prologue

PROLOGUE – THE LOST BOY

The brisk evening air swept across the darkened beach side, carrying the scent of fresh salt to the boy's nostrils. He stared out to sea from his overlook by the stone house, watching the moon's reflection on the waves. It was a perfectly peaceful night; only wisps of excited chatter from down on the beach disturbed the serenity. Faint silhouettes scurried about in the shadow of the lighthouse. A lone flicker of flame broke through the darkness; it bobbed as its carrier stumbled about in search of the fuse. The boy sighed and turned his head. They had to be out of their minds. Being caught in the kitchen without Matron's supervision was already enough to land them in serious trouble. Swiping the matches and fireworks set aside for the new year was on a level yet unheard of. Morbid curiosity alone kept him standing there.

They'd invited him to take part in the night's mischief. Perhaps two months earlier he would have even accepted; he'd have gone merrily bounding down the sandy trail with the others, throwing all caution to the wind for the chance to light his own firecracker. There was no such joy now. Even as he saw sparks fly from the lit fuse, there was only emptiness. Nothing could fill the gaping hole in his heart. Not the peaceful night, not the soothing breeze, nor the view from which to watch the spectacle unfold. He needed to be strong, just as Matron had told him. He could always count on her to know the right thing to do.

The firework's whistle cut through the calm like a piercing siren. Higher and higher it climbed, its tail tracing a swathe across the sky. It burst into a dazzling splash of green moments later. The explosion rocked the beach side, giving way to a chorus of cheers below, and a single shrieking cry from just behind him.

"I'm telling!"

The boy whipped his head over his shoulder. Right on cue, the orphanage's resident tattle-tale came bolting from the house. He tore down the path to the shore as fast as his little legs would carry him.

"You're all gonna get in so much trouble!" he called. The second rocket drowned out whatever else he shouted to them.

He needn't have bothered; between the sheer volume of both explosions, this one producing a crimson shower of stars, Matron would be out to deal with them shortly. There was nothing for this loudmouthed brat to gain by sticking his nose where it didn't belong. He'd already been branded an outcast among them. Keeping his mouth shut would have suited him better; trying to weasel his way back into the group was a sign of weakness. Disgusted, the boy made his silent vow.

I'm never gonna be like him. I don't need anyone's help. I'm gonna be strong, and I'm gonna do it on my own.

"Say that to my face again!"

Squall shut his eyes in frustration; he couldn't stand to face the foul-mouthed blonde another moment. They'd never gotten along. The one year age-gap between them was the only buffer Squall had from Seifer's constant abuse. He couldn't imagine how much torment the 6th year students who shared classes with him received on the daily. Neither did he care; his own suffering was all that concerned him. He exhaled through his nose to soothe his rising temper, and opened his eyes.

"I said, quit being such an asshole. Or don't. Just leave me out of it. Now go away."

Squall turned down the hall towards his next class. He'd barely taken three steps before a hand caught his wrist from behind.

"You've got a real mouth on you," Seifer snarled as he spun him back around.

He yanked his arm upward, drawing him in to where their faces were mere inches from one another. Squall flitted his eyes as he struggled in place. A circle of students slowly formed around the two, muttering in anticipation of a fight.

"Is that how you speak to your upperclassmen? Sounds like someone needs to teach you some manners."

"Let him go, Seifer!"

The two averted their heated stares from one another. A familiar 6th year girl with glasses and blonde pigtails stepped forward from the crowd. Her furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips painted a clear picture of disapproval; it was the same no-nonsense look she routinely gave Seifer whenever he stepped out of line. The smug boy returned it with a scowl.

"Always in the right place at the right time," he grumbled. "This is between me and him. Stay out of it!"

He turned his attention back to Squall, his lips curling into a sardonic smile.

"Unless the little wuss is too scared to back up his tough talk. How 'bout it? You need big bad Quisty to tag in for you?"

Squall lowered his eyes to the polished floor, his free fist balled in anger; he could no longer contain his hatred for the belligerent blonde.

"Your breath stinks..." he mumbled as he began to gather saliva in his mouth.

"What was that?" Seifer leaned in even closer.

With a whip of his head, Squall tilted his face back up and spit. The loogie splatted on Seifer's nose, his eyes on either side widening in shock. The onlookers all around gasped and guffawed. Quistis shrieked Squall's name in horror. He paid none of them any mind as a vindictive smirk crossed his face.

"I said, your breath stinks!"

The moment's victory blinded him to the incoming punch to his gut. He doubled over as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Seifer viciously thrust him to the ground in front of the now hysterical crowd; the adrenaline firing through him reduced their commotion to a hazy white noise. As he braced himself for the impending flurry of fists, one voice rose above the rest.

"Almasy!" it roared angrily.

The erupting pandemonium fell silent. Squall creaked open his eyes to peer upward. A middle-aged man with a neatly combed haircut and trimmed moustache had seized Seifer's wrist. Despite having never taken one of his classes, Instructor Aki's reputation transcended the divide between grade levels; his strict and stodgy persona had made him infamous among the entire student body.

"Come with me to my office at once," he ordered. "Trepe, see him to the infirmary. The rest of you, to your classes, on the double!"

The crowd immediately dispersed in all directions. Instructor Aki turned away, forcibly dragging Seifer down the hall towards his classroom. Squall sat upright and placed a hand to his gut. The spot was sore, and likely bruised beneath his shirt, but not so painful he would need to see the Garden medical staff. Quistis dropped to her knees beside him, her eyes brimming with concern.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"It's nothing," he insisted. "I've been through worse in training."

"Squall, you should have just walked away. All you did was give him the attention he wants."

"It's none of your business."

"It is when I have to take you to the infirmary! I've told you, if he keeps picking on you, just let me know and I'll make sure something's done about it."

"I don't need your help. And I don't need to go to the infirmary."

He rose from the floor, and turned his back to her. Much as Seifer infuriated him, her patronizing was hardly an improvement. He shuffled away down the hall towards his next class, regretting only that he would be marked tardy.

I'm not about to play the victim and let someone else fight my battles for me. I can take care of myself. I always have…

A successive clanging of steel rang out across the Alcaud Plains. Many miles of lush forest led the way north to the Gaulg Mountains, their peaks still topped with residual snow. Fields of vibrant green stretched south towards the shore. An imposing synthetic structure resembling a giant conch shell stood in the center of it all; the shimmering floating halo above glistened blue and gold in the early morning hours. Atop a rocky plateau due just north, a pair of swordsmen stood locked in a fearsome duel, the most recent of many over seven years of heated rivalry.

The boys had become young men. Each slash and parry attested to the years both had spent furthering their skill with the blade. Their speed and precision more than made up for whatever their movements lacked in grace. The intensity with which they flung themselves at each other was evident, the bloodlust between them palpable. This was no friendly sparring, but a grudge match. It was a challenge Squall couldn't have refused if he'd wanted. Though he despised the reputation he shared with Seifer, he could never back down. To show weakness was to be stripped of his autonomy. That was a fate he deemed worse than death.

Squall brought his gunblade thundering down, only for Seifer to sidestep out of harm's way. The blonde swiped past him, knocking him off balance. He quickly regained his footing, and swiveled around. Seifer's boots skidded to a halt on the opposite end of the gravely terrain, his own gunblade resting at his side. His face wore the same familiar smirk that had provoked him for so long; it reaffirmed louder than any taunt that his struggle was in vain.

Yet there remained one distinct advantage in Squall's arsenal his rival could not match. Not for lack of ability, but a stubborn aversion he refused to pivot on. Perhaps it would be underhanded to exploit the imbalance between them, dishonorable even. But war knew no honor among enemies. Squall had come into this fight expecting no degree of sportsmanship. He would show none in return. He would strike down any foe that stood in his way, by means fair or foul.

He spread his legs, and outstretched his free hand as if to form a halting gesture. Seifer's smirk faded as he seemed to recognize its true purpose. His expression turned to irritation. Squall disregarded his rival, his focus set on channeling the energy into his hand. He'd trained rigorously over the last three years, to where the process was now second nature. And so, when after several moments the usual rush of energy hadn't come, he knew something was awry.

Not content to stay idle, he charged forward. He kept his arm outstretched, desperately willing the energy to flow through him. His confusion turned to shock as Seifer raised his own hand. A blazing sphere of orange flame had formed from his palm. Squall stumbled to a halt. He barely managed to raise his gunblade in time to block the fireball.

He grunted as he fell, his mind racing to make sense of it all. Why had he been unable to conjure his own fireball? Why had Seifer broken his vow? And how could he possibly turn things around? With no time to ruminate, he forced himself back to his feet. As he rose to one knee, his downcast eyes met a pair of black boots, and the whipping coattails of a long grey jacket.

"What a disgrace," a snide voice derided him. "I'd say some discipline's in order."

Squall tilted his head up to meet the face of his rival. His eyes went wide as he saw Seifer's gunblade raised high over his head, ready to fall like a guillotine. Time slowed to a crawl. His mind screamed in alarm, begging him to leap for cover. His legs refused to comply; he simply couldn't right himself quickly enough. He opened his mouth to cry out, but the blade fell before he could utter a sound. It passed between his eyes, cleaving a diagonal slice across the bridge of his nose. He screamed as the force twisted his head to the side, his neck on the verge of snapping. Blood splattered across the rock below as the blade left his flesh.

The pain was beyond any Squall had ever known. His face was on fire. He grit his teeth in anguish, seething with uncontrollable rage as the blood spilled down his features. All was red; he could no longer form a cogent thought, much less curse Seifer for subjecting him to such agony. All he cared for in that moment was vengeance at any cost. Acting purely on instinct, he slashed his own gunblade upward with a roar of righteous fury. The scream to follow finally snapped him from his trance.

Seifer doubled over as he stumbled backward. He clutched at his face with both hands, his sword dropping to the ground with a metallic clang. Squall allowed his own to fall from his grasp. His vision cleared as his rational mind returned. He brought one hand up to cover the wound between his eyes, and fumbled for the supply pouch on his belt with the other; he'd packed extra bandages for such a scenario. Just as he'd located the zipper, a fist slammed down on the back of his head. He toppled to the ground, face-first.

The bludgeoning continued, endlessly, mercilessly. As the world around him slowly faded away, a single affirmation crept into his mind. It was a mantra long since internalized, and now more applicable than ever before.

That's just how it goes. The world isn't fair. It's cruel. And everyone faces it on their own…