Of Air and Angels

By Dragonbait

Chapter Six

From this day on I own my father's gun

We dug his shallow grave beneath the sun

I laid his body down below the southern land

Wouldn't do to bury him where any Yankee stands

--Bernie Taupin; My Father's Gun

«----»•«---»

A year later

Seifer Almasy was off to hunt a legend.

As the situation in Esthar worsened, he knew he needed to do something—anything—to keep himself sane. Shouldering Hyperion, Seifer left Esthar, heading south to the ruins where heroes of long-forgotten wars had fought and trained. The crumbling tower of legend, where his boyhood heroes had trained, was none other than the Centra Ruins. Odin's defeat had not ruined the majesty of the place, its hallowed floors as pristine as he had remembered from those faded photographs taken by his father. Seifer had very few things from that man: the small wooden sliding box with a few faded photographs, a locket from his mother on a faded blue ribbon and a gun-- the beginnings of Hyperion. His father's gun, modified and adapted, had been one of the few things Edea had kept for him, and he had used it well. But now it was time for a new blade, one that wasn't bathed with the blood of thousands of innocents.

He was seeking out a famed and fabled swordsman.

Even if it killed him, Seifer hunted him. Quistis needed him. But more importantly, he needed her. That was something they knew—she needed his strength, but she herself was strong. Had he been mature enough when he was eighteen, he was sure that the whole thing with Ultimecia had been a mistake—she would not have seduced him with promises she never fulfilled. Hindsight made him twitch as he remembered the awfulness of the whole thing. But here he was, seeking a legend about a war. There was war on the horizon, and he knew it well.

As he climbed on the back of a chocobo, Seifer wondered whether he was being foolish. It was, in his mind, potentially foolish to hunt down a legend. Hyperion had had its day. Nobody wanted to touch it, for fear of its master's madness lingering in the blade, though the blood had long since dried. It was whispered in jail that Seifer was mad, and that he had killed thousands of men with one look. He'd pretended to be asleep, but often, he was forced into denying the rumours. He'd learned to keep his head down and his mouth shut. The prison had changed him. He'd seen men brought in, yelling and screaming, and wondered if he'd ever been that bad. He had called out in his sleep, but the words were always about her. Ultimecia—the name alone was enough to evoke shudders. She had made him into a monster—or had the monster always been there, lurking within him? He had no idea. But whatever the cause was, it was enough for him to wish that he hadn't gone with her. The regret was deep and it was too late to worry about the past.

"Poor, poor boy..."

A litany of things bubbled up at the memory. Seifer hated that he couldn't escape his past, no matter how hard he tried. Continuing over the hills and dales of Esthar's perimeters, Seifer felt the bile rise in the back of his throat as Ultimecia's words once more rang in his mind.

"Such a confused little boy. Are you going to step forward? Retreat? You have to decide..."

He didn't want to be a boy, but he didn't want to be an adult either. The choice Ultimecia presented him with was beyond anything SeeD had ever done. At least he'd had a chance for heroism back then. Now, with the bitter taste of defeat rising up in his throat like bile time and again, Seifer had long since come to terms with the devil's bargain he had struck. He supposed it was fitting that Ultimecia had bound him to her. There was still a part of him that she had power over, even though Squall had driven steel into her heart and killed her. He suppressed a grim chuckle, and the irony of the supposed enemy liberating him was never stronger.

"Shut up!"

"Don't be ashamed to ask for help. Besides, you're only a little boy."

She had used that word, taunting him with it like a snake charmer cajoling a deadly asp. The word was both derisive and cajoling. She had used it like poisoned honey, sickly sweet and bright—and at other times, like the cold hardness of steel being driven into his spine. Ultimecia had worn Matron's face well.

"I'm not. Stop calling me a boy."

He should have killed her then; but she had trapped him, unable to move or to do anything involving his free will. Hyperion tapped his thigh, and he looked down at the sword, disgusted. How could he, in good conscience, raise the same weapon he'd used to cut down soldiers now in defence of them? He wasn't given to philosophical thought often, but on the odd occasion it plagued him. Too much time alone gave the ghosts of his past a voice in his head. It was inescapable.

He longed for redemption.

He hunted for Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh had defeated him, so Seifer hunted him day and night for weeks until at last he found the swordsman and legendary king. Gilgamesh, the god-king of ancient days, stood before him, arms crossed.

"You dare enter my domain, puny human?" he asked imperiously, towering over Seifer as he grabbed his swords with consummate ease. "Prepare to meet your maker."

With that, the battle for Seifer's redemption began.

«----»•«---»

With steel singing and clashing blades, Gilgamesh taunted Seifer cruelly. "You can't defeat me, boy!"

"That's what Odin thought, too." Another song of steel as the two battled it out. Seifer twirled, his coat flaring out in brilliant fans of fabric.

"Odin was a weakling, boy." A derisive chuckle accompanied those words. The God-King stood proud and tall, his sword always meeting the oncoming blows effortlessly.

"I'M NOT A BOY!" Seifer lunged and, in fury, drove the tip of his blade into Gilgamesh's armour. His eyes glinted dangerously as he launched into an angry flurry of blows, ever impatient. The god-king stood passive, defending himself with his sword as the boy, so desperate to become a man, attacked.

"I'll train you, boy," Gilgamesh said at length.

There was that word again. Boy. Ultimecia had called him that. No matter what he did for her, he was always a boy. She liked to remind him that she was the last sorceress and how inferior he was to her. She liked, too, to remind him that he was just a puppet—a poor, foolish puppet.

Gilgamesh taught Seifer the value of chivalry, about how to forge a new blade, for Hyperion was beyond repair. Gilgamesh drove him hard, and often Seifer hated him for it. But he was fair, pushing Seifer in ways he had not anticipated, and under him, Seifer thrived.

The day came when the Centra ruins were deserted. Gilgamesh had vanished. A new sword tied with a red ribbon was driven into the centre of the ruins, a fitting parting gift. He crouched down to look at the white card on the ground. Use it well, boy. May we meet again in the afterlife. Until then, the sword is yours, it read. As Seifer grasped the hilt, the sword came up out of the stone easily—the hilt warm in his hand. Holding it outstretched, he felt the lack of the trigger in it, foreign to him. He lifted it high above his head with both hands and marvelled at the lack of weight. It had to be adamantine, he thought.

He had to return home, to her. But it would be an odyssey should he survive the arduous journey—the Lunar Cry had awoken fell beasts, and he knew the journey back home to her would be the most important thing he'd done in recent history. Seifer Almasy had promised her the world. He would gladly give it to her—even if it killed him to do it.

«----»•«---»

She was tired, and it showed. Quistis doodled idly, her other hand cupping her chin as members of her cabinet talked over her. The year had taken its toll on her, and she felt it keenly. In the year since Laguna's death, Quistis had struggled to make sense of it all—and with Seifer's disappearance worrying her, doubts once more plagued her. To be the President of Esthar was she fit in the interim to carry out this immense task? She wasn't sure. Knowing that she had to do it and that there was nobody else capable of filling Laguna's shoes made the burden worse. Her daughter had withdrawn into herself—refusing to talk. During those black days, Quistis was grateful for Ellone's quiet and unconditional love, and her willingness to look after Síla.

The members of cabinet spoke of little else but declaring war against Trabia. Sooner or later, she would have to declare war and that was another burden that weighed heavily on her mind. Vengeance was a hollow victory, she had learned, but at the same time, it was unthinkable that Laguna's death should go unpunished. She knew, too, that she would have to decide on whether to take up the old arms that she had forsaken and arm herself once again as a fighter—a general, judge, and executor on the field of battle. Surprisingly, Galbadia, once considered Esthar's enemy, had allied with their new president openly embracing the chance to put aside former grudges.

Christian Forsyth was a wise man. She knew that much.

"I suggest we turn our minds to more important matters, gentlemen," she said softly, speaking up at last. Her voice carried in the room. "We need to find Nazario, and fast. Whatever rabbit warren he has dug himself, we must find him." Her eyes shined with desperation, and she felt sheer exhaustion threaten to engulf her once more. She had to be strong; she had to show them that she was capable of stepping into the enormous shoes left by Laguna. For her to do that, she had to put aside the worry she felt at Seifer's sudden disappearance.

He had left her shortly after Laguna's funeral. She awoke one morning to find his side of the bed cold and his few possessions gone. No hint, no paper creased with her name on one side and a scrawl on the other half. He had simply vanished. Quistis wondered sometimes if the year they had spent together meant anything to him at all. She feared for his safety but had more important things to worry about than her wayward lover. She had been elected president of Esthar-- a unanimous decision by both the people of her chosen country and the senate that governed it. Again, she wondered whether she was strong enough to govern wisely and faltered at every step. Quistis suddenly understood the revoking of her instructors' license and the wisdom Garden had shown in doing so.

That didn't mean that she wasn't going to do the best job she could do. She searched inside herself and found the strength to put one foot in front of the other. A cheerful attitude was one thing she had learned to fake and fake well during that brief flirtation she had had with being an instructor.

Her heart broke daily as she watched her daughter grow, looking more and more like Laguna with each passing day. After Laguna's funeral, Quistis had returned disconsolately to Esthar, holding her daughter's hand in hers. Squall had offered to look after his half-sister, but Quistis had refused out of pride. It wasn't so much that he had offered, the offer had been generous, but she was unsure if she could cope without Síla there.

"Where do we start looking? He's been missing for a year," someone said, jerking her back to the reality of their discussion on finding Tacito Nazario. The man speaking was a tall man, with tight curly short dark hair and a goatee, and Quistis recognised him as Vlahos, another former SeeD like herself who had once been stationed in Esthar and had left shortly after the war. Vlahos, like Quistis, had been an instructor, but he had chosen to renounce his instructorship and resume the nomadic life of a SeeD. "I'd suggest, President Trepe, that we start with his contacts in the Trabia region, but whether they'd be willing to sell the snake out is another matter entirely."

Quistis nodded. Vlahos pointed to a map and touched the desk. The map zoomed in and Quistis recognised the area as Shumi.

"That's Shumi territory, and they're not likely to harbour a fugitive," Mercia said, and brought up another area on the map. Mercia was a short woman at five foot with short cropped red hair and a set of distinctive glasses perched on her nose. "He's more likely to be found in Fisherman's Horizon, where every other wannabe war criminal flees to." Quistis agreed with her. After the Second Sorceress War, Mayor Dobe, ever the pacifist, had welcomed fugitives provided they didn't cause trouble to the town. A decision, she was sure, he would regret. It wasn't her place to say anything, as Dobe was a fool who had repeatedly shunned diplomatic overtures.

"I move we contact White SeeD. They are far more capable on this sort of mission, as it requires subterfuge half of Garden is no longer capable of." Mercia continued. Mercia had been a White SeeD before she had become a liaison officer, and she knew what she was talking about. Eleven years ago, she had sailed around the world on a boat, protecting Ellone Loire—a mission that had been boring, but she didn't regret it one bit. "We also need to find the assassin. Janoah Wylie was last spotted in Dollet by one of our contacts there. If you look at the screen, you will see a list of her last moves before she gave us the slip."

Quistis glanced down at the screen, seeing the face of the woman who had killed the father of her child alongside a detailed itinerary. The woman's face was partially obscured by a tangerine and lime paisley-patterned headdress, which Quistis recognised as being the traditional garb of the Shumi women. However, Artisan at the village had told her that few Shumi women wore it these days; it had fallen out of fashion when they had first started the excavation of their tranquil village miles beneath the earth. Quistis frowned, wondering why the assassin wore such a distinctive headdress.

"The headdress she's wearing is of Shumi origin, though the fabric and the pattern on the fabric are that of Timber design. May I also suggest we try and find where she purchased the headdress? It may prove an important clue in determining her whereabouts." Mercia continued a frown on her face.

Irvine provided the Esthar Intelligence Agency with the identity of their prime suspect—Janoah Wylie. He had known her and been her lover at one point. At his suggestion, Quistis got in contact with Martine. The former headmaster and garden-master had been useful in their search in those first few awful weeks after Laguna's funeral. He was glad to help, he said, as he had liked Laguna—like most people had. Now he poured his energy into the search for Janoah. As the year had progressed, more people came out of the woodwork to offer help to Quistis in the search for the sniper, each person having been the recipient of help from Laguna over the years. Those that had known him best simply smiled and shook their heads, sharing amused glances with one another as each person recounted their first meeting with Laguna. Quistis sometimes felt that he had transcended being a person and had transformed in these people's mind, into the rarest sort of hero: the unassuming soldier who distinguished himself not in battle but in the calm before and after. Quistis wondered if they'd ever catch Nazario or Janoah—every day brought new tidings and new rumours. Sometimes, it was hard to separate the rumours from the truth.

In the months after the wake, Headmaster Cid began another project—Esthar Garden. He said it was the very least he could do. Quistis was even more surprised when Cid announced the Headmistress—her old friend, Xu Yang. She was grateful to have another friend nearby.

«----»•«---»

Janoah Wylie stood ramrod straight, arms at her side as Tacito Nazario spoke.

"We must prove to the world that Trabia can stand on its own feet without assistance. By this time next year, Balamb Garden will fall, beginning with its Commander and his Sorceress. You see, my pet, Esthar and Garden grow too arrogant, and they need to be brought to heel. We forget the past, and blindly forge ahead, forgetting the sorrows that came with Adel and Ultimecia. To eradicate SeeD and the sorceress, we put in their place a sorcerer." Janoah gave a perfunctory nod, and he smiled, watching as his weapon in the war glowed. She was the perfect weapon; nobody suspected a beautiful woman to be so skilled in that ancient art of assassination. That had been why she'd been chosen as his vessel.

He gave her a pat on the shoulder, and moved past her into the hallway. Janoah relaxed slightly, her shoulders slumping. Reluctantly, she started tidying the room, bundling the papers into the bamboo cases on the desk. Janoah wondered how long the planning would go on—she was anxious to strike, as she detested SeeD and Esthar in general. It was to be a twofold strike—one at SeeD and a further attack on Esthar. She wondered, too, whether their efforts would work, or whether they would be forced out of hiding and into the open field. Her hands felt clammy as she pushed the cart into a more secure location. How could they go against the most technologically advanced country in the world without severe ramifications? She didn't voice her concerns—she knew he wouldn't listen.

«----»•«---»

Seifer's journey was almost over. He could see the pathways that lead into the city proper. Kicking his chocobo in the sides to hurry it, he leant over the bird's neck, urging it forwards, faster and faster. He would be home soon, a new gunblade forged and lessons learned. He wanted nothing more than to sweep Quistis into his arms and kiss her, but he also knew that it was more likely that she would shy away from him. The year he'd spent training with Gilgamesh had gone quickly, and he had learned more than he had bargained for. He was ready now to fight for Esthar, for the memory of the man who had given him a second chance in life—Laguna Loire. He tightened his hands on the reins, and steered his chocobo into the stables. Dismounting no longer hurt him—it had hurt when he began the journey, but now his body had adjusted to the pains. He handed the reins to the stableboy and strode determinedly out. It didn't take him long to reach her new quarters. They were easy enough to find.

She would be waiting for him, he was damn sure of it.

Quistis sat on the couch, a half-finished glass of red wine on the coffee table in front of her. Eyes rimmed with red, she dabbed at them with a tissue. The door opened, and she stiffened, hand reaching for the pistol behind her cushion. She had kept it there, just in case. Her eyes grew wide as she took in the long pair of legs clad in black denim and leaped up. She ran to him and kissed him.

He was home. "Where have you been?" she asked after a time had passed.

"I sought out a legend," was the answer.