the hollow | Kingdom of Daylight's Dauphin

We All Wanna Be Lions

Ballroom
Balamb Garden, Balamb
1 ALC
One and One-quarter Years to the Present

Balamb Garden glittered with lights; streamers and chandeliers and paper lanterns lit the night in a desperate need to celebrate.
The sorceress is dead. Long live the SeeD.

Squall stood on what he thought of as his balcony, arms crossed defensively against the night air. He’d just been released from the
Infirmary the day before: took one too many blows to the head trying to reach his Limit Break more consistently. Apparently even the Recover command doesn’t work very well on concussions.

The dance/celebration/ball raged on inside, music and laughter streaming through the open doors in eddying waves; it was just like that night, less than a year ago: the SeeD graduation ball. He’d stood out here, just like this; maybe leaning on the railing, maybe not so ill and emotionally dead.

But essentially everything was the same. Hyne, he was even wearing the same uniform; no one bothered to call a tailor for a man still in sick bay.

The situation was so familiar he almost expected Quistis to walk through the double doors.

She didn’t, though. Neither did Rinoa, though she’d been clingy enough inside; perhaps one of his friends had pulled her aside
and convinced her that he needed some alone time. Friends. It was odd, being able to use that word with a straight face. But
saving the world could lead to group bonding, or ... whatever.

Someone did come outside, though, footsteps loud and yet oddly hesitant on the flagstone balcony.

Squall didn’t turn from his contemplation of the far distances, but cut a glance at the intruder from the corner of his eye. It was the
president of Esthar, the curiously bumbling fool that had sent them after Ultimacia. At least the man appreciated a good contract,
enough to follow up afterwards, anyway. Squall knew that as Commander he should attempt to cultivate the man for future
business.

Except he was tired. Soul-weary. He’d been to Hell and back, or at least to a reasonable facsimile thereof. He hadn’t wanted to
come to the celebration, and he didn’t want to talk to anyone, especially not a client.

But it was his duty. And duty was almost all that he’d ever known.

"Mister president," Squall began, somewhat at a loss as to where to go from there. The other man raised a hand, though, and he
stopped with a flicker of gratitude.

"Please," the older man said. "Call me Laguna."

"Laguna, then," Squall replied indifferently, not thinking to proffer his own name for use. The conversation stalled. Laguna stared
at Squall for a moment, then turned to look out into the night, apparently uncomfortable; he clasped his hands behind his back, and began rocking a bit on his heels. He was then evidently overcome by a leg cramp, for he suddenly yelped, leaned over, and began frantically rubbing at his right calf.

Squall watched this blankly, finally returning his own gaze to the far horizon.

Laguna straightened after several long moments of silence, leaning on the railing next to the stoic Commander. He cleared his throat.

"Feeling better?" Laguna asked, raising one ebon brow at the lengths of gauze decorating Squall’s temple. Squall nodded, feeling his usual desire to skip any conversational pleasantries. Laguna prattled on, oblivious. "Doc Kadowaki, lovely woman, told me you had a nasty concussion. I’ve had concussions before, they’re really quite unpleasant, did you get too nauseous? I hated the nausea worst of all ... "

"Was there something you wanted to discuss?" Squall asked pointedly, cutting the older man off. Laguna frowned.

"Yes."

Squall waited for a bit, expecting a continuation of the monosyllabic answer; when none was forthcoming, he raised a questioning
eyebrow at the other man. Laguna grinned carefully, seeming to have stalled.

"Do you . . . Have you . . ." Laguna trailed off, apparently unable to continue.

"Yes?" Squall prompted, convinced that the bumbling president would never complete the sentence--thereby allowing Squall to leave-- without some sort of help. He turned to again face the night.

"Did you ever, umm, think about where your parents might be?" Laguna stuttered nervously, cutting sideways glances at Squall’s profile.

"No," Squall said, not bothering to look at the man. Perhaps anyone else would have objected to the question. Squall merely continued
staring out over the breeding grounds to the plain beyond. The ocean was a bare glimmer of light to the south. Laguna coughed.

"I know you were at the orphanage with Edea Kramer ..." Laguna began tentatively, bending down to rub at his calf.

"You spoke with Matron?" Squall asked, his voice suddenly sounding very young. His head hurt.

"Yes," Laguna said brightly. "Wonderful woman, very willing to sing your praises."

The moonlight glittered on the distant horizon, and cut gleaming swatches on the ragged meadowland.

"She, umm ... she told me. How she found you," Laguna clarified at Squall’s continued silence. "And about the ring and pendant you wear."

Squall’s hand made an abortive move toward the silver chain around his neck, hidden now by the uniform’s stiff collar.

"If you spoke to Matron, then you know that I’ve never remembered anything about Griever," Squall said in his usual monotone.

"But you know his name," Laguna protested, almost whining.

Squall turned a full glare on the president.

"It’s carved on the back."

"In Galbadian," Laguna countered eagerly. "You remembered the language of your childhood!"

"I remember a few things. So?"

"But not your parents?" Laguna asked sadly.

"Whatever," Squall muttered, not allowing himself to wonder at the president’s motives.

"I’m sorry, Squall," Laguna said with something like despair.

"Why?" Squall asked bluntly, turning finally to face the nervous man. Laguna wilted visibly.

"Seventeen years ago," he began, staring at his shoes.

Oh Hyne, Squall thought. I hate it when adults drone on and on about the past.

"I was living in Winhill, quiet little town, with a woman named Raine."

Raine. Squall’s hand went to the ring hidden beneath his glove, a hard shape beneath the leather.

"She had a daughter," Laguna continued softly, staring out over the moor. "A little girl named Ellone." He laughed, a broken sound. "She
called me ‘Uncle Laguna’."

"What happened?" Squall asked, very nearly sounding concerned.

"She was kidnapped." His voice sounded dead. "I went after her, followed them to Esthar." He paused, looking down at his hands.

"I found her in a fucking trash bin."

Squall also looked down, feeling an unidentifiable pang at the words.

"I couldn’t go back to her mother," Laguna went on after a moment. "I couldn’t face her after that. So I agreed to lead the rebellion against Sorceress Adel. And when I did go back, almost four years later, they told me that she’d been pregnant, that she died in childbirth. That the child died with her."

He turned to face Squall, eyes sparkling with sorrow. "I had no reason to stay there. I thought I had no reason to look for my child." He bit his lip, hands fisting at his sides as Squall stared at him indifferently. "I didn’t know," he almost wailed, looking lost.

"What do you want from me," Squall asked after several long moments.

The comment floored Laguna for a split second.

"Were you listening?" he demanded. "Your mother was Raine. Hyne, you look just like her. That child, my child, didn’t die during
birth. They sent my son to an orphanage and lied to me." He stared at Squall searchingly. "You are my son. I’m your father."

Squall just stared at him.

"Squall?"

"Commander Leonheart, please," Squall whispered, staring blankly at the older man.

"I’m sorry," Laguna said pleadingly.

Squall just continued to stare, feeling something entirely undesirable well beneath his breastbone.

"Talk to me," Laguna demanded. "Say something!"

"I can’t ..." Squall choked out, one hand going to the pendant over his heart. "I can’t ..." His voice died on a whisper.

"Can’t what?" Laguna asked intently, stooping a bit to search out Squall’s eyes.

Squall was looking out to the ocean as though the distant glimmer might save him.

"I need to leave," he said faintly, turning to brush past the taller man, too swift to catch.

"Wait, please!" Laguna called after him, sounding as lost as Squall felt. "I’m sorry," he cried again, making no effort to follow. He looked
down at his fisted hands, watching a single tear splash on skin flushed white with tension.

"You remember that time Seifer put sand down our shorts and dragged you into the ocean?" Irvine laughed, nearly spilling his punch. The punch had been spiked. He was liking this party more and more all the time.

"Yeah," Zell said darkly, taking a sip of his own death-brew; the cup was smoking, Irvine noticed with some amusement. "Matron
grounded him for like a week for that one." He brightened up at the mention of Seifer’s punishment.

Irvine nodded contentedly. Zell began piling a plate with hot dogs, a fatuous expression filling his eyes.

"I sure miss those days," Irvine sighed. He raised the plastic cup to his lips, smiling faintly as he drank. The buzz was just beginning
to get pleasant.

"Miss that?" Zell snorted, incredulous. He was much closer to being drunk than Irvine. "Yeah, I miss Seifer like the plague."

"Aw, c’mon," Irvine wheedled. "He wasn’t so bad."

"Not so bad?" Zell was slurring now, and gesturing wildly with a hotdog. "You didn’t have to deal with him here at school. ‘Sides,
he always liked you best."

"Me? Naw. He liked Squall." Irvine denied, eyes focused more on the past than on his surroundings.

"Not even!" Zell persisted. "Sure, he pestered Squall, but he pestered everybody. But you--"

"Shut it!" Irvine said suddenly, feeling the prickle-warning of danger as the noise from the crowd changed in tone. He could barely hear the shuffling of feet and rise of rumor at the far edges of the room, near the balcony, and felt his head come up like a wolf scenting prey.

Squall burst into the brightly-lit ballroom like the wrath of Gilgamesh, eyes blazing, lips pressed into a thin, suffering line. The celebratory
throng parted around him as he stalked straight across the dance floor, seemingly oblivious to both his surroundings and to the mutters that rose up like wildfire in his wake.

Irvine’s eyes lit almost immediately on the slim Commander, taking in every sign of strain and weakness that would inevitably make Squall Leonheart difficult to handle. He shook his head ruefully; whoever had pissed the Commander off had sure done a beauty of a job. Squall was practically seething. Squall never seethed.

"Who put a bee in his bonnet?" Irvine muttered idly to Zell; the burly martial artist looked up from his plate of hotdogs, murmuring
a wordless question. Irvine glared at him for a moment, wondering how he could be so fixated on food when he was drunk. "Squall,"
he said sharply, pointing to their Commander with his chin.

Zell finished chewing rapidly, swallowed, and said, "Maybe you should go after him."

"Me?" Irvine said, biting his lower lip, still staring after Squall. "Sure," he continued, forgetting Zell as he dove abruptly into the crowd.

"That was easy," Zell shrugged to himself, going back to his beloved hotdogs.

Though easy to spot, Squall threaded through the crowd like quicksilver, proving difficult to catch. Irvine dove around Zone’s extended hand, dodged Watt, nearly fell into Nida, and finally broke free into Squall’s wake.

"Squall!" he yelled, feeling unaccountably like a real cowboy calling challenge. "Wait up!" And trotting after the Commander, snatched at his sleeve.

Squall stopped.

The noise of the room seemed suddenly hushed, as Irvine focused in on the incredible tension in Squall’s shoulders. The shorter boy
turned to face him, eyes liquid.

"Squall?" Irvine whispered tentatively. Maybe confronting the Commander while buzzed hadn’t been that great an idea.

"I found my father."

Irvine froze. The alcohol drained away in a sickening rush of dread.

Squall’s voice ...

"I wasn’t even looking," Squall said in a disconnected, apathy-ridden voice that carried in the sudden silence like the ship-wide speakers. "But there he is, on the balcony."

"Squall?" Irvine placed a hand on Squall’s shoulder, fighting an urge to shake coherence from the boy. He’d honestly thought that Squall
was on the balcony alone, brooding.

"I have to leave," Squall husked, voice thick with unrecognized emotion. "I can’t be here anymore."

"No, wait," Irvine gasped as Squall slipped past him.

"I have to leave," Squall repeated before disappearing into the relivening crowd.

"Shit," Irvine muttered, tearing through the dancers after Squall.

"Hey, Irvine!" Zell slurred, weaving into Irvine’s peripheral vision.

"Not now, Zell." Irvine walked past the blonde without really seeing him, pushing past celebratory SeeDs. The whispers were rising already. Whoever was on that balcony, Irvine did not envy their welcome into the anxious crowd.

Of course, once you’ve saved the world, everyone tends to panic when you show signs of strain, Irvine grimaced to himself. Fucking
sheep.

He swept through an empty hallway to the core of Garden, ignoring the fountain in his effort to track down Squall. The Commander would go to either his office or his rooms. The only question was to which, and Irvine had the sinking feeling that he couldn’t afford to waste time on a wrong hunch.

Laguna looked up from his clenched fists, eyes drawn irresistibly to the closed door through which his son had disappeared. He sighed. His own son hated him.

And why shouldn’t he? Laguna had never been there, never tried to be there. He hated himself for it; why should he expect forgiveness from anyone else? From the one person whose forgiveness mattered?

He swallowed a sob. Why bother trying? He always screwed everything up.

He let his shoulders slump, a dramatic posture but one that felt fitting.

"Giving up?"

"Who’s there?!" Laguna’s head snapped up at the sound of the voice. Shadows moved in the alcove beside the doors.

"Walking out on him again?" The voice came again, female and detachedly inquisitive.

"Who are you?"

She stepped out into the dim light; the stars gleamed in her blonde hair.

"A friend," she said. The light sheened her glasses for a moment, opaque and unreadable. Laguna shivered. "Are you going to answer my question?"

Laguna leaned down absently to run his hand over his calf.

"I’m not walking out," he protested quietly. "I never walked out. But he doesn’t want me."

"Cut the melodrama, President Loire," the blonde snapped, crossing her arms over her stomach. "He may not know what he wants right now, but Squall needs you. He needs you," she said raggedly. "You can’t just walk away from that."

"I don’t know how," Laguna said brokenly, eyes fixed and glazed and staring in the general direction of his son as though equipped with radar. "I was a terrible father all his life, and I’m supposed to be good at it now? I ..."

"It doesn’t take much," she said, walking slowly forward to touch his cheek with her outstretched fingers. "You just have to be there. The two of you can sort out the rest as you go along."

"It still sounds nearly impossible," Laguna moaned, dropping his head into his hands. She laughed brokenly.

"Only if he’s mad enough to impale you on Lionheart before you two get a chance to bond."

"Do you think he might?"

Squall burst into his rooms, flinging an innocent vase across the room just to have something to throw. His heart was shuddering in his chest. His eyes were actually wet from tears.

He hadn’t cried in thirteen years.

The vase hadn’t traveled far enough, crashed loudly enough. Of course not; he was still in the Dormitory: Single. Fucking Balamb housing units. Too small to swing a cat in. Or a Zell.

He laughed at that thought. Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help the sob that welled up, either, as he collapsed onto the hard, narrow bed.

Doesn’t matter. None of it matters, he thought numbly.

Probably never wanted children to begin with.

He said he didn’t know! some rational voice protested.

Lies. He knew. He didn’t care.

Doesn’t matter anyway. Don't want him either.

He could almost feel the walls of ice forming in his heart, sealing him off. Freezing him solid.

Doesn’t matter. He was more resigned than bitter.

Nothing matters. Nothing.

Just the ice.

A/N Chapter title taken from The Windhover (To Christ Our Lord) by Gerard Manley Hopkins, and subtitle taken from "Round Here" by the Counting Crows.