Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ The Bloodcross Key: Arc 1: Shattered Knight ❯ Chapter 8 ( Chapter 8 )

Part 8:

        Squall sighed, holding the breath for several moments, then exhaled. Turning to Seifer's head lolling against his shoulder, he caught scent of the dirty, blond hair, steeped in cigar smoke and sweat, and unnamable things. But underneath it all, it smelled of warmth and Seifer, everything he was there to protect. As he shifted to lift them upright, the fur of his jacket and the soft gold locks tickled his nose, and he nuzzled Seifer's hair, soaking in the security and wholeness it gave him, yet completely unaware he had done so.

        He would get Seifer out of this horrible place, no matter what. Nothing would stand in his way. Nothing!

        Pushing off the wall, Seifer solidly against him, he clipped the radio to one of his belts, then grabbed Lionheart.

        "Come on," Squall whispered.

        They shuffled forward, Seifer's weight heavier on him that it had been. And his breathing, although a steady rise-fall as Seifer's chest pressed comfortably against his side, was shallow, maybe pained. Squall glanced over, ducking his head to see Seifer's downcast face. The blond's lashes were drooping, flickering as if too heavy to lift, or remain open.

        "Hey. You okay?"

        Seifer's eyes closed, anguish washing like a shadow over his handsome features. The choke of Seifer's breath shuddered along Squall's own body as the blond struggled with some inner turmoil.

        "Tired," Seifer finally rasped with a weak nod.

        "Well, we'll be home soon. Let's go."

        Squall hefted the tall blond to lean more securely against him and continued onward. Darting glances down the ancient halls, Squall turned left, never relaxing the wary roam of his storm-blue eyes or the desperate hold around Seifer's waist.

        For a structure which had been transformed, according to Raijin and Fujin's information, to imprison Seifer only, -- for the patron's sick games-- and house a few employees, guards, and the bastard who owned it, the 'Palace' was large. It would be easy to get lost in the many twists and turns and dank halls. If not for the blueprints to the ancient temple acquired through a 'little' hacking on Raijin's part, during the drive from Garden, Squall likely would have been very lost. Thank Hyne for the Deling City Archeological Society Database! And a surprisingly capable Raijin.

        The stone surrounding them was oppressive. Dark, dank, and musty, obviously the corridor they had turned down was less used, or since it didn't lead to the main entrance, unnecessary to renovate for appeal to the Palace's 'clients'. Or 'sick fucking bastards', to Squall's mind. He was somewhat grateful for the oversight, as the hall was darker, although gloomier, and the shadows shrouded him with a slight sense of comfort in their concealment, however minimal. It helped override the chill of the earth cold stone and his fear for the one he held firmly beside him.

        "You still with me?" Squall whispered against Seifer's warm throat. With a feather touch of golden hair across his eyelids, he felt the blond nod, weak though it was.

        Yet, even with Seifer's faint affirmative, his strength was slipping, pulling them both off-balance. Squall shifted, canting his hip to leverage Seifer more securely against him, metal scraping the stone floor as the arm wielding his gunblade dipped in counter-balance.

        With a grimace at the sound, he plodded forward. Another turn, and another, and another, and at each Squall faithfully spied for their enemy or anything unwelcome and unexpected. He found it at the next turn.

        The decor suddenly changed, from merely 'dusted ancient ruin' to 'gaudy self-important bastard'. A crimson velvet carpet, fringed and embroidered with gold, began at the juncture of two corridors and led to an ornate door of sculpted silver and gold. And, more importantly, led to a guard on either side of the door, both black-uniformed and alert.

        Squall had a good suspicion of what lay behind that door. And why the guards remained, in spite of the fact that Raijin and Fujin's entrance had been less than quiet, he also had a good idea. Biting his lip, he hugged Seifer closer to him.

        It was a sure bet that past those guards was Objective 3. Since he was already there, Squall could take them and the bastard out, and continue on rescuing Seifer with no risk of pursuit. Simple. Except not much was ever that simple. And he'd sooner face a hundred Ultimecia's than lose Seifer.

        Fuck! Well the least he could do was neutralize the guards. No chance of getting past to Exit Point B otherwise. And back-tracking to escape by either A or C wasn't a pleasant prospect either. So, his obvious choice was before him. Shit!

        Squall leaned back, pressing himself and Seifer flat against the wall. Turning to face the slouching blond, he whispered in his ear, "There's two guards at the end of the corridor. I'll take care of them, but try to stay up and alert."

        Swallowing, Seifer nodded slowly.

        Squall pulled away from him, giving an unconscious pat on his arm as the brunet crept towards the end of the corridor. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he shut his eyes, assessing the power flowing under his skin, connected to Ifrit, the one Guardian Force he had kept, and only for missions. He could hear the fire-spirit calling him, craving battle, craving destruction. And Squall would give it to him, all he desired. Soon.

        However, a more subtle tact was required first. Loosing a force like Ifrit in such cramped quarters would be not only difficult, but the resulting devastation could literally fall on their heads as well. Squall sensed Ifrit's grumble and snort at his practicality, but the Guardian relented, agitated with anticipation for Squall's silent promise.

        An icy-warmth crawled along Squall's blood, thrumming, building, crackling with rose light as it pooled and swirled in his hand. As much as the orange flames of Firaga or the purple-black nothingness of Ultima tempted him to loose, to vent, all his rage and destroy those who had attempted to destroy what was his, it was the very purpose of his mission which stayed him.

        Seifer, tattered and weary, broken, battered, and slumped behind him, was depending on him to bring him home, where he belonged. In order to do that, he needed to keep his senses. With a quick breath, Squall strode from the corner and darted his hand forward. The cloud of energy clinging to his fingers shot from him in a pink streak, engulfing the two guards before they had a chance to blink twice at the glowering figure in black leather before them.

        They dropped to the ground, unmoving, as if in a deep sleep. Their heavy machine-rifles fell with them, and fortunately were cushioned to a faint thud by the velvet carpeting.

        Squall's eyes narrowed with satisfaction. Without removing his attention from the Sleeped guards, using his free hand, he motioned Seifer to join him. Pale gray slowly shuffled towards him. Flicking a glance at the edge of his vision, he watched Seifer stumble along the wall, fingers clawing between the cracks in the stone to hold himself steady and upright.

        Squall's eyes stung and hazed at the tension and pain creasing Seifer's brow. Free of hands fiercely clasping it closed, Seifer's trenchcoat swung open, ragged hem brushing his bare ankles, his pale thighs tense with strain, and the shreds of black which had once been a gown barely concealing much except his most private of parts.

        Seifer looked up, sheer misery in his aqua eyes. With a hard swallow and several violent blinks of spiky lashes, Squall reached for him, grasping Seifer's wrist. For a flash of a moment, Squall's hand tingled with a tickling heat where he touched Seifer's skin, even through the thin leather of his glove. His stomach clenched and he blinked again, rapidly, desperately.

        What the fuck was happening to him? Whatever the hell it was, at that moment was not the time for it.

        "Come on," Squall snapped, far harsher than he meant, but he had no time for being nice. He tugged Seifer to him and the blond passively followed.

        Carefully, they edged toward the intersection of corridors, Squall's eyes ever watchful of the two sleeping men. A quick check of the cross-path revealed it, at least, was clear. If he remembered the blueprints correctly, two more turns, a right then a left, and a short hallway, and they should be at the western temple entrance. Hopefully, it would still be open, like Raijin had claimed in his last report.

        As they turned right at the corner, a creak sounded behind them, shrieking as loud as thunder in the silence and his taut nerves. His heart jumped, then thundered in his chest like Odin's Warhorse galloping to battle. Praying, to whatever gods may have ever existed in the world, that nothing be there, Squall shot a glance over his shoulder. Unfortunately, those gods were either long dead or never lived.

        Thump.

        A disgusting blob of a man stood in the intersection, long robes stretched over his bulk. He folded his flabby arms over his breast, where they looked like just one more fold of fat.

        Thump.

        "And where do you think you're going with my property?" the man hissed, his voice as oily as he was. His eyebrows, like two dark, greasy smudges, were arched in seething anger.

        Thump.

        To free his hands, Squall shoved Seifer to the floor, a little more roughly than he intended. Wincing, he darted Seifer a quick apologetic look. The blond landed in a sprawl with an unpleasant thud, flesh bared for any eyes to see.

        Thump.

        And eyes did see. The large man's gaze was riveted to Seifer's spread thighs, an unconscious, or perhaps actually conscious, lick of his thin lips joining his leer. Bastard!

        Seifer curled into himself, long legs trembling, pulled to his chest. His handsome face grew even paler than it had been, pale pink lips quivering as his own gaze was locked: on the man. But there was no lust in Seifer's dazed aqua eyes, no leer, not even what would be typical of Seifer: defiance and anger. Nothing even remotely familiar to the young man Squall had known most of his life existed in those eyes. Only fear, anguish, misery, despair. And worst of all: defeat.

        Thump.

        Squall shook with fury, his knuckles white around the hilt of Lionheart. Seifer should never look like that. Never! Not Seifer! He would get Seifer away, where it was safe. Where a battle, or no one, and no thing would ever hurt him. Or set their filthy eyes on him. Safe. And then there would be hell to pay!

        Thump. Thump.

        His other hand, clenched just as tightly, pulsed with pale rose light while he drew the power of Sleep once more to his fingertips. As revolting as the lust slithering off the man was, like a foul stench defiling the very air, Squall would use it against him. The fucking bastard would never look at Seifer that way, or harm him, ever again. Never!

        Thump. Thump.

        Squall shot his hand forward, releasing the pulsing magic. The pink mist engulfed the bastard he knew had taken Seifer, maybe in more ways than Squall could imagine, or would ever want to.

        Thump.

        As quickly as it surrounded the large man, the energy faded. To nothing. And the man remained standing. Unaffected. And smirking, smug and greasy and foul.

        "You thought it would be that easy?" the man laughed viciously. "You're not taking him. I am."

        Thump.

        A voice roaring of a thousand infernos, searing as flame, smoldered at the edge of Squall's mind. 'Loose me,' it fumed.

        Thump.

        "And if you're good, maybe..." The man's leering smirk twisted with a darkness that sickened Squall to his bones. "... I'll let you watch." He paused, a malicious glint in his dark eyes. With a sneering laugh rumbling in his chest, he quickly added, "No charge."

        Thump.

        'Now!' Ifrit hissed. 'I will destroy.'

        Thump.

        "You are never touching him again, Asshole," Squall seethed, cold, smooth, and level, like he recited Garden regulations or a mission briefing.

        Thump.

        Ifrit fed off Squall's rage, increasing his own, and his innate need to destroy. However, as much as Squall wanted to give in and incinerate the fat fuck to a crisp -- an image the Fire Guardian found rather impressive, and as satisfying as the brunet did -- Seifer was all that truly mattered, and he wouldn't risk him, for anything. So, Squall would deal with it directly and simply, and in perhaps the most satisfying way he knew, and well: Steel.

        Thump.

        As he leapt forward, his gunblade slashing a silver arch through the air, a huge form suddenly appeared before him, in front of the Palace's owner. Twisting his body in mid-jump, he spun, and, far short of where his leap would have if completed, landed facing the beast.

        Its head grazed the ceiling, knocking the hanging lamps, causing the light to flicker and sway. Skin coarse, leathery, red as blood, and covered only in a tattered loincloth, the beast was humanoid with four arms and clawed, massive hands.

        Thump.

        Before Squall had a chance to swing at it with Lionheart, one set of its arms pounded the stone floor, shaking the ground, the walls, and rattling the lights. Pebbles and dust rained from the ceiling, to patter on stone. Peppered with dirt, darkening his already tarnished gold, Seifer cowered against the wall, curled into himself protectively. His eyes were wild and terrified, peeking over the nest of his arms, and focused solely on the creature. And, he was whimpering.

        If Squall had the time, his heart would have broken. But he didn't. And he needed to put such things out of his mind if he was to save Seifer, and save himself.

        Thump...