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Fandom: Final Fantasy VI
Characters: Edgar, Celes
Word count: ~800
Warnings: Major character death and all that implies!
Notes: AU; something went wrong in Tzen. Based on an early concept for the collapsing house scene mentioned in a developer interview.
Edgar used the spearhead to saw through one last tentacle; in its death throes it had wrapped around the heat sink and refused to be pried loose. Celes hadn’t trusted herself to deal with it without damaging the machinery.
“Well,” he said finally, as the pieces fell to the engine room floor with a damp slap, “I’m back.”
She said, “Edgar, your brother…”
He straightened. His back was to her. “Go on. I can guess. You wouldn’t have been so patient with me if the news were good.” He paused, almost long enough for her to say something, but when she didn’t immediately seize the chance he went on. “There are a few different schools of thought about opera, you know. Does the purity of the music suffice? Is it the singers’ job just to stand on the mark and hit all the hard notes? Or do we expect them to sell the emotion, too? You may be pleased to hear” - an awful hitch in his voice. He couldn’t keep this up much longer - “that you’re not an actress.”
“I’m sorry. He -”
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” he interrupted. “Most people aren’t.”
He knew, and he knew he needed to hear it, and he was stalling.
Celes touched his arm. “I was there. He was strong, and brave, and kind, right up to the end.”
He didn’t turn to her, and she didn’t look. He put his hand over hers and squeezed.
Finally he said, “Can you take me there?”
Celes slept lightly these days, always half afraid the world would be gone the next time she woke. She heard the inn’s door open and shut again, and went to the window. Eventually she pulled on shoes and an overcoat and went outside, too.
They’d reached Tzen that afternoon, and at the sight of the collapsed house he’d suddenly seemed to age twenty years, and he never recovered. He’d said, “While we’re here, we should gather information. See what else we can learn about Kefka’s capabilities.” And they’d split up, and asked around, but he had kept staring at that black rectangle in the town square, the heaps of rubble, the one supporting post in the northeastern corner that had somehow stayed upright.
And now it was night, and he was poking through the ruins with a stick, inch by inch. Under the sickly yellow streetlight he barely looked human, covered with brick dust and splinters and soot except for those two clean tracks down his face, his movements jerky and ill-judged.
He was kneeling by what remained of the hearth when she reached him. He looked up. “Show me where he was standing.”
Celes brought him to the front wall. “He was here, by the window.” The glass had exploded in all directions when the house came down.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. His hands were wrapped up in a cloth stained dark. “But there isn’t anything.”
Celes said, “If I hadn’t gone in -”
“He would’ve kept holding it up waiting for someone who would. If there had been no one around for miles, he would’ve held it up believing someone would come along. He’s stubborn. It’d never occur to him that - maybe no help was coming.” He rearranged glass shards with the point of his stick. “It’s pure coincidence that you were here during the attack. But - I’m glad that you… I would’ve hated for him to be disappointed, at the end.”
Celes could think of nothing to say. Sabin had believed in her. They hadn’t even been that close, before the world ended, but he’d looked her in the eye and known something. And they’d saved that kid. And Celes had turned back to yell for him to get clear, but not fast enough.
“I have to bring him home,” Edgar was saying. “I have to bring him home, at least. I was supposed to look out for him, but I was too busy screwing around playing prince of thieves -”
“To get to the castle,” Celes pointed out, but he didn’t seem to hear her.
“You should be asleep,” he said abruptly. “You’ve had a hard journey. I’ve got this under control, I’ll - I know I’ll recognize him when I...” He swallowed hard, but was unable to continue. Celes unwrapped the makeshift bandage from one of his hands and showed him all the cuts there, blood shining black in the night. He tried to cast a healing spell on himself so he could brush her off, but he couldn’t make it through the incantation, and he’d never been great at magic anyway. The light sputtered and died between his fingers. So she did it for him, careful not to look him in the face, and went back to the inn.
In the morning they went back north in silence, empty-handed.
Characters: Edgar, Celes
Word count: ~800
Warnings: Major character death and all that implies!
Notes: AU; something went wrong in Tzen. Based on an early concept for the collapsing house scene mentioned in a developer interview.
Edgar used the spearhead to saw through one last tentacle; in its death throes it had wrapped around the heat sink and refused to be pried loose. Celes hadn’t trusted herself to deal with it without damaging the machinery.
“Well,” he said finally, as the pieces fell to the engine room floor with a damp slap, “I’m back.”
She said, “Edgar, your brother…”
He straightened. His back was to her. “Go on. I can guess. You wouldn’t have been so patient with me if the news were good.” He paused, almost long enough for her to say something, but when she didn’t immediately seize the chance he went on. “There are a few different schools of thought about opera, you know. Does the purity of the music suffice? Is it the singers’ job just to stand on the mark and hit all the hard notes? Or do we expect them to sell the emotion, too? You may be pleased to hear” - an awful hitch in his voice. He couldn’t keep this up much longer - “that you’re not an actress.”
“I’m sorry. He -”
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” he interrupted. “Most people aren’t.”
He knew, and he knew he needed to hear it, and he was stalling.
Celes touched his arm. “I was there. He was strong, and brave, and kind, right up to the end.”
He didn’t turn to her, and she didn’t look. He put his hand over hers and squeezed.
Finally he said, “Can you take me there?”
Celes slept lightly these days, always half afraid the world would be gone the next time she woke. She heard the inn’s door open and shut again, and went to the window. Eventually she pulled on shoes and an overcoat and went outside, too.
They’d reached Tzen that afternoon, and at the sight of the collapsed house he’d suddenly seemed to age twenty years, and he never recovered. He’d said, “While we’re here, we should gather information. See what else we can learn about Kefka’s capabilities.” And they’d split up, and asked around, but he had kept staring at that black rectangle in the town square, the heaps of rubble, the one supporting post in the northeastern corner that had somehow stayed upright.
And now it was night, and he was poking through the ruins with a stick, inch by inch. Under the sickly yellow streetlight he barely looked human, covered with brick dust and splinters and soot except for those two clean tracks down his face, his movements jerky and ill-judged.
He was kneeling by what remained of the hearth when she reached him. He looked up. “Show me where he was standing.”
Celes brought him to the front wall. “He was here, by the window.” The glass had exploded in all directions when the house came down.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. His hands were wrapped up in a cloth stained dark. “But there isn’t anything.”
Celes said, “If I hadn’t gone in -”
“He would’ve kept holding it up waiting for someone who would. If there had been no one around for miles, he would’ve held it up believing someone would come along. He’s stubborn. It’d never occur to him that - maybe no help was coming.” He rearranged glass shards with the point of his stick. “It’s pure coincidence that you were here during the attack. But - I’m glad that you… I would’ve hated for him to be disappointed, at the end.”
Celes could think of nothing to say. Sabin had believed in her. They hadn’t even been that close, before the world ended, but he’d looked her in the eye and known something. And they’d saved that kid. And Celes had turned back to yell for him to get clear, but not fast enough.
“I have to bring him home,” Edgar was saying. “I have to bring him home, at least. I was supposed to look out for him, but I was too busy screwing around playing prince of thieves -”
“To get to the castle,” Celes pointed out, but he didn’t seem to hear her.
“You should be asleep,” he said abruptly. “You’ve had a hard journey. I’ve got this under control, I’ll - I know I’ll recognize him when I...” He swallowed hard, but was unable to continue. Celes unwrapped the makeshift bandage from one of his hands and showed him all the cuts there, blood shining black in the night. He tried to cast a healing spell on himself so he could brush her off, but he couldn’t make it through the incantation, and he’d never been great at magic anyway. The light sputtered and died between his fingers. So she did it for him, careful not to look him in the face, and went back to the inn.
In the morning they went back north in silence, empty-handed.