1.
He is a
young man. He's handsome, too. Blonde hair gleaming in the
sunlight, piercing blue eyes. He's not tall, but he has an energy,
an exuberance, and a unique, quirky sense of humour, which some find
intriguing, and others simply confusing.
He has
so many dreams. He runs everyday, down by the seashore, to keep in
shape, and while he does he dreams. There is little else to do,
after all. Running time is his time, time that he takes away from
the world to just be himself. And to think.
He'd
like to think deep, philosophical thoughts, but instead he daydreams.
The usual daydreams, about getting the girl and saving the day.
Either order would work for him.
He's
been in love a few times, but nothing that lasted. Their partings
were easy, simple, and didn't leave either party feeling too taxed,
or emotional, or regretful. Things had run their course, and there
was nothing more to be found there. He longs for something more.
Sometimes,
he comes across monsters when he is running. Small, mostly harmless
creatures, with a vicious bite. Mostly, he ignores them. Sometimes
he fends them off with a stick, dreaming that it is a sword.
2.
He doesn't want her.
There's
no real reason not to. She's pretty, intelligent. Spoilt and
naïve, too. Still insists on protecting her virginity at all
costs. He doesn't pressure her too much - he thinks it's kind of
romantic that she wants to wait.
He
likes these romantic ideals, these stories; he toys with them sometimes. When he
walks through the corridors of Garden, dressed in his long coat, he
pictures himself in the third person, seeing the authoritative way it
swishes behind him. He moves as if his life is a film and he is the
eternal director and star. He places himself front and centre, in the lead role of every story he tells himself.
And he
doesn't want this story. He doesn't want her.
There's
nothing wrong with her. She just isn't what he dreamed of. She's
not special enough.
There
might have been some conflict with her father. That would have made a good story. They could have defied her father, run away together. Had a bittersweet dramatic life, and
a happy ending.
That was the problem. He doesn't want a happy ending at this young age. He
doesn't want the stories to be over. He doesn't want happiness with no
conflict. He can feel himself suffocating in this small town.
If
there is no conflict, perhaps he will create some.
3.
...Sometimes he fends them off with a stick, dreaming that it is a sword.
He walks through the town, his t-shirt drenched in sweat. He wants to go home immediately, remove the damp, grey clothing he wears for these exercises, and throw himself into a shower. That's his usual routine.
Today, though, something is different. He skipped breakfast that morning, despite knowing that it's a bad idea. He's not an athlete, but he knows his body, knows that if he doesn't eat he will feel this uncomfortable starving hunger before he reaches home. But he is a dreamer, absent-minded and cheerful. He is often distracted from day to day life, and although he runs regularly he still finds his own plans taking him by surprise, forcing him to run out of the door having forgotten everything he meant to do.
Still, he has done this before. This is something he can handle. There's a cafe on his way home, one where he knows he can get the hot dogs he craves . Probably not the healthiest breakfast but, as he justifies it, he needs the protein and carbs.
He is served by the same smiling girl as always, a cheerful dark-haired girl who greets him by name, and shakes her head when she realises that he's skipped breakfast again.
As he orders, he notices that behind her, the door to the kitchen is left open. He can see someone else. Not all of her. Long dark hair, and smooth pale arms, working, cooking something. He wonders who she is, and why she hides herself. More than anything, he wants to see her face.
4.
She cried, on the first day. Matron told her that crying didn’t help – if she just kept her spirits up and didn’t dwell on things, she’d be fine.
“There’s no need to cry, baby,” Matron had cooed. “Smile! A pretty little girl like you should smile.”
She had smiled, through her tears. Matron smiled back.
It had been hard not to cry, at first. She’d been so lonely. She wondered where her daddy was, why he hadn’t come to take her home yet. She didn’t know any of the other children yet, and they scared her a bit. Matron had found her snuffling quietly in a corner one day, and had bribed her with a cupcake to cheer up. “There’s always a bright side,” Matron had said. Slowly, she learned not to cry.
When that other little boy came, he cried. He cried, and they made fun of him. Slowly, she grew into her role. She couldn’t be the big sister. She wasn’t the bully. She wouldn’t be the crybaby. She was the cheerful one, the one who smiled and cajoled others into happiness as Matron had done to her. As she grew older, and her physical form stayed small and cute, she found herself cast into that role of the perky little girl. So much so that she didn’t know how to cry. The only way she knew to deal with negative emotions was to bury them, to put on a smile and fake it until it felt real. She threw herself into the role, organising parties and celebrations, and cheering people up. It was nice to be cheerful. It felt good to always be working on something to make people happy.
“It’ll be like a picnic! We’re going to have FUN!”
She’d known how ridiculous she’d sounded when she’d said it. She just didn’t have any other options. She didn’t know what would happen if she wasn’t cheerful, if there wasn’t a bright side, if she wasn’t okay, and the thought terrified her.
5.
More than anything, he wants to see her face.
He asks the girl on the counter who she is, the dark-haired girl in the back room.
"My sister," she says, and from her manner, it is clear that she considers this quite enough information. Still, he persists. Why does she keep herself hidden like that? Can he see her? What are her hobbies, her likes and dislikes, would she like to go out sometime? To talk, or to see a movie, or to the library, or for a walk, or something, anything.
From behind the door she listens, but keeps herself hidden. As always, she keeps herself hidden.
6.
He’s wondered, before now, what love is. In his dalliances. Is it this, is it this, is it this?
He loves women, as a category, but never before as individuals. Still he wonders, with each new girl. Does this dramatic, romantic gesture mean that he really loves her? Surely he wouldn’t have climbed up the side of Garden in the middle of the night if he didn’t? Or, with another – surely he wouldn’t have spent days writing poetry for her if he didn’t love if? If he wasn't in love?
Deep down, he knows. He isn’t in love with her, or her, or with any of them. He’s in love with love. He makes romantic gestures for their own sake, for the pleasure of being romantic and dramatic, for playing at being in love.
Every time, he fools himself. He thinks, surely, this is it. Then it ends, and he realises it wasn’t, and he moves on to the next one. He hopes he is wrong, that this is really it.
Now, though...
He hasn’t made any romantic gestures. He hasn’t asked himself if this is it.
He just knows. Not because he's being more intense, more full on, more stressed than ever before, but because he isn't.
A quiet realisation. A sigh. It’s you. It was always you.
7.
As always, she keeps herself hidden.
It is not through lack of effort on his part. He returns, far more often than he used to. She's afraid.
She is afraid he will keep trying, that he will find her, that he will discover her secret.
She is afraid that he won't.
She is afraid that he will hate her, that he will look at her with disgust, and she doesn't think she could bear that. All she wants is to be surrounded by love; she dreams of a large family, of reading stories to enraptured children, watching them grow up and learn about the world.
Of course, her condition makes this impossible. But she can dream. A dream does not cost anything beyond disappointment.
So, he keeps coming, and she keeps dreaming.
8.
I am alive.
…so cold…
It cannot end here. I cannot die like this.
Bring me back!
I will not be forgotten. How…how dare they? They cannot forget me. They cannot leave me here.
I will go mad in this place.
I will never let you forget about me. You could not even destroy me! You left me trapped here, in this hellish tomb!
Bring me back!
9.
She keeps dreaming.
She gives in.
She has learnt, from her sister, where it is that he appears from each morning. She's heard his enthusiastic talk before now, even muffled as it was by his desperate inhalation of hot dogs. She knows where she can find him, just as he knows where he can find her. But she is the only one who can take down the barrier between them.
It takes her a while to get up her courage, to sneak out early in the morning. Normally, she leaves her excursions for the darker hours of the night, when she is better able to disguise herself with scarves, and with the natural darkness. She isn't worried about the danger of the darkness, not like any other young woman would be. She knows she is safe from direct attacks.
This morning, the sun seems far too bright. She feels exposed. She thinks this was a stupid idea.
10.
He wakes in the night, crying softly. At first, he is too scared too scream, and he's not even sure why he's afraid.
There was something...he's not sure what. Something coming after him, although he couldn't name the purpose. Being chased is scary enough; he doesn't need any further explanation.
He sobs almost uncontrollably. Still, he cannot call for help, cannot even take his head from underneath the blanket. If he does...it might get him.
It is not a very long time - although, to him, it seems it - before there are footsteps and motion nearby. There is always motion; this room is never still, not with so many warm bodies filling it with their breathy sounds of sleep. Still, this is different; this is purposeful. He tenses, but cannot prevent a small whimper from escaping.
Suddenly, warm arms swoop and encircle him. He cries out softly and is shushed. Realising who it is, he clings and cries again.
"Shhhh, baby, it's okay,"
And she rocks him, as if he were younger. He's big now, he knows, but he still likes to be cuddled and held, especially after nightmares.
"It's okay, it's okay," and she strokes his hair. "Was it a nightmare? It's okay. I won't let anyone hurt you baby. I won't let anyone hurt any of you."
He cannot explain why he is afraid, but it's okay. She understands. He had never known a mother, but if he had one, he would like one just like her. He wishes she had more time for him, but now, at least, he does not have to share. She calls him baby, as she does all her charges, but he doesn't mind. He feels loved. He hopes it never has to end, but he dries his tears and wriggles to be put down.
"I'm not a cry-baby," he whispers, with a kind of fierce pride. "I'm okay Matron. It was just a bad dream, and dreams aren't real, are they?"
"No, no, baby, they're not. Go back to sleep."
11.
She thinks this was a stupid idea.
She sees him long before he sees her. He is focused on the ground in front of him, sweat dripping from his face, causing his hair to fall in front of his eyes. She can't help but smile at him.
When he sees her, he is stunned. He stops, still breathing hard. Her nervousness increases.
"Hello," she says. Her voice doesn't sound like it usually does. The words come out in a breathless squeak. Still, he gazes at her.
"I - " she begins, thinking this was a mistake. "I brought hot dogs."
He smiles then, a huge grin spreading across his face. Shyly, she smiles back.
12.
I can't keep my feet on the ground.
The magic fills me, and carries me. The power flows through my veins.
It starts at my fingertips, at my crossed hands. It flows, a wave of a shiver down my spine, down to my feet, then slowly back up, carrying me with it. My mind retreats. I am weightless, and my movement is effortless.
I move as if in a dream. Nothing matters, as long as this power keeps flowing. It sparks from my fingertips, and even in my trance I feel my eyes burn.
I feel like a goddess. And sometimes, it occurs to me, that perhaps that is exactly what this power makes me.
It is only an idea that I toy with sometimes. I've seen how this absolute power corrupts. It's just an idea to play with.
13.
Shyly, she smiles back.
" – war."
That's all she hears. She only catches the last part of the sentence, hidden in the kitchen as she is. She can ask her sister about it later.
She's heard the rumours before now. Of Sorceress Adel in Esthar, that power to the East. It had seemed that she was merely an ogre to scare children with. Now Adel's presence is an imminent threat. Not only to the world, but to her own well-being.
Her sister confirms it. War has officially been declared.
Later, early the next morning, she throws herself into his arms. He tries to comfort her, but he cannot answer the one question to which she needs a reply.
"What if they find out that I'm the same?"
14.
I don't want a pet.
I'm lonely sometimes, I admit it. I have my friends, we spend time together. I have my students, and my position within Garden. I'm always busy, always surrounded by people. And still, I'm a little lonely.
I don't cry myself to sleep at night, that would be silly. But when I see the dynamics of Rinoa and Squall's relationship, him protesting, while she tries to talk him into something, and then they argue, and make up…or when I see Irvine and Selphie, avoiding each other's gazes, the way they do. She'll look at him, with a thoughtful expression, until he looks up. Then her eyes dart away, pretending to be fascinated by something else. So then he'll gaze at her for a while. And then he'll hit on her, in the joking way he does everyone, and she'll brush him off, as she always does, not knowing that he doesn't do this to everyone, not any more. Oh, he'll still make the odd comment, but it's always her he goes back to. She doesn't realise that, of course. Until the middle of the night, when she's too awake to go to sleep, and needs someone to talk to. She knows she's the only one who has that with him, simply because no one else would fit in that bed with them. They lie awake and talk all night, and then he slips back to his room early the next morning.
They think I don't know. They think no one knows, when it's obvious to anyone who pays attention. Or anyone who has the room next to hers, has exceptional hearing, and stays up late with paperwork.
I don't know if they'll take it further. I think she's afraid to, since that would make her just like every other girl he's known. She doesn't want that. Nor does he, I think.
I can usually find Zell in the library these days. I caught him buying flowers once.
I have my admirers, of course. Many of whom would be happy to buy me flowers, or, probably, share my bed. If I told them to.
I don't want a pet. I don't want someone who hangs on to my every word, who does whatever I command them to, and never thinks of anything on their own initiative. I don't want someone who agrees with everything I say, no matter what I say. If they always have the same opinion, whatever I say, does it make any difference whether I'm saying something important or just chanting the alphabet over and over? If they act on every one of my ideas and never on their own, then it does it make any difference that they're a separate individual, a real person with their own life, and feelings, and ideas? I don't think so.
I don't want a pet, but I would like a partner.
15.
"What if they find out that I'm the same?"
He understands then, something that she's only alluded to before. He understands why she hides herself, why the veins pulse at her temples in the curious way they do, the way she tries to hide with scarfs. Maybe he understood before now, but didn't want to admit it to himself.
He takes her hand, the most contact he's been allowed up to this point.
16.
This is all wrong.
She was a calm woman, one who dressed in modest, subdued colours. She looked young, still looks young, but before she was a comforting young woman. He can remember his own small hands touching the veins on her face. They were raised then, slightly, an interest texture to his young self. Now they appear almost painful, purple, dramatic, like her clothing.
This is all wrong. This isn't like her.
Tell yourself it isn't her, he thinks. It might as well not be.
Then, it seems, he has a better plan. This plan is simply to stall and see what else turns up, but hey. Pretty good for less than a seconds thought-time.
"I..." He starts. They look at him, the naive optimist and the stoic young man with the scar marring the face he used to know so well. The face which he knows is only a mask, which slips to show a childish fear he recognises sometimes, when the SeeD isn't even aware of it himself.
"I can't do it."
17.
He takes her hand, the most contact he's been allowed up to this point.
She doesn't draw away, though she desperately wants to. She's afraid to look up, to see that expression on his face. The one she sees in her nightmares sometimes, when they find out what she is.
He speaks. He tells her that she isn't like Adel, that she never could be. He tells her that he loves her, that he will always love her, and she won't be like Adel because she'll always have him. And there on Balamb Beach, he kneels in front of her and vows fealty, to be her knight.
Then he asks her something else. "Edea...will you marry me?"
Credits
Cid
Seifer
Cid
Selphie
Cid
Irvine
Edea
Adel
Edea
Squall
Edea
Rinoa
Edea
Quistis
Edea
Irvine
Cid & Edea
