The Hollow | The Greatest View

Centra Ruins
1 BLC
Two and One-half Years to the Present

They were wandering the plains; had been, for who knows how long. Just him, and Zell, and Squall, of course. Thank Hyne the girls were still at Balamb, not that he wouldn’t like to have Selphie’s Full-Cure or Quistis’ healing Blue Magic right about now. They had defeated Ultima Weapon perhaps yesterday, perhaps three days before.

Time was a difficult thing to keep a grasp on.

He was running low on Cures, himself, but Squall had topped up hours ago, and was currently Junctioning like there was no tomorrow, experimenting with different combinations of magics and apparently trying to max out his connection with Eden.

Zell was curled up in the Tent moaning about hotdogs. Probably still asleep.

Irvine cast one final Cure on himself, shivering as the tingling rush of healing energy coursed through him like a bad sugar high, then flopped onto his back with a massive groan, stretching out his legs until his toes curled and settling his hat over his eyes. He was definitely ready for a nap.

Except Squall was still moving; full dark, beasties roaming about, a Tent set up and ready for occupation, and still the Commander was working. Irvine sighed. That boy needed a rest. Or an emergency stick-up-ass removal.

"I want to take you tomorrow ..." A quiet voice hummed, so low that Irvine thought for a moment that he might have imagined it. The melancholy tune continued wordlessly; Irvine levered himself up onto his elbows, tipping back the brim of his hat to watch the Commander.

Squall was polishing his gunblade, Junctioning apparently complete for the night; Lionheart had been streaked in blood and ichor of varying colors, but under the whetstone it began to gleam again, rasped to a razor-edge. Squall continued to hum as he worked, probably not even realizing it, his smile faint as the ripple on a pond as he sighted down the length of the blade.

"What’s that you’re singing?" Irvine asked softly. Squall stopped abruptly, and looked up, hands frozen in the firelight; he shrugged. "And don’t give me that ‘whatever’ crap, Squally-boy."

"Don’t call me that," Squall said tonelessly, running the whetstone down the blade and wiping the steel with a cloth, repeating the cycle, then again.

Irvine just nodded, as though confirming something to himself.

The fire crackled in the stretch of silence, spread in the ebon of Ragnorak’s shadow.

"Do you remember," Irvine said suddenly. "Do you remember the orphanage?"

Squall’s hands stilled again. "Yeah," he said as he resumed his steady rhythm.

"I thought so," Irvine replied quietly, staring up at the distant stars. "Did you ever wonder?" he continued, carefully, as though musing aloud. "What it would be like? To have a father? A mother?"

Squall stopped again, this time pausing to stare into the polished steel for a long moment; Irvine thought for a time that he wouldn’t answer, but then he actually met Irvine’s violet gaze and spoke.

"No. I don’t think about it."

And for the life of him Irvine couldn’t figure out why Squall was answering, opening up, but he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.

"Why not?" Irvine protested, sitting up, hoping fervently that a nagging head injury wasn’t the cause of Squall’s sudden loquaciousness.

"Because ..." Squall answered slowly. "Because it would be like hoping. It would be like wanting something. It would be like wishing that you could change the past."

"So?" Irvine asked, exasperated. "What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with hoping?"

"The past can’t be changed," Squall said, his voice deadened even beyond its usual monotone. "You can’t always get what you want. And hope always dies."

"Not always, Squall," Irvine said, voice a little sad, staring at his friend.

"Yes, it does," Squall said to his gunblade, resuming the rhythm of cleaning. "With time, everything dies."

"Fuck, Squall," Irvine breathed, staring at the Commander’s lowered head. "Don’t tell me you always feel this down."

Squall looked up at him, something very like a smile twisting his lips.

"Go to sleep, Irvine," Squall said softly, retreating behind his mask of indifference. "I’ll take first watch."

The process was almost painful to watch; the smile vanished, the lonely ache left the storm blue eyes, the scar smoothed out to a thin red line, and everything that made Squall Leonheart so damned interesting vanished into an expression like stone.

Irvine grimaced, knowing that the Commander had officially closed the door to any further conversation.

"Wake me in two," Irvine reminded him needlessly, squirming a bit to get comfortable as he resettled his hat over his eyes: it may be safer and more comfortable in the Tent, but Zell had progressed to snoring.

"Whatever," Squall whispered, sheathing his gunblade and turning to face the night.

A life without hope, Irvine was forced to ponder. What kind of life could that be? How can someone live without regret? Without wanting to change every shitty thing that plagued them into the night? Without wanting to just start over, and do everything differently, do everything right?

Irvine rolled over onto his side, pulling his coat closed and crossing his arms over his chest, shifting his hat restlessly. No way could he sleep now. No hope? Then what in Hyne’s name was Squall fighting for?

The quiet rasp of whet-stone on steel lulled him into something like sleep; his mind drifted an uneasy current of dreams and half-forgotten memories. He wasn’t like the others. He remembered. Not a lot, and not coherently, but he remembered.

Squall had never been his friend. A hot summer’s day, wind blowing in off the ocean just cool enough to bite, two little boys, sand-coated, paddling dune-trodden through the shallows. A third boy, hair dark, posture closed and forbidding, stood solitary, nearer the lighthouse than they were allowed to go. He shouted to the blond, hazy in the way of dreamed memories, and leaped a wavelet to find--

Squall bisecting an Imp with Lionheart.

Irvine blinked sleep out of his eyes as he rolled to his feet, shotgun up and ready before he was; eyesight unsteady in the low, wavering light, he took aim and blasted a Bite Bug to hell.

Not that impressive, but then he had just woken up.

Squall was out in front, as usual, dancing the wounded Imp out of range of the Tent, forcing the fight into open field with a flashing web of steel. The Imp cast Thundaga and Irvine watched, horrified, as Squall vanished momentarily in a billowing ball of energy. Lightning crackled, popped, and Squall ran from the center of the spell and attacked; Lionheart raked the ground, sending off its own shower of sparks, and cut deep into the Imp’s side.

Black blood sprayed, but the creature didn’t go down. Irvine took out another Bite Bug, wondering when in Hyne’s name Imps had gotten so fucking tough to kill. Zell stumbled out of the tent, fists idly cocked and eyes bewildered; the Imp hit him with Pain, Zell screamed, and Squall--

Squall was suddenly engulfed in a shimmering blue light; it bathed him in an ethereal radiance, ruffling his golden-brown hair and refracting the blue of his eyes. In that moment (Irvine decided) he was beautiful.

He broke free of the light, running straight up to the Imp, ignoring its defensive blows to get closer; blood streaked the both of them, and Squall dropped Lionheart to the Centra dust, lunging for the Imp’s throat with bared teeth.

Irvine dispatched a last Mesmerize absently, watching Squall’s actions with a horrified fascination. It wouldn’t be so bad, except he could hear Squall chewing as he ripped through muscle and sinew, and crunched bone, and finally came up for air, baring the Imp’s heart to the Centra wind.

The Imp was dead.

Most certainly dead.

Squal staggered back into the ring of firelight; the Imp’s heart beat idly in his hand. Lionheart trailed the dust behind him, as though it was too heavy for him to lift.

And yet, when he looked up, his eyes pulsed with life.

"Squall ..." Irvine asked, stepping toward him hesitantly.

Squall looked at him, crimson-ringed mouth baring in a red-toothed grin; their eyes met, and it was like a spell had fractured.

Squall licked his lips, thoughtfully, looking away first to examine the heart in his left fist. His brow creased with something like puzzlement. Lionheart fell again to the dust. The heart he lifted to his lips as though to finish his feast.

"Squall!" Irvine yelled, striding forward urgently.

Squall’s head came up again, eyes pinning distractingly, like a bird’s; Irvine paused, and stumbled back a step. Squall grinned again, and tore into the cooling heart.

Zell disappeared back into the Tent; Irvine could hear him retching, and wished that he had the luxury to do the same. But he watched. He watched the pride of Balamb scissor into the dense flesh and bolt down chunks of ruddy meat like a wolf, hair flying sticky with blood, face smeared with it, crimson painting his hands and leathers, his sword discarded at his feet, a man with no need for tools.

Squall finished the last bite with relish, licking his fingers clean in a neat, cat-like way that utterly belied the barbarity with which he’d made the kill. He looked up then, pupils so dilated that the iris was a thin rim of silvered-blue, and said, "Delicious."

The fight was over. The night was silent again.

"To think that such a noble mind could here be so overthrown," Irvine whispered, staring at Squall’s blood-spattered form, aghast. "What have you done?"

Squall blinked.

His pupils contracted sharply, like a heart-beat.

"Irvine?"

He blinked again, brows drawing into his usual display of annoyance; his fingers worked, and it seemed that the residual feeling of stickiness brought back the memory. He blinked again, shuddered, and looked down at his clenching fingers, then at his bloodied leathers.

"Irvine, I ..." Squall looked up, his eyes so lost and helpless that Irvine edged forward, letting his shotgun fall to the ground. "What ..."

"It must have been Eden," Irvine muttered, reasoning it our for himself as Squall staggered into a kneeling position. The glove, he remembered, that fucking glove and Squall trying to lick it like a cat. "This was our first real fight since the Deep Sea Research Facility; of course this wouldn’t have come up before now. Eden must ... need ... "

"She’s happy," Squall murmured, still staring at his hands. Irvine knelt next to him, placing one careful hand on the Commander’s shoulder. "She feels ... happy for the first time in my head."

"If this is what she needs ..." Irvine bit his lip. "Are you sure you want to keep her?"

"But the power," Squall returned thickly, meeting Irvine’s gaze with a mad, silvered glitter. "She has so much power. I can feel her, in my head. She’s humming, Irvine. She wants more."

"Not right now, I hope," Irvine joked uncomfortably, refusing to remove his hand but with thighs tensed and ready to sprint for the Ragnorak should Squall start glowing again.

"No," Squall said, pinning him with an unnerving look of appraisal. "Can’t eat you. Wouldn’t work."

"Great," Irvine sighed, clenching his fingers into the steel of Squall’s shoulder. "It’s always good to find out that you care."

"I’m sorry," Squall whispered, shuddering a little as he seemed to come back to himself.

Squall’s stomach lurched, and he leaned forward in Irvine’s arms, trying to retch up food that had already been digested, sucked up by an implacable god. He was a live thing, jumping in Irvine’s grip as he tried desperately to expel the monster from his belly; Irvine held onto him, baring his teeth with the effort, able only to stroke back the sweat and blood-soaked hair between each dry and fruitless heave.

He quieted after a time, lying exhausted in Irvine’s arms, clinging to the forearm supporting his chest as though it would bring him salvation.

"It’s okay," Irvine whispered the meaningless words, hand resting quiescent on the younger boy’s fragile neck, just at the nape. Squall coughed, sniffled, and settled himself into Irvine’s arms. He was partly lying on the cowboy’s lap, and Irvine could feel his legs going numb. He made no move to get up, though. "It’s okay," he repeated, remembering if nothing else the power of meaningless words.

"I think I need her, Irvine," Squall said, voice hoarse and small as he stared into Ragnorak’s shadow. "We’ll need her power, before the end."

"Maybe," Irvine agreed, head nodding with a sudden small breeze. "Done well enough without her," he proposed after a beat of silence, shifting his hand on Squall’s neck.

"It took everything we had to defeat Ultima Weapon," Squall returned, his voice almost dead. "I lost you three ... four times, I can’t remember how many times I went down--"

"Seven," Irvine interjected, only to be ignored.

"And still we nearly didn’t make it out of there," Squall continued, as though Irvine hadn’t spoken. "How much more powerful will Ultemacia be, Irvine? How much more power will we need?"

"Everything," Irvine said flatly. Squall quivered in his arms, and he soothed the younger boy like any skittish mount. "We’ll need everything we can get our hands on, sure as shooting."

"Will it be worth it, Irvine?"

Irvine paused for a moment, mouth open as he waited for the words to come, his heart breaking under the sorrow in Squall’s voice.

"It’s not a pretty world," Irvine said at last, staring out into a man-made darkness that only augmented the night. "And things in it are never easy," now staring at the mangled carcass of the Imp. "Everything dies in its time, and returns to Hyne, and new life is born. There’s a certain beauty in that, Squall," Irvine continued, his voice growing more certain and more heartbroken as he spoke. "Everything has its time, and place. One day we too will die, when it’s our time. Could be tomorrow. Could be later tonight. But in its time." He paused, sighed.

"And that’s what Ultemacia wants to take away. That’s what she wants to destroy, that beautiful, horrible cycle of death and life." He petted the Commander’s hair, wanting only to cling to this boy with everything in him. "But life has to go on, and everyone has to die."

"Sounds wonderful," Squall said quietly, eyeing Ragnorak’s shadow wings. "Sounds peaceful."

"In its proper time, Squall," Irvine reminded him, tangling his fingers in bloodied russet strands. "Only in its time."

"How do you know?"

"Why, when you’ve finished," Irvine said, sounding almost amazed at himself.

"But people have died without finishing their life’s work," Squall said, his voice still a monotone.

"You don’t always get to decide what your life’s work will be," Irvine returned, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "It isn’t always your story. Sometimes your death is the completion of someone else’s task, and no more."

"That’s very profound," Squall said, his voice unchanged.

Irvine looked down at the tousled head.

"Was that a joke?" he asked doubtfully, glaring at the hair as though for answers. The hair shook a ‘no’.

"I never thought about it like that," Squall said, plainly considering the subject closed. His shoulders hunched in, as though he were cold, though the firelight limned his profile in sunset gold.

"Alright, then," Irvine returned, still a bit doubtful as he settled them more comfortably in their seat by the fire. Squall’s Imp was decaying even as they talked, and would soon disintegrate, and scatter on the winds. "You okay to sleep?"

"Wake me in two," Squall said indistinctly, his voice muffled in the crook of his blood-spattered elbow. Falling asleep bathed in your enemy’s gore might bother most, but Squall had been doing so for longer than he could remember.

"Yeah," Irvine said gravely, not meaning a word of it. "I’ll wake you for next watch."

He soothed Squall’s hair into the faint grey of dawn, thoughts quite empty, eyes fixed on the far, brightening horizon.

Perhaps Squall had hope, of a sorts, after all.

A/N There was misquoted Hamlet. Chapter title taken from a song by Silverchair. Irvine’s philosophy was inspired by the old FFVII advertisements, you know, the ones that read "If you succeed, you save the world. If you fail ... Well, you can always hit the reset button."