Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Balamb Garden Festival ❯ The First Spirit ( Chapter 1 )

by Medea (medea_s@yahoo.com)

The usual disclaimer applies.

------ Stave 2 ------
-- The First Spirit --

When Squall awoke, it was so dark that he couldn't see his own hands in front of him. Even outside his window, the black night had swallowed any glimmer of light. Squinting, he tried to see, when the sound of his wall clock began to chime out the hour. It rang out all the way to twelve, much to Squall's astonishment. He remembered it was two in the morning when he last glanced at the clock. Could he have slept through an entire day? No. That was unlikely. Surely Rinoa would have woken him in the morning.

"Must be broken," he stated to the empty room. He lifted an arm and checked his wristwatch. It read the same time. Perhaps this was a plot of some undiscovered Sorceress, to take away the sunlight, and it was in fact midday? Shaking off his sleepiness, he climbed out of bed and strapped his gunblade to his back. Satisfied he was equipped and junctioned, Squall headed out of his dorm and into the corridor.

He did not see people clamouring about like they did through daylight hours. If anything had gone wrong, someone would have noticed. Right?

Squall went to bed again, and proceeded to fret over the predicament with inner dialogue. The more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and the more he endeavered not to think, the more he thought. There was no way he could get back to sleep like this. He couldn't deny that Ellone's words had had an affect on him. She had told him the first guide would arrive at one. The hour seemed to creep by as if he was under the influence of a Haste spell, and everything around was many times slower than he.

After an eternity of waiting, the wall clock chimed once. The noise seemed to hang frozen in the air, and Squall found himself to be holding his breath as if he were expecting some kind of ghost. He had to consciously inhale again, for he was starting to turn blue.

[It must have been a joke. Yeah. Real funny, guys.]

Squall looked at his watch again. It was five minutes past one. Another five minutes passed, and he was sure it was nothing more than an idle threat, a prank. He began to settle back down in his bed when the door suddenly burst open.

"Leonhart!"

The lights flicked on, and Squall had to shield his eyes from the brightness. As the burn in his retinas subsided, he looked at the figure standing in his doorway who had just bellowed his name. It was tall and masculine, dressed in blue, black and silver-grey. Upon his golden visage was a terribly familiar smile, smug and arrogant. The smile, however, was not as prominent as a diagonal scar, his only imperfection of appearance, that ran from his brow, over the bridge of his nose, to his right cheek.

"Damnit, Seifer!" Squall grumbled, standing to his feet. "What the hell is wrong with you? It's one in the morning..."

"Rise and shine, pretty boy." The blonde smirked, taking a few steps into the room. "Tonight's your lucky night. You're gonna be taken on a tour, thanks to yours truly."

"Let me guess, you're here because of Ellone?"

"No, dumbass, I'm here because I wanted to see you in your chocobo boxers."

Squall blinked. "Really?"

The ex-Knight rolled his eyes. "Don't make me kick yer ass, Squall. Now, are you ready or not? Because I ain't waiting."

He nodded. "You're a little late though, aren't you?"

"Yeah, well. The pleasuring of a woman should not be rushed." Seifer grinned and ran a gloved hand through his hair. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, huh?"

Squall frowned in disgust. "...Whatever."

His rival smiled dangerously. "Rinoa says hi."

[What?!]

Reading the look of murder on Squall's face, Seifer chuckled. "Calm down, Leonhart. As if I would do that skanky ho-"

Before he could continue, the room started to fade away around them. The air seemed to come alive with gusty breezes, and the fresh, salty scent of the ocean could be recognised instantly. The new setting began to materialise, and Squall looked about in wonder.

"The orphanage?"

Seifer had already started off down towards the beach, his coat billowing after him. It was mid morning, and the waves glistened with the kiss of sunlight. By the seashore before the lighthouse were castles left abandoned in the white sand, which were gently touched by the fingertips of the ocean. Squall's stoic expression softened slightly at the sight of his old home, and jogged a few paces to catch up to the guide.

The two continued on, walking until their path had turned from grass to beach sand, and then limestone path. As they walked closer to the old stone orphanage, Squall spotted a small pack of children, gathered around a young boy and girl, who were holding hands. Behind them all stood a woman in black, and she was talking to a man whose eyes were wet with tears.

"They can't see us," remarked Seifer. "They're just shadows of things that have been."

"Don't worry, Mr. President," the woman spoke gently. "They will be well looked after here. I understand your wish to protect them..."

He nodded once, and brushed his long fringe from his eyes. Squall stood silently as he watched the scene from afar. He glanced at Seifer, who was sitting on a low wall polishing his Hyperion, then returned his attention back to the group.

"I'm sorry to hear about the passing of your wife."

"Thank you, Mrs. Kramer," the man said, his voice weak. "I know this must seem terrible, leaving them like this, but..."

"Hush now, it is for the best. You will always be welcome here to visit them."

[It's... it's me and Elle. The day Laguna left us. I think I remember now.]

Squall felt a lump manifest in his throat. Perhaps if he was alone he might show some emotion externally, but since Seifer was only a few feet away, he decided against it.

The group of children drew closer to their new friends. The girl in blue smiled to the boy and let go his hand, and started talking to some of the other girls. The boy stood there, and cast a look over to where his father was beginning to walk away. Tears brimmed in his eyes and his bottom lip trembled. But before he could break into sobs, another little boy with blonde hair approached him, introduced himself and asked him to play.

"Seifer," Squall said, poking the guy in the side. "What happened to you? You were such a nice kid."

He stared at Squall for a moment. Then he cleared his throat, and waved a hand majestically in front of him. The scene began to fade, and change into another. This time, it is late afternoon, and the sun is blanketed behind threatening storm clouds. The children are all inside, all save for one. It is Squall, a few years older, standing in the small courtyard, his little face streaked with tears.

"I'll be okay, sis Elle," the little boy murmured. "I'll be okay on my own. But I'll miss you..."

Squall narrowed his eyes, as if to block away the tears.

"Look over there, kinky pants." Seifer cupped a hand on his shoulder, and pointed to a ship that had landed down the shore. Squall shrugged off the hand and turned. In the distance, he spotted Ellone being led onto the ship by some people in White SeeD uniform. They walked closer to inspect the scene.

"Miss, your life is in danger. We're here to protect you."

"I know," the girl sobbed. "But what about the others? Won't he come for them?"

"No. It's only you he's after, Miss Ellone."

"I see."

"If you stayed, you would be putting all their lives in danger, too..."

[She left to save us?] Squall raised a hand to his forehead and sighed. [I've been so selfish...]

Seifer moved to stand in front of Squall. "You done reminiscing? There's one more to show ya."

He shrugged his reply. The scene faded away once again, and a new one formed. It was a rocky field in the Alcauld plains. The sky was overcast, and two figures were standing at the edges, wielding gunblades.

"Seifer, what's the point of this?"

The blonde grinned. "I just wanted to show you the day I scarred you, brat."

"...Whatever."

Squall found himself caught up in the action of the battle. He relived the sensations of swinging his gunblade, blocking his opponents attacks, even being engulfed in the pyrokinetic attack. The scar on his forehead ached and felt wet like a fresh wound. When the duel was over, he passed out from overwhelming pain and exhaustion, just as he had done that fateful day.