headache, and not just for Esthar, but for Balamb and Trabia. Galbadia wasn't even in the equation, as far as he was concerned. There'd been numerous outbreaks like this, Squall reflected dully, since the end of the Third Sorceress War.
In the beginning, the attacks were blamed on Galbadia, but now Squall wasn't sure. He'd had numerous reports land on his desk, all indicating that Galbadia was still bitter about their defeat by Esthar and Balamb. He'd received other reports, which he'd read once and then discarded, about a separatist sect living in the barren expanse between Trabia and Esthar. He had not given further thought to the reports, believing that there was nothing he, as commander of Balamb Garden, could do. He often wondered now and then, whether that decision to disregard the reports had been wise. Cursing himself, and Hyne, in the bargain, Squall rolled out of bed. SeeD would undoubtedly be called upon, as usual, to act as peace-keepers, a role that Squall, jaded and cynical, reflected would do no good if the separatists were truly intent on carrying out their threats. He disliked the idea of sending a team in pre-emptively, they were meant to be a mercenary agency, not a charitable organisation. He felt trapped between doing what was right and bureaucracy. The politics of Garden and those outside the insular institution differed on many points. But all that had gone to hell when Laguna insisted on contracting SeeD to act as an intermediary for many of Esthar's dealings. The neutrality of SeeD, he had stated, was important, as well as their balanced overview and scope, which could offer a yet-unknown view of an issue.
The war had been over for ten years. He had a sinking feeling that the attacks he'd seen on the television were only just the tip of the proverbial iceberg—there were rumours of unrest, of violence and separatist groups. Laguna had warned him, as had Rinoa and Edea, and even Cid, that these groups could strike at any moment, unprovoked. Swearing loudly, the commander of Balamb Garden headed out of his dormitory and upstairs to his office. In a foul mood, and annoyed with himself, Squall's footsteps sounded like the marching of heavy infantry. Reaching the office, the often-irritable commander flipped the switch that opened the blinds, letting rays of bright sunlight hit his eyes. Sitting down at his desk, Squall rifled through the reports stacked in an orderly pile for any references to the name of the separatist sect. He hoped it was not Galbadia who attacked. He prayed it wasn't Galbadia. In fact, Galbadia would be foolish to attack Esthar, especially after the Treaty at Tears Point had been signed, stating that Galbadia was responsible for remunerating Esthar for the cost of the damage done.
Always the consummate soldier, Squall knew that offers would be made to help each side clean up after such a disaster.
«----»•«---»
In Esthar, it was the Lunar Cry all over again. The same panic, fear, anxiety and worry that Estharians had not felt for twelve years came flooding back, watching as wave after wave of explosions ricocheted off the walls. Another attack, just days after the first one, was enough to send panic throughout the city. The phone lines, communications, vital things had been cut off, and everyone was running around like so many wild chocobos. Cellular communication wasn't working, the city was in disarray, and from Laguna's plexiglass office, one could see an old man wizened with age jump up and down with excitement, his Elizabethan collar as rigid as ever before. For one person, this chaos was good, and that one person was none other than Doctor Odine.
Excitement tingled in his veins, and in his fingers. As old and decrepit as he was, he still got that wonderful adrenaline rush every time he saw a catastrophe to be studied. He wasn't even sure what this was, nor what had happened, but at seventy, with a brain sharper than Squall's famous gunblade Lionheart, he would not rest. Odine thrived on such dire misfortune, and this was no exception. Always a scientist, he had been instrumental in devising a way to limit the power of a sorceress and even, mess around with time—Junction Machine Ellone, to be precise, had always been his most coveted and most prized invention. Like a man out of legend, he had discovered something important, his moment of eureka and elation was too much for the ageing man to bear. Jumping up and down for joy, Odine knew that this was no ordinary attack, whoever had ordered it had done so with new technology even he had no idea about. The explosion marks were what had clued him in. They were unlike anything he'd ever seen.
It was the Deep Sea Research Deposit all over again; it was the sealing devices which had lead to the entombment of Adel. For a moment of infinite sweetness, Odine savoured his victory. He had something to study again. That was what mattered to him. Looking towards the president's office, Odine saw the bulky outline of Ward, followed closely by the lean and lanky outline of Kiros, and finally, the shorter outline of the president himself. For a moment, Odine wondered whether it was a good time to interrupt. Surely, he was called for in a crisis like this, but as he observed the three men, Odine hummed softly to himself, and walked back slowly towards his laboratory. Perhaps it was best that he figure out his theories first before talking to the president. Odine had seen the destruction they had unleashed into the world when they disturbed the slumber of Ultima Weapon—a creature thought to have been mere myth and legend. He'd witnessed the power of destruction so great and angry that they were forced to abandon their research in the Deep Sea Research Deposit. He'd been young then, and foolish.
Ultima Weapon, in Adel's hands wiped out an entire continent, just north of Trabia. After Adel's sealing, Laguna had ordered scientists and military alike to destroy Ultima Weapon. They had attempted to, and failed. So they sank the research centre, and Ultima Weapon with it.
He had felt they delved too deep, but it was Adel's time, and his voice of dissent had not won him any favours.
Hurrying to his laboratory, Odine gathered samples of bits and pieces, pulling a C4 apart. Biting his lip as he pried two wires apart, Odine, not for the first time, wondered whether Esthar had awoken the proverbial sleeping giant when they'd sent Leonhart and company into the future. Often, he had such thoughts while trying to do things. His mind wandered occasionally, obfuscating his thought process, and he often found that age was starting to catch up to him. Such a thing frustrated him at times, and Odine knew he'd need to start writing things down instead of relying solely on his memory.
As he worked, he pondered on things long since gone, such as a wife and three children, all buried beneath the red soil of Esthar's memorials. Long ago, before the madness which was Sorceress Adel, he had been young once, a father and a loving husband, and then she came, filling his head and the heads of thousands of young men his age, with a dream which had been too terrible to realise. Adel, the bane and scourge of Esthar, and the world. Her mannish figure and mannerisms, the insanity which filled her heart and the hearts of those around her only wrought destruction and chaos was ultimately her downfall; she had been a bad dream. There were many similarities between Ultimecia and Adel, Odine reflected.
«-----»•«-----»
A hand trailed lightly down the side of his face as he felt her presence. Moving his own injured hand up, he covered hers with his larger one. Blinking a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light and the room, he couldn't believe where he was. Was this Valhalla? No, it wasn't. In all the myths and tales told about Odin's fabled hall of the slain, there were no wounds.
Seifer's body ached. If he were in Valhalla, he was sure his injuries would be gone, and he would be revelling. That was the story he'd been told as a boy—that the knights and warriors went to Valhalla, where they could fight and feast to their heart's content. Quistis, perhaps, was the Valkyrie, the battle-maiden and warrior-chooser, he thought, how she had come through and believed in him. She was his sorceress, his damsel in distress. It was close enough to being a knight guarding his sorceress, after all. The Sorceress chose her knight, so why not the Valkyrie her Einherjar? SeeDs, knights, warriors, einherjar, soldiers, fighters—they were the same thing given many names—they all boiled down to someone who fought battles. In another era, perhaps Seifer had been a hero, but in this era, he was an ex-convict. Throughout history, Seifer thought, only good men became glorified—and those who had deviated but a little from that path of righteousness became vilified, spat upon in history's books. It had made him so determined, even as a young boy, to become a hero of some sort.
But history rarely remembers a conquered hero.
Quistis, pale with worry, her forehead lined beyond what Seifer had thought possible for one so young, sat straight-backed in the chair beside his bed. Her eyes were closed, he noticed, Síla sitting next to her mother. Laguna, too, was in the room, his hand lightly clasped on the little girl's shoulder. He was unsurprised to see Laguna there, for some reason.
"Uhh…" he began, before trying to sit up. The world swam before his eyes, the room going once more topsy-turvy. He felt like he'd been hit by Doomtrain. The extent of his injuries were only just becoming apparent to him now. His bandaged head was one thing, but he had not expected the other pain coming from his abdomen.
"Hush, Seifer," Quistis said, a pale hand coming to rest on his brow as he laid back in on his pillow.
She knew he would tear his stitches if he remained active. They'd waited for what had felt like hours, white-faced with worry as the best surgeons and paramagic specialists attempted to heal his injuries. Glass had been embedded in his side, and the amount of damage had been vast. The head injury, so similar to the identical scar he'd given Squall all those years ago, throbbed. Seifer wished for the days when all he had to worry about was whether or not he would pass the field exam.
"Seven hundred dead… catastrophe of the worst proportions… even worse than the Lunar Cry." The words drifted through his delirium, barely making sense, but their power was not lost on Seifer. He'd been partially responsible for the Lunar Cry, excavating the Lunatic Pandora from its resting place beneath the sea. Seifer could remember little of those heady days.
Quistis had sat beside his bed whilst she could have been dealing with Tacito Nazario. The fact that she had chosen to sit beside the bed of a former convict and knight spoke volumes about her personality. It felt normal to her, being by the bedside of someone she had known since childhood—it felt like she had slipped, unconsciously, into the role of nursemaid. When she had been young, and they'd lived in the orphanage by the sea, Quistis had been a nurse when they were sick—helping Matron tend to the other children. She'd been a nurse long before she'd been an instructor--a role that felt far more natural to her than all her others. She'd been a SeeD, an Instructor, a President of a small country, a mother, and a presidential aide to Laguna; and now it seemed as though the wheel was once more turning.
«-----»•«-----»
The red dust was obscuring his view of the only home he'd known. Being driven away in an old, beat-up pickup, Seifer stuck half of his body out of the window, waving frantically at the family he left behind at the orphanage. The ripping vinyl on the bench seat was sticky from the warmth of the day. His thighs stuck to it, making squelching sounds as he shifted on the bench seat. So, this was his new life, was it? Matron had told Seifer that he was going to live on a camp with chocobos, and be the powder-boy for when they dropped fuses down to sink mines—it sounded like fun. The man who came wore a faded plaid shirt, unbuttoned, and a dark blue singlet, skinny legged jeans and smelled strongly of cigarette smoke.
"Hey, boy, get in the truck," he'd told Seifer, and Seifer had complied, barely sparing a thought for anyone except Matron. "I don't have time to wait for you to say your goodbyes, boy. Make it quick, you've got your belongings, right?"
Seifer nodded. Matron had packed his bag the night before; a loving kiss placed on his brow as she'd ghosted from room to room during the witching hours. He'd been awake then, staring up at the ceiling and wanting to see stars and dream of being a knight. It'd always been his dream—a dream fuelled by old movies on the television. And now, sitting on a vinyl seat, bouncing along a dirt track that could not be classified as a road, he wondered where he was going, whether he'd have his very own room—he'd hated sharing with Chicken-wuss and Squall.
"Where are we going?" he inquired, eyes wide as the old rusty truck bounced along another few thousand bumps in the ungraded road.
"The mines, boy. You're gonna be a miner's kid. Won't that be fun?"
"Where are the mines?" The question was innocent. Seifer imagined great big rocks with shiny things on them hanging from the roof. In his eight-year-old mind, the mines were an awesome thing to go to, and he could even pretend to excavate great gemstones.
"Trabia. You ever been there?" The name of the man was Peter, and Seifer would later learn he had been a scientist in Esthar before Adel. He'd lost his sons, Jake and Callum, to the mine's treachery. But he wasn't going to give up on finding his elusive cache, the quick that would make him rich. Seifer shook his head, wide eyed and innocent. Peter smiled, not unkindly. "You'll like it there, kid. The missus is a lovely lady, me other three sons, Mick, Alastair and Julian and their wives and kids, they still work there and live just up the road from us there." Twenty years, two sons dead, three still working, and the wife, Patentia, not getting any younger, Peter needed a young boy to help them out.
The trip wore on. At night, they crossed the water from Centra to Esthar by ferry. The trip, all in all, took a week. Seifer had watched as the great expansive desert of Esthar stretched out before their eyes, and the long climb over the mountains, with Peter only stopping every now and then to refuel and get food for the two weary travellers. They reached the checkpoint between the two countries, and Seifer saw for the first time, the arctic tundra that was his new home.
But things would not work out for him. His adoptive father would die tragically in a mining accident. The miners delved too deep, and hit the source of the earth's water supply. In what would later be described by geologists as a freak accident, Peter drowned, along with three other men. The mine had flooded. Peter's body, water-logged and nibbled at by fastitocalons and other underground species, was lifted up, finally, in a bucket normally used to haul up their cache of stones. Patentia DeVega would now have to bury her husband, and her heart broke.
Seifer, at age ten, felt horrified, and then disgusted. That night, Peter's story of losing Jake and Callum was told to all the miners who had survived. By the dim light of the camp-fire, Seifer watched as the men passed around a flask, each taking a long sip from it and handing it to the other man. It was summer, but the night was chilled by the wind that blew in from the tops of the Trabian mountains. Just before dawn, the fire was extinguished, and the men, half-drunk with fatigue, stumbled home to their wives and families. The miners believed strongly in closing down the mines, and Patentia, having already lost two of her sons and now her husband, left town, and Trabia entirely, taking Seifer with her.
He would enter Balamb Garden two weeks later, a changed, difficult boy with a chip on his shoulder. This incident further compounded his dislike of people leaving him.
«-----»•«-----»
He remembered taunting Squall. He remembered it all, as if through the shimmering haze of gasoline as it caught the sun's rays. He had held Hyperion aloft the night of the grand parade. He could recall the taste of metal—blood dripping and pooling around him as he suffered defeat after bitter defeat. He acquired new scars in prison and a new tattoo, forever branding him a criminal: a series of numbers with a single letter. He'd spent his time atoning for what he'd done. He could remember the shackles, and the torture-- the electric device he'd once taken sadistic pleasure in torturing Squall with had been turned against him.
It was an odd thing to be thinking of, lying there staring up at the ceiling where the low overhead lights flickered dimly. It was quiet, and Seifer thought they'd come soon with their trays clanging with medications and their blood pressure and temperature monitors. Lying again in a hospital bed was something he had become familiar with over the years. He'd had, he would argue, more than his fair share of prison brawls and scrap fights. He dozed now and then, waking as the nurses did their midnight rounds, and drifting once again into that semi-sleep—common amongst those who spent their hours in a hospital bed.
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Your faith was strong, but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
-- Hallelujah, Leonard Cohen.
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