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Chapter Text

And so it came to pass that the enemies of Kefka went to desecrate the continent in the heavens. Armed with the power of His slaves, in their folly they challenged Him. And Kefka spoke his words of hatred, and as He willed it His enemies were vanquished.

- The Book of Kefka, chapter 3, verses 36-37

To call the Hungry Lobo a disreputable establishment would not have been entirely fair. True, it was dirty and seedy, but so was everything these days, and though most of its patrons openly carried weapons none seemed to be in the mood to use them. All its tables were intact, save for the odd knife mark, and the glasses were mostly clean. Certainly no self-respecting royalty would ever be caught dead in it, but as far as Edgar was concerned that was only a point in its favor.

"Here you go!" cried the bartender, slamming a mug in front of him. "Pint of my finest ale, fit for a king!"

Edgar took a sip and tried not to grimace.

"Oh, don't complain. I'd like to see you make decent beer with the wheat and barley we have now. Nothing grows right anymore."

"Fair enough," Edgar said, raising his glass at her, and the woman laughed and turned to deal with some other customer.

The smell of smoke and stale beer filled the air, and all around him ragged-looking men and women sat quietly drinking themselves into a stupor. No one payed him the least bit of attention. Even if they had, they'd have been hard pressed to recognize their liege. His normally lustrous golden hair hadn't seen a comb in days, and his clothes were more suited for a beggar than a monarch. He'd found himself a cape, in a desperate attempt to regain some style, but it was an old, ragged thing.

Beside him sat the man he'd come looking for. He slouched there, staring moodily at the bottom of his mug and sparing little attention to the world around him. Just like many others, these days.

These were the people he'd meant to protect.

"Don't you look like a ray of sunshine," the bartender said, startling Edgar out of his thoughts. "Can't you see you're bringing down the cheery mood?"

Edgar grinned up at her. "Looking for more sob stories to collect? I imagine you've heard your fair share."

"That I have. You sound like you're from the desert. You hear about the castle, right?"

Edgar took a long swig of his beer. Somehow, it went down more easily than before.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I've heard."

"Ugly business, that. The governor's holed up in his house and can barely keep control of the city, and with the King gone—"

"What a loss," the man beside him snapped. "An Empire-loving bastard who exiled his own brother. Good riddance to him, I say."

"Really?" Edgar replied. "I've heard he's actually an idiot who spends all his time chasing skirts rather than doing any sort of work."

He'd always preferred that rumor. It had taken quite a bit of effort to spread.

"That's enough disrespect from the both of you." The bartender slammed another mug on the counter. "Edgar may have been eccentric, but he was a fine king."

"Three cheers for King Edgar!" someone cried behind them, and a half-hearted whoop spread through the bar. Everyone drained their mugs. Someone in the back decided to render tribute to their liege by reciting dirty limericks starring his person.

"Some eulogy." The bartender chuckled, shaking her head. "Wonder what he'd say if he was here."

"Well." The man beside him looked glumly into his mug. "Wouldn't do us much good if he was, would he? What can he do, raise the dead? Create food from thin air? Beat up Kefka?"

"Now there's an idea," the bartender said. "If there's anyone who could use a good beating..."

The man snorted. "Nah. The people of Nikeah have the right of it. If we just stay quiet and do nothing wrong then he'll leave us alone. It's best not to talk about rebellion and risk the Light of Judgement again."

He'd met Kefka, Edgar wanted to say, and he was quite certain he'd consider boringness just as big a crime.

"Is living like that really worth it?" he asked instead, as the bartender clicked her tongue and scurried away.

"Is living at all really worth it?" The man shook his head. "I was from the countryside, you know." The look in his eyes was one that Edgar had come to know well. He'd seen it on every face in Nikeah. He'd seen it on Sabin's, ten years ago.

Maybe something was showing in Edgar's expression; maybe it was simply that the man had too much to drink and too much to mourn. Something in him seemed to break. "Look," he said. He leaned forward and opened his pouch. Edgar only caught the slightest glint of green, but he already knew what it was. It had taken quite a bit of effort to track it down from one hand to another.

"I bought this from a merchant from Nikeah," the man continued in a conspiratorial whisper. "Only fifty gil. I don't know what it is, but I know that those cultists are looking for them. If I give it to them, they'll let me join." His eyes were wild and hollow. "They say they can help those who've lost everything. I can put in a good word for you, if you want."

Edgar closed his eyes for a second. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Don't. Listen, that's not going to help you. How about this: I'll buy that crystal from you. Use the money to do something else. Get on the ferry to Nikeah and start again. They're looking for workers there."

"Start again?" The man gave a hysterical laugh. "And why should I? We're all doomed to die out soon. What's the point of fighting fate?"

"You believe in fate?" Edgar asked.

"What else is there to believe in?"

Edgar leaned forward with an easy smile and fished out his coin from his pocket. "Then why don't you ask it for guidance?"

Edgar stepped out of the Hungry Lobo and into the streets, his newly regained magicite weighing comfortably in his pouch once more, Siren's faint presence by his side like a soft, gentle humming. The weak morning sun shone on the tall, wooden houses of South Figaro, its cobblestone streets, the tainted water that flowed through its canals. In the strange new light of a dying world, the city he'd once known felt eerily alien.

He'd landed in Nikeah, originally, though not with very good aim. A sailor had fished him out of the ocean and dumped him in an alley after relieving him of his money and valuables—and his magicite. He'd woken to a city filled with hollow-eyed, despairing faces.

South Figaro was different. Where the people of Nikeah had broken under the fear of Kefka, the people of South Figaro still held on. What had broken was the city around them.

The Imperial occupation had taken much out of South Figaro, leaving buildings dilapidated and the guard force decimated. Much of the city's wealth, the supplies, the merchant's wares had been confiscated by the soldiers. The troops' withdrawal had been but a token concession on Gestahl's part—the damage had been done.

Then, three days after the Cataclysm, the Light of Judgement had struck. It had missed the city and burned the fields instead, destroying houses and farms and carving a new inlet of sea west of the city. The countryside had been scorched and ravaged, the people driven from their land.

Northeast of the docks, past the first flood gate, lay the workers' district. There, in the grimy streets among the breweries, tanneries, and slaughterhouses, the survivors from the farmlands had taken refuge. They slept in the warehouses and in the streets, huddled together between closed-off businesses and tenement houses; some had even turned old boats and barges into makeshift homes on the canals. Many had spilled out into the rest of the city, from the Guardsman's Walk on the northern city wall through the Merchant's Quarter and all the way to the narrow, seedy alleys of the docks.

A young girl ate a shriveled apple on a street corner, cutting out the rotten bits with a small pocket knife. She held out a piece to Edgar with a grubby hand.

"Mommy said we should share what we have," she informed him with solemn intensity. She looked no older than seven, all dirt and bony knees. "'Cause we're all stuck here now and if we don't act nice to people then we'll turn into Zozo."

"Your mommy is a very wise woman," Edgar said, kneeling down before her. "But you should keep that. You need food to grow into a wise lady like your mommy. I'm a grown-up; I don't need to eat any more."

"Oh. All right." The girl frowned as she processed this information. Then her eyes lit up. "Oh! I'm supposed to ask if you've heard anything about Mobliz! My uncle moved there last year. Mommy said he was tired of people and wanted to raise chocobos."

Edgar shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Oh," she said, chewing thoughtfully on her apple. "All right."

She wasn't the only one looking for information. People whispered among themselves, desperate for news of their families, their friends, their hometowns, trying to piece together the shape of the world. Every little bit of information on the outside world was precious. Travel had been difficult ever since the Cataclysm, now that the maps had been rearranged and dangerous monsters roamed the land and sea. Railway lines had been swallowed by the earth, and ships had been known to mysteriously disappear. Many of the semaphore towers that once dotted the landscapes of Figaro had fallen. Pigeons were unreliable—those still alive and healthy enough to survive the journey had trouble finding their way in the new, changed world.

The news were vague and sparse. Outside of Nikeah the Serpent's Trench had emerged from the waters; the ocean bed made an eerie, otherworldly landscape, with its dead coral and briny marshes. Some enterprising spirits had set out to follow it, but if they'd made it to the other end Edgar never heard. North of Figaro, the Sabre Mountain Range had been swallowed by the sea, along with Mount Kolts, the Lethe, and hundreds of small mountain villages. Of the world's largest continent, little was left but remote islands. Reports from the Southern Continent were scarce, but they spoke of twisted, unrecognizable landscapes.

Vector was gone, and on what was left in its place no account agreed. Jidoor had survived relatively unscathed, as had Zozo. There were tales of monsters from Maranda. Mangled reports of destruction from Tzen. No news from Albrook. No news from Doma. No news from Kohlingen. No news from Narshe.

No news from Figaro.

In the pale sunlight of their new world, Edgar walked through the streets of the town, exchanging news and helping wherever he could.

"Have you any news of the castle?" he asked those who would listen.

And: "Have you seen my friends? There's a young man with a bandanna and sticky fingers, a young woman with green hair..."

And: "I'm looking for my brother. He looks just like me, only with more muscles and an aversion to shaving properly."

But no one had seen his brother or his friends or his castle. An old woman pointed him to a bulletin board next to the Dancing Moogle Inn where people could write the names of those missing. Some had been crossed out. Most hadn't. Edgar wrote down the names of his companions, then walked away.

An Ifrit-class Magitek armor had been abandoned next to the waterwheel outside the smithy. It stood slightly crooked, like an old, dead husk. The joints had rusted, the metal plates were scratched and dented, and the controls had been meticulously destroyed. It loomed like a rampant beast, casting a twisted shadow on the ground, and few people chose to walk past it. As the sky began to darken and the sun set the horizon aflame, Edgar went to rest under its shade.

He'd been so excited, long ago, when Locke had finally managed to treasure hunt the schematics from an Imperial courier's pocket. There was much he hadn't understood at the time. He'd found more pieces of the puzzle since then. Had the process to imbue the magic tortured from the Espers into the cold metal been the same as the one that one thousand years ago had created the ancient relics, or had the Empire created brand new atrocities to inflict upon the world?

Had any of the Magi's deeds come close to matching what Kefka had achieved?

When he closed his eyes he saw the end of the world, his companion's faces as they disappeared in the whirlwind. Gau and Relm had been children. Celes and Terra had only begun to live their lives free of the Empire, and Sabin—

But there was no point in dwelling on such things. He didn't know his friends were dead. Edgar had survived, after all, and wasn't Sabin always boasting about being tougher than him?

His friends were beyond his reach, for now. But there were others who needed his help.

There were two things he needed to do.

The first was simple. Locke had told him of the secret passage he'd discovered during the Imperial occupation and of what he'd found on the other end. It was easy enough to uncover once he knew where to look. The mansion was guarded now, but Edgar could silence his footsteps with a spell, and a quick incantation put the sentries to sleep.

That evening Lawrence da Ponte, governor of South Figaro and richest man in town, walked into his study to find a dirty, disheveled man sitting in his chair, muddy boots on his exquisitely carved mahogany desk.

"Don't bother calling the guards. I'd hate for you to waste your breath," Edgar told him cheerfully, twirling his knife in his hand to give the impression that he could, at any moment, bury it in his neck with the slightest flick of his wrist. He couldn't, but he felt that there were certain expectations to be met and had resolved to play the part as best as he could.

"Please, do sit down." He gestured at the ornate chair before him. The man obeyed, stiffly. "My name is Gerad, and I'm here to discuss certain financial affairs with you."

"I'm sure," said da Ponte, clearly doing his best not to sound intimidated and failing utterly. No recognition showed in his eyes. Men like him rarely saw beyond the finery and the regalia.

Edgar motioned towards the window. "I'm here to bring to your attention the plight of the men and women who have taken refuge in our fair city following recent events. It strikes me that you are not perhaps handling this situation as best as you can."

Da Ponte fixed him with a pointed stare. "Who the hell are you?"

"Call me a concerned citizen. But let's not change the subject. We were discussing your response to recent tragedies and the inadequacy thereof."

"And what do you expect me to do? The occupation left our town in shambles. We're doing all we can with what we have."

"And yet those less lucky than you still starve in the streets. The ferry to Nikeah has reopened. The merchants there are looking to reestablish trade routes, and they have food and manpower to offer. You've done little to take advantage of this."

"With what money should I do so, pray tell? Our coffers are, sadly, quite bare. Or haven't you noticed that little unpleasantness a while ago? The Empire left us little."

Edgar hadn't known the man well, but he'd been appointed by Edgar's father and he'd served the crown for many years. He'd struck Edgar as self-serving, but not cruel or disloyal. What had driven him to betray his homeland to the Empire?

Money, probably. It usually was.

"Surely a man as generous as yourself couldn't possibly wait to dip into his private funds to provide aid to his community. And I'm certain you have plenty to give. I hear you had quite the windfall recently."

A muscle in the governor's jaw clenched. "I don't know what you're talking about. The Empire—"

"—is quite generous when it wants to be." Edgar let his smile widen. "As I'm sure you are too. I think charity would be a wonderful balm for any remorse you may be feeling over your recent correspondence, would it not?"

Whatever attempt at bravado da Ponte still clung to vanished from his face. He was as white as his cravat, his eyes wide and sweat beading on his forehead.

"And, should you happen not to feel any, I'm certain that could be fixed," Edgar continued. He removed his feet from the desk and leaned forward, spreading his arms and smiling like a shark. "In fact, I believe there are thousands of honest citizens outside who would be quite happy to help."

The second thing was simple in theory but difficult in practice.

There was a part of Edgar's brain that could keep him entranced for hours dissecting interesting contraptions. He was fascinated by the puzzle of how the gears turned together with clockwork precision, how even the smallest of parts was necessary, how changing even one could drastically alter the whole. The world was the same: a crisscross of people and schemes and events, infinitely complex, and he just needed to figure out how they all fit together to be able to fix it.

He knew two things: that his castle was not in the desert of Figaro, and that there had been no news from Kohlingen ever since the Cataclysm.

This, in itself, meant nothing. With communications the way they were, it was impossible to tell whether this was because a disaster had befallen it or simply because the pigeons and the travelers hadn't found their way yet.

He didn't have the complete picture yet, but one piece was plainly visible: if his castle was still above ground, then it would be in Kohlingen; if not, then at least the people there might know more of its fate. As always, the first step was to collect more data.

He had to get to Kohlingen.

Chapter Text

King Edgar has quite a nice drill.
The ladies all think it's a thrill,
Because they have found
It drills holes all day round
For the low price of twenty-five gil.

- Popular limerick

The first month had been the worst.

Edgar had spent two weeks begging for food on the streets of Nikeah until he'd managed to find enough strength to work. Afterwards, he'd started fixing ships' engines when he could find work at the waterfront and repairing stoves and clocks around town when he couldn't. There wasn't much money to be earned, but he'd slept on the streets and skipped meals, and he'd managed to save up a modest sum.

The Nikeah-South Figaro ferry had lost most of its ships in the Cataclysm, and many others had disappeared off the coast of Figaro soon after. But its owners weren't planning to give up. As he waited for the ferry to reopen, Edgar watched the people of Nikeah and kept his ears open for news of the outside world.

Nikeah was a city of merchants. There was nothing you couldn't find at the port bazaar of Nikeah, so went the cliché, if you had the money and knew where to look. It was a city of thieves, lurking in the alleys, and of sailors, smelling of sweat and salt. It was a city of pubs, markets and docks, where you could watch people of all kinds go about their business. That's what the city was: a nexus, a meeting place for people the world over.

That hadn't changed. What had changed were the people. They still came from outside, seeking harbor or wealth, but they walked along with their heads bowed and their eyes downcast, did their business as quickly and quietly as possible, spoke in hushed whispers of the world outside. The Light of Judgement hung in the air like a sword swinging from a frayed rope.

In the town square, a man in green robes had preached the word of Kefka. Around him, people had gathered; some booing, some listening, some whispering among themselves. None had tried to drive him off. Too scared, most likely, of Kefka's retribution.

"Would you fight the water that wears the mountains down to dust?" the man would proclaim, arms spread wide. "Or would you accept it? Can't you see there is no other choice? Can't you see?"

Afterwards, Edgar followed him into an alley behind the pub. He caught the preacher by the arm and the man turned towards him, his eyes hollow and haunted.

"Listen," Edgar whispered to him, his voice conspiratorial. "I know the others don't understand, but I could feel the truth in your words. Please, I wish to know more."

But the man only muttered gibberish about a tower and a box, and eventually Edgar walked away.

That evening, he'd taken the ferry to South Figaro.

Of the money Edgar had earned in Nikeah, only a few hundred gil were left. He had a dagger he'd bought because he needed a weapon and couldn't afford anything else, the clothes on his back, and the magicite.

He needed supplies.

In a small shop, on a rickety table illuminated by a splash of light from the broken window, Edgar pored over the available maps. No two matched. Most were little more than scribbles; others had been roughly edited from older charts. None seemed to agree on what lay beyond the sea. They only had one thing in common: a large blank area west of South Figaro.

"You're going through the desert?" the clerk asked him, frowning. She was a short, dry woman with a sharp voice and a surly look on her face. "Are you insane? It's almost August. You'll be cooked alive."

"As much as it warms my heart to hear you urge me to stay—"

"Don't bother. I only go out with people with sense."

In the end, he excused himself from the shop without buying anything. The clerk simply rolled her eyes and waved him off.

With the last few gil from his pouch, Edgar bought himself supplies and as much dried meat as he could afford. He remembered listening intently as the Locke listed everything that could be useful on an adventure, fascinated by the bits and pieces of a life he'd never thought he'd ever live.

He donned his old brown cloak and slung his pack over his shoulder. With a last glance at the dirty blue rooftops of the city, he turned his back and bid goodbye to South Figaro.

At first he passed through the fields. Those that hadn't been burned down by the Light of Judgement were sickly and wilting and the farms that dotted the landscape were little more than rubble. Edgar walked past dusty carts and broken fences, as the husks that had once been buildings dotted the horizon. Eventually, even those last signs of civilization grew sparser and sparser until nothing was left but the wilderness. Patches of forests still grew, grey trees with grey leaves; no birds chirped among their branches, and Edgar did not venture into them. By the time he reached the East Figaro mountains, even the dry grass had begun to give way to bare rock.

He spent the night inside Figaro Cave. Once, it had been a well traveled passageway between the capital and its kingdom; now the way had caved in and there was no capital left to travel to. The air inside was dank and clammy, and the walls still bore the signs of battle from when the retreating army of Figaro had collapsed the entrance and the Imperial army had drilled their way through. Throughout the night he could hear steps and growls echoing through the corridors; once, he thought he felt something watching him from the darkness. But he slept with his dagger in his hand and the fire by his side, and nothing bothered him.

When the sun's first rays shone through the cave entrance, Edgar packed his supplies, refilled his waterskin from the spring, and headed west into Figaro proper. The scenery that awaited him beyond the mountain range was a picture of desolation. Barren rock extended in front of him, for miles on end—to the left, the ocean glistened like a sickly purple bruise upon the world; to the right lay a vast sea of sand, filling the horizon.

The great Figaro Desert. The largest desert in the world.

Even in better times, the learned traveler had been wary of Figaro desert, where the sun was baking and it was easy to lose one's way among the dunes. But Edgar was well familiar with the dangers of the desert, and he kept out of its reach, walking along the southern shores.

He made good time on the first day. With his pack on his shoulder, his cloak fluttering, he walked.

"Oh, my hero, my beloved," he sang quietly to himself, and his voice was the only sign of life to be heard for miles.

The hours passed unrelenting, stretching out into days. Miles went by, and the barren waste remained the same. Dusty grey rock, scorched by the sun, spread where grass had once grown.

And, finally, the unnatural cold that had settled on the earth after the great disaster gave way to the summer.

Edgar, who'd lived in the desert all his life, was not caught unprepared. He carefully rationed his food and wrapped cloth around his head. Through it all, he pressed forward.

On the third day he got lucky and found a desert hare—a quick spell and it was dead before it could run. He skinned and gutted it and tried not to gag at the sight of its innards. The meat was hard and bitter; he had to force himself to swallow every bite, and he sent silent though devoted prayers to Ifrit for sparing him from having to eat raw, bloody flesh. Had Sabin and Locke been there, they'd have laughed mercilessly at him for his queasiness, of course, but neither his brother nor his closest friend were there to mock him, so he had to do the job himself.

Water, at least, was not a concern. Shiva had once taught him to condense the water in the air into crystals of clear ice. The sun did the rest.

If the days were hot, then the nights were still freezing, with a chill that crept down to his bones. But the temperatures, at least, he could deal with. It was the stillness that unsettled him.

Figaro had never been truly quiet. The constant rumble of the engine, the whirring of the wind turbines, the warking of the chocobos had filled the air. Even in the quiet hours of the night, the castle had been alive in a way few other places could be. Edgar had found it comforting. Locke had thought he was crazy, of course, but Locke usually did. Out here, in the desert, there was nothing but desolate wasteland for miles and miles. No wind blew. It was lifeless and utterly still, without even the sound of shifting sand to fill the air.

It was the first time he'd ever spent more than a day away from anyone, he realized one night. Before, he'd always been surrounded by nobles, guards, machinists, councilors. He'd never been truly alone. It had felt like it, at times, but this was different. He felt slightly off balance, like a gear that had slipped out of alignment by a hair's breadth.

The magicite in his pocket hummed softly with power. Terra had talked to the crystals, he remembered. Celes had spoken as if they'd been alive, and even Sabin had mentioned the whispers of the dead espers. Edgar held his magicite and tried to listen, but Siren was silent to him. When when the exhaustion wasn't quite enough for sleep to find him, he'd lie on the ground, turn his coin around in his fingers, and imagine Terra's laughter, Sabin's chanted mantras, the grind of whetstone against metal as Celes sharpened her sword, Locke's snoring beside him.

"I don't snore," Locke had told him once, in that petulant tone he'd always use whenever someone found fault with him. "I'm just pretending to sleep in order to lull you into a sense of false security."

"Believe me, security is not the feeling your snoring evokes in me," Edgar had said, and then Locke had tried to punch him and they'd scuffled until they were laughing too hard to continue.

He'd imagine the chatter, the jokes, the laughter, the arguments. Cyan and Celes raising their voices with each other, Interceptor's barking, Locke and Sabin singing off-key folk songs. And of course Gau had been the noisiest, jumping and howling and babbling with that endless manic energy of his.

"Quite the rowdy little spirit you've found," Edgar had said to Sabin, once, after an eventful evening spent failing to convince Gau not to gnaw on his cape.

"Isn't he great? I was thinking I could adopt him. What do you say?"

"I'm glad to have a new addition to the family. Think we can make him king?"

"He'd probably end up trying to eat the crown."

"Excellent! I shall notify the Chancellor at once."

When the memories became too much, he'd lie on his back and watch the stars. The world may be in ruins, but the stars at least never changed.

If there was a bright side to the growing heat, it was that it kept the monsters away. Few beasts were around to decide they wanted a kingly meal, and those that did were easily dispatched. This was why he was so surprised, early in the morning of the seventh day, to see a figure emerge from the horizon.

Edgar had spent the most of the night walking, lighting his way with Ifrit's fire. The sun had already begun to shine on his head, and he was beginning to feel a little like a recipe from that cookbook Terra had bought in Narshe in one of her attempts to feel like a normal person. "Cook over low fire," she would read out loud, carefully enunciating every word, never quite sure what to do with this newfound wisdom.

The figure turned out to be a middle-aged woman with dark curly hair and a hunting spear in her hand. She seemed startled, but she didn't run as he approached. Edgar greeted her with a sweeping bow. "Well met, madam." His voice was hoarse from disuse, but never let it be said that the King of Figaro could be anything less than courteous. "My name is Gerad. Is there by any chance a town or encampment nearby?" he asked.

The woman opened her mouth, then closed it. She nodded. "Camp is ten minutes from here. Come. You shouldn't be out here like this." She turned around; then, with a moment's hesitation, she looked over her shoulder. "I'm Nell."

Together, the walked towards the dunes.

Chapter Text

The first time I saw the desert was soon after finding myself. I knew nothing and no one, and the first thing I thought when I saw the barren dunes was that no one could possibly live there.

But life blooms everywhere, even the most desolate of places. There are many things that no longer fill me with wonder, now, but this is not one of them.

- Terra Branford, letter to Celes Chere, dated to Year 15 Post-Cataclysm

He found himself back in the castle, roaming the hallways and galleries, running his fingers along the cold stone walls. He knew there was a leak somewhere—he could hear the steady drip of water echo across the corridors—and he knew he had to fix it, but every time he tried to focus on a pipe it would flicker and slide out of focus. A tall, gangly man followed him as he walked. Edgar remembered him from his childhood, a tutor his father had hired to teach him and Sabin proper manners. He smelled of stuffy old books, his long face like a goat's (although, come to think of it, it actually was a goat's face now), and he was utterly devoid of humor. The twins had loved to play tricks on him.

Now he followed Edgar around the maze of corridors, shouting out the proper way to handle a salad fork at dinner. Edgar ignored him, and every time he turned a corner, the man would burst into tears—something Edgar remembered he'd often been close to doing. His bawls grew and grew in intensity, like the high pitched whine of a nightmarish child, until the hallways trembled and the ground began to crumble. Large chunks fell from the earth, and the rocks throbbed and broke apart.

He ran, but the ground gave way beneath his feet and he found himself falling towards the distant ground.

He opened his eyes to a yellow cloth draped above him.

He blinked, slowly. Sleep still pulled at him from the edges of his vision. A tent. He was lying inside a tent.

It took some effort to raise himself; it felt like so long since he'd slept on a bed. Shaking away the last of his dizziness, he took stock of his surroundings. His pack lay were he'd left it. His coin was still in his pocket. Dried meat hung above his head, and the sun was visible through the fabric of the tent, lighting it with splashes of color. The tent itself had been stitched together from many different cloths, none originally intended for that purpose. A look around him around revealed some metal pots, china bowls, and cutlery, all mismatched but clearly of decent make. In a corner he saw a small picture frame with a faded photograph: in it, Nell and a tall, imposing woman in a city guard's uniform sat smiling at each other.

Edgar looked away, feeling as if he'd seen something he shouldn't have.

The sun's glare hurt his eyes when he left the darkness of the tent. Squinting, he could make out the shapes of the other tents against the brightness of the sky. Nell sat in the shade beside the entrance, protected against the late afternoon sun, stringing a bow with well-practiced motions. "You're awake."

Edgar gave her his best smile. "Greetings, madam. I do apologize, but I wasn't much for conversation earlier. I'm afraid the desert sun tends to do that to you."

There was a slight pause. "It's fine." She watched him with wary eyes, but then the corner of her mouth quirked up. "I wasn't much for conversation either. An hour spent stalking a desert eel, just for some stranger to show up and scare it back underground. You understand."

Edgar laughed. "That's fair. You have my gratitude. And my apologies."

"Eh, it probably made no difference. I've always been better at making weapons than using them. The Mayor wants to see you, by the way. You might want to brace yourself."

The Mayor turned out to be an elderly, stone-faced woman with white hair, loose robes, and an intense gaze that was more reminiscent of Matron's than Edgar was comfortable admitting. He leaned down to kiss her hand and she stared him up and down with an expressionless face. It felt like being introduced to a foreign leader.

"Nell tells me you're just passing through," she said.

"I am grateful for your help," Edgar said, bowing deeply. "Please, tell me how I can repay my debt before I—"

"Leave? The sun must have baked your brain, boy. There's nothing out there but miles of wasteland. I'd have thought you were going to South Figaro, but if you are you got turned around something bad."

"I can handle myself, ma'am. I'm—"

"Planning to cross a wasteland with only one waterskin?" the Mayor asked sharply, and Edgar grit his teeth. Someone had been going through his pack. "I'm surprised you even made it this far."

Edgar felt a familiar surge of irritation rising in his chest at her tone, and he almost opened his mouth to protest, but—

He was tired. What could a few days of rest hurt?

"We need someone with a good pair of shoulders. You need not to die in the desert. This is a mutually beneficial arrangement, Gerad. How about it?"

And that was the end of it.

There had been many farm towns near the edge of the desert, close enough to Figaro to benefit from the trade, but far enough to enjoy regular rainfall. None had survived the disaster—they'd been razed to the ground, swallowed by the earth, or overrun by monsters. Many people had died later, of sickness or starvation. Some had decided to try for for South Figaro; most had decided not to risk the journey. So they'd stayed, hoping that relief would come from the castle.

It hadn't.

Soon, the desert had reached them. The grass had wilted beneath their feet, and their land no longer welcomed them. But they were women and men of Figaro, and they'd endured. They'd moved to the south, towards the ocean where the air was cooler. There were merchants among them, who knew by necessity and experience how to survive in the desert. And they had. Not easily, not without hardships or losses, but they'd survived.

There had been other people in the desert, once. Nomads, camps, little oases in the middle of the desert to provide relief to traveling merchants. They were all gone. Just like the people of Figaro Castle, they'd disappeared, leaving behind a barren wasteland.

These were the only people left.

The camp counted fifty heads at most. Most paid him little attention, too concerned with their own survival to care for a single stranger, which suited him just fine. No one recognized him. Some must have seen him on their visits to Figaro Castle, in the distance, but no one thought to connect their splendid, far-away monarch with the dirty, bedraggled refugee who'd stumbled by chance into their camp.

Soon enough he learned to make himself useful, first by keeping the children entertained while the others were out hunting or fishing. As the afternoon sun glared from the sky, they'd take cover in the shade and he'd tell them stories from his travels or the tales that Locke liked to tell around the campfire. After the first couple of days, he began to go hunting with the others. He built fishing poles and fixed tents, and helped Nell create new weapons they could use.

Before the disaster, Nell had run a weapons store; now, with no weapons left to sell, or people left to sell them to, she put her knowledge to different use. Sometimes, they would talk about the finer points of preparing gunpowder, or assembling a crossbow, or the advantages of different sword types.

"You're a noble, aren't you?" Nell asked him one evening, as they sat on the ground among the lengthening shadows of the tents, drawing schematics on the ground with a stick and tossing ideas back and forth. "Your accent's pretty fancy."

"My father was a marquis, but I ran away to become an engineer," Edgar lied easily. "It seemed more interesting."

She snorted. "Why would you do that? Why would anyone choose to give up a life of luxury?"

Edgar knew how lucky he'd been all his life. He'd had the power to get anything he could ever wish for—except, perhaps, for the freedom to live his life the way he wanted to, and he knew well how many would jump at the chance to make that trade. Up until that night Kefka tried to burn down his castle, he'd never had to worry about having food, money, or a place to sleep. It seemed so long ago, now.

He thought of Sabin, who'd chosen to give it all up to follow a vague dream.

"It doesn't matter how lucky you are in life," Edgar said, at length. "People will always find a way to be unhappy."

"I guess I never thought about it that way." She turned to look at him, a lopsided smile on her face. "Not that it matters much nowadays, does it?"

"Nobles die as easily as anyone else, don't they?"

"Yes," she murmured and shook her head, a faraway look on her face. He hadn't asked her what she'd lost, and she'd returned the favor. "My mother used to have a saying. We're all the same, just cogs in the machine of life."

"But that doesn't mean we're not important. Without the cogs, the machine would break."

"The machine is broken, Gerad," she said gently.

"Maybe it can be fixed."

Nell turned to gaze at him with a blank look on her face. "You really believe that?"

Edgar looked up at the bleak sky and thought of the dying land and the starving people. He thought of his friends and of his brother, missing and possibly dead. Of his castle.

"I do," he said, because it was easier than telling the truth.

There was always something to do at the camp—hunting, fishing, minding the kids.

The sun was still rising slowly in the east and Edgar was playing with the children, teaching them how to use their toy spears without poking any eyes out, when the Mayor came to find him.

Her name was Anna, though hardly anyone ever used it. She'd been the mayor of a small town that had been destroyed by an avalanche. She'd survived (nothing short of Kefka himself would drag her to her grave before she was ready, Edgar suspected) and she'd kept the job, leading people as if nothing had happened. She was too old to hunt, but she knew how people worked.

"Come to my tent," she said, and her voice was that of an old woman who might call you over for tea, neither frail nor commanding. Edgar followed.

Like all the others, the Mayor's tent had been stitched together from every scrap that could be salvaged from the ruins of the towns they'd left—curtains, bedsheets, tablecloths, the clothes of dead men—but as a concession to her position, they'd reserved the most colorful for her. The sun shone through layers of multicolored cloth, like a kaleidoscope. Somewhere in the back of Edgar's head, it brought to mind Locke's silly bandannas.

"Sit down," she said, plopping down onto the ground.

Edgar crossed his legs and waited for her to speak.

"I've been meaning to talk to you for a while. Now seems like as good a time as any."

She took his hand in her fingers, her claw-like grip strong but slightly trembling.

Finally, she spoke, her words slow and deliberate. "You came here looking for something."

Edgar cocked his head, unnerved but resolved not to show it. "Well, of course. People don't hike through barren wastelands for their personal enjoyment."

"Oh, you're wrong. There are many who seek enjoyment or enlightenment in harsh places." Her voice sounded slightly amused, though Edgar wasn't sure he could tell. She ran a finger on the lines of his hand, and he fought the sudden urge to shiver. "Many, but not you, I think."

Many, like his brother. He gave her a wry smile. "Of course not. I, unlike others, am still sane."

The Mayor laughed. "That's not a bad answer. There's nothing left here for anybody, I think. There may not be anything left in the entire world."

Edgar was silent. The Mayor stared at him with piercing eyes, and for a second he feared that she might press. But her expression softened, and she let go of his hand. "Tell me of South Figaro," she said. "You are the first traveler to have made it this far."

"It survived intact, but the Light of Judgement struck the countryside. The city is overflowing with refugees."

"They will not send aid, then."

"They don't have the supplies to spare, nor the manpower to bring them here. I'm sorry."

It was an ugly thing to have to tell to someone, but it was the truth.

"Don't apologize. It is hardly your fault," the Mayor said, and Edgar wanted to laugh. "We've survived so far on our own. I already suspected there was no one left to help us."

For the first time since he'd stepped into the tent, Edgar looked away. Something in the air made his eyes water. His mouth felt dry. "There could be," he said, quietly. "The castle."

"What of it? It is lost to the sands."

Edgar shook his head. "But if it were to be found, there would be more men on hand. The castle has ample food stores, and the machinery would give us an edge both in the repairs and in fighting the monsters. The mobility would also help in locating survivors and bringing them to safety."

The Mayor looked at him through narrow eyes. "Perhaps. And what would you know of this?"

"I worked as an engineer at the castle, before the Cataclysm. If I can find it, I can fix it."

"And that is why you're here, is it not?"

Edgar closed his eyes and nodded.

"And do you truly believe that you can do this?"

He swallowed. "I don't know."

"Is that why you're telling me this? So I can give you the reassurances you need? So I can tell you what you're doing will matter? You know I can't. Do you think it's a kindness to try and give me hope?"

She stared at him for a moment, her gaze bright and cutting. The sun cast multicolored light on the ground between them.

"Perhaps it is." She reached for him, drawing him close to whisper in his ear. "It's a good thing to see someone who still has some drive left." Her hands trembled against his neck. "I wonder if I should envy you or pity you."

Edgar walked away with the image of colored cloths dancing before his eyes. That night he dreamt of Figaro again, but if there was anything more, he never remembered.

Chapter Text

The ocean is vast, and deep. It stretches for miles on end, glimmering purple beneath the livid sky, and many things hide beneath its surface where the sunlight can't reach. Some of these things are told of in mariners' ballads; ancient, powerful beings whose fury once shook the sea. Others have been the object of much study and speculation between the world's scholars, who write essays and argue about futile details.

Most of these things are not as fearsome or powerful as word would have it, their reputations fed by tales and hearsay. But there are other things, things which are only ever mentioned in legends long lost. Forces which had been trapped or sealed were released to the world, and they lurk beneath the ocean, waiting. For what, no one can tell.

- Wilhelm Shore, The Book of Monsters

The rest of his stay passed quickly, and before he could blink the days had begun to grow shorter, and summer was slowly creeping away. The days cooled, the first clouds made their appearance over the western horizon, and Edgar found himself growing restless.

It happened when he was out fishing. Like everything else in this fading world, the fish were slowly dying in the polluted water, and most of their catches were filthy and reeking, rotting away on the inside even before their death. But some still held on. Edgar had never been particularly fond of fishing—he did enough sitting down and doing nothing at council meetings and saw no reason to keep it up in his free time—but there was little else to do on days when the hunts were slow and nothing needed mending.

Luck was not on his side, and he sat by the shore watching the fish swim slowly by. Dark grey clouds had gathered on the eastern sky. He was sending death glares at an obscenely large fish that had just snubbed him and his bait when light flashed across the sky. Then came the distant rumble.

When he returned to the encampment, he found everyone running out of their tents. The adults smiled and held their hands upwards at the sky; the children raced about in circles. Their laughter echoed about the village.

Nell caught sight of him and walked over, beaming.

"The rain clouds are here. We'd feared they'd never come."

When the first few heavy drops fell from the sky, drenching the earth for the first time in months, he took cover under a nearby tent and watched the celebrations with a distant smile on his face. The end of summer had come.

The next day he built himself a new spear, packed his belongings, and left.

Edgar had never been fond of goodbyes. He remembered the hardest one he'd ever said, under the bright full moon of the desert. He hadn't been able to say anything, or reach out, or cry, even though all he wanted to do was to chase after his brother and tell him not to go. All he'd done was stand there as his brother turned his back to him and walked away.

But the people he was leaving didn't care much for goodbyes, either. They'd already said enough. So he left, and they waved at him, and then they turned around and went back to their business, not expecting to ever see him again.

There was a legend about Figaro Desert, one told by grandfathers to grandchildren gathered around the fireplace. Figaro Desert was once a green land with opulent fields, verdant forests, and magnificent palaces. So rich it was that the Goddesses themselves were jealous. And so, after much conferring, they decided to punish the mortals who'd been foolish enough to rival them in wealth. One drove the people away with wars and plagues; one sent disasters and calamities to destroy the palaces, tear down the forests, and burn the fields; the third told the sun to shine down on the land so that nothing would ever grow again. Most inhabitants died or left. Few remained, those who were truly loyal to their land and had vowed never to abandon it.

But when one of the legendary sirens, whose voice could strike dumb any man or beast, learned of the Goddesses' rage, she decided to protect the humans she had so loved. So she floated up into the sky to the Triad's court and introduced herself as a traveling minstrel. She delighted the guards with her singing, and with a slow tune she put them to sleep and slipped inside. There, she stole into the stables, where the fabled White Chocobo, the legendary bird which brought good fortune to its owner, was kept. With her singing she charmed it, and the bird of luck followed her voice out of the stables and into the world of men.

The siren led the White Chocobo into Figaro Desert and bestowed it upon those who had remained. With the chocobo in their possession, they grew and prospered in the face of desolation. This was why in Figaro chocobos were held in such high regard.

There were many legends surrounding Figaro, and Edgar knew them all, from the one about the most beautiful woman in the world and all the grains of sand in the desert to the one about the king and his favorite chocobo, but this one had always been his favorite.

Edgar pressed on, through sun and rain. The desert stretched out on the horizon, desolate and unchanging. If the people of Figaro could survive it they could survive anything else the world threw at them.

Travel was easier than it had been before. The temperatures were more bearable, and Edgar better prepared. On the second day, the summer rain caught him unawares; all day he walked under the downpour, drenched to the bone. His hair stuck to his head, his clothes weighed him down, and rivulets of water ran down his face.

Nature raged all around him. It was this that his brother had found solace in. Edgar envied him, sometimes.

With the rain, the monsters came out, large beasts with yellow teeth and bloodshot eyes that had supplanted their weaker cousins in the aftermath of the Cataclysm. But Edgar was alert and he had his newly built spear at hand; any attacker brave enough to attempt regicide was made short work of. He gained a few more scars, because he wasn't as handy with healing magic as Terra or Celes had been, but he was still alive and the scars at least might make good stories to boast about.

He kept on walking, following the coastline to his left, and he kept an eye out towards the desert to his right. Each time, nothing but endless sand met his sight. Soon, he found himself no longer walking strictly westwards but following the coast as it bent slowly north. Lone withered trees made the occasional appearance. Their dead trunks and their few bare branches offered little protection from the elements, but their very existence was a reminder of a life that once was.

It was sitting under one of these trees that he realized. It was the first week of September, autumn was fast approaching, and he was one year older. His birthday had passed by weeks ago, without festivities or celebrations, and he hadn't noticed. He laughed at that.

That night, leaning against the wall of a ruined lighthouse, he raised an imaginary toast to himself and to his brother, wherever he was.

The next day, as the sun's rays dawned from the dunes, Edgar spotted land. A dark shape far away on the horizon, vague and hazy beyond the sea, and he had to squint to put it into focus. So he pressed onwards, and as the black shape grew, dread began to form in his chest. Several hours and a few estimations later, what he feared seemed to be confirmed.

Kohlingen and Figaro were no longer connected.

The West Figaro mountain range had crumbled. The tall peaks had given way to gushing waters, and where he'd expected a wall of mountains, he instead found ocean. He walked till he stood before the edge of the water and looked out towards his goal.

He yelled in frustration and kicked a nearby rock. It fell into the water with a splash.

That night he camped out by the ocean and watched the moon's pale reflection on the water. He toyed with his coin, flipping it over and over and watching it spin against the sky. The gesture was easy and familiar, like a warm blanket on a cold desert night. Come morning he set out again, following the beach; a few hours later, when the sun was reaching its peak, his patience was rewarded.

A grove of trees.

They were thin and grey, like skeletons stretching their arms towards the sky in one final plea. But it was enough. A house stood nearby, part of its roof collapsed and the rest blackened and burned. In the ruins of a small shed he found an axe and some rope, and he got to work.

So he worked, with rope and wood and bitterly missing his lost chainsaw, as the sun traced its arc in the sky.

A day later, Edgar finally stood before a completed raft. His fingers were full of splinters and the skin on his hands had been rubbed raw by the coarse rope, but not even his stinging hands could dampen the satisfaction that his raft probably didn't quite deserve. In the dark, under the moonlight, the wood looked like old bone, with its own eerie dignity.

"I should give you a name, shouldn't I?" Edgar said as he sat down beside it. "Wouldn't be proper without one. And I know just the right one for you." He laid a hand—still throbbing slightly from the splinters—on the wood and continued, solemn. "I, Edgar Roni Figaro, King of Figaro, hereby christen this vessel the Desert Rose."

"Yeah right," Locke would have said at that point, rolling his eyes. "More like the Sea Monkey if you ask me."

"Shut up," said Edgar to no one in particular.

It had been a long time since he'd taken such pride in such a simple achievement. It wasn't such a bad feeling.

The following morning, he pushed the raft into the water. With the rising sun to his back and the wide sea before him, he set out towards Kohlingen.

There were ships built to fit a king.

The Desert Rose, Edgar was the first to admit, was not one of them. It groaned and creaked as it drifted across the sea. But it held together, and that was, when it all came down to it, all that a king truly needed. And so Edgar rowed, and the land on the horizon inched slowly closer.

It was there, a scant few miles away. He was finally there.

Edgar had always liked the breeze of the sea and the smell of salt. But the sea was a sickly purple, the salty air stale. No wind blew, no waves played on the water's surface. No sound could be heard for miles.

A dead calm.

He first felt the ripple. It rocked the raft as it spread out across the water.

Magic clung to the air like static electricity.

It came out of nowhere. He had no time to react—the water erupted around him and suddenly he found himself clutching the boat was thrown about like a sheet in the wind. Then the water crashed into him, like a charging behemoth, and he was thrown into the sea. And so the Desert Rose fell, with a sickening sound of crushed wood, drowned out by the waves.

Then came the water. Edgar gasped and burning salt filled his lungs. He tried to struggle against the waves but they hurled him about like paper in a whirlwind and he couldn't tell which way was up and which was down. He was being torn apart, a million specks of dust whirling in the maelstrom—and he was back on the Floating Continent, when the whole world had crashed into him and—

For a single, solitary second everything was still.

This is what Edgar saw as he floated in the water: a single snake's eye, slitted and yellow, as wide as he was tall. It gazed at him with placid disinterest.

Then he crashed through the surface, gasping and coughing at the sudden presence of air. The waves hurled him about, and the currents tried to pull him under once more—he hit something, hard, felt it slam into him and drag him under again. But he found something solid underneath him, and when he pushed himself up, there was air again.

His head felt heavy and his limbs were like lead, and unconsciousness pulled at him from the edges of his vision. He dragged himself along the rocks, towards the dry ground. His body pulled him down, as if invisible chains bound him to the ground, and he tasted bile on his tongue. He curled up on his side and coughed up salty, burning water. Then he closed his eyes and just lay there.

"Alas, Desert Rose," he murmured. "Your service was brief but invaluable."

Well, he thought as the world faded away, if there was one thing he'd ever been good at, it was making things that sink.

Others still have alleged the existence of some sea serpent off the coast of Figaro. Such stories are abundant in the myths and hearsay for which fanciful penmen such as Mr. Shore had predilection, but they should never be mistaken for reliable sources by readers of any serious inclination. It is clear to any sensible scholar that such stories should remain confined to children's tales and minstrels' songs, to be taken as seriously as the apocryphal reports of the four-armed warrior of the Coliseum or the purported sightings of the King of All Cactuars in the desert of Maranda.

- Noah Hawthorne, The Early Years of the Ruined World

Chapter Text

It's Edgar's idea, of course. It usually is.

The sun is bright and shining above the dunes, and the wind creates little whirlwinds of sand. Many get lost out there, with only endless sand and endless sky to surround them. But not them. They know the desert.

They shouldn't be out of the castle, because they're young and they're not allowed, but they do it anyway. The desert is a better teacher than the boring old tutors with droning voices. They'll have to endure one of Matron's lectures later, but Matron always finds something to lecture them about so it won't make much difference.

They're playing chase. Edgar is running and he's lost sight of his brother and it's annoying because Sabin is smaller and slower, and Edgar should be able to catch him. He hears a scream, and a small creature darts away between the dunes, but Edgar doesn't pay any attention because he's already running.

The dunes part to reveal his brother, his face contorted in pain and his eyes wet and he's holding his forearm where something red and liquid is running down his skin. And Edgar panics, because seeing his brother cry like that hurts him.

He yells at him to stop, but that only makes Sabin cry harder.

They're standing in the same place, though few would be able to tell. The sky is dark, and the dunes glow silver in the moonlight. They're taller, now, and Edgar is no longer crying, even though he wants to more than anything. He chose this, so he has no right. Tears line his brother's face, shining in the moonlight, as he stands before Edgar with a small sack over his shoulder. Neither of them speak, because it's the last time they're going to see each other, and there are no words to be said.

No regrets, Edgar had said. No hard feelings.

It is late in the evening, the moonlight streams from the window next to his desk, and his Returner contact has chosen the absolute worst moment to deliver him Banon's letter. Edgar nods and thanks him, and when the man turns to leave—

"Wait—" Edgar begins, then stops, because what can he say? That he's tired and lonely and homesick for something he'll never have again? That he wants someone to talk to and that his father's dead, Sabin has left—has left Figaro, and he doesn't trust himself to confide in anyone else?

But Locke Cole turns back. Edgar grins at him and waves the bottle he's in the process of emptying. "You must be thirsty after hiking all this way through the desert. Care for a drink?"

Locke's eyes widen as they move from the bottle to Edgar's face, and for a moment he seems almost surprised—or so Edgar thinks, because it's late, the bottle is nearly empty, and it's getting hard to focus.

"You're drunk." It's a simple statement of fact, blunt and frank, and a complete affront to the crown. It makes Edgar want to laugh.

"It's the anniversary of my father's murder," he says with a huge, unsteady grin. "I'm not nearly as drunk as I plan to be."

There's something in Locke's face then that Edgar is too far gone to read—sympathy, pity, maybe, or perhaps he simply didn't expect there to be something else behind the crown and the flirting and the melodrama. Wordlessly, Locke sits down before him and reaches for the bottle. "You know, I've always wondered what sort of wine kings drink," he says with a wry grin and, for a while, they're simply two young men trying to find answers in a world that has turned upside down.

Something shone in his face, filling his vision with blinking dots and moving shapes. It didn't go away when he turned his head. He clutched weakly at the ground and his fingers found thin, wilting wisps of grass. Distantly, he realized he'd expected to find sand.

He closed his eyes.

He's on the Blackjack, with its polished floor and fancy upholstery, hundreds of feet in the air. "Locke, I hate to break it to you," he says, "but when the treasures you're hunting are in other people's pockets it does technically fall under the definition of—" And then Locke tackles him, and before they know it they've toppled over and start to struggle on the floor—

"Do you enjoy breathing, Edgar?"

"Not when I'm standing next to you!"

"You won't be doing much standing once I'm through with you!"

"Oh, you think—let go of my hair!"

On the Blackjack, Relm talks him into posing for a portrait (a real one, on canvas, she swears). He peeks over to discover she's drawn a caricature with a goofy grin and an oversized crown on its misshapen head. He suspects she wanted him to get offended, but she laughs happily when he offers to hang it in his gallery alongside all the royal portraits of his ancestors. He'd have done it, too, had the picture not come to life and attacked an unsuspecting Cyan.

On the road to Jidoor, Edgar curls up beside the campfire, drenched, shivering, and miserable. He feels as if he'll never be dry again. The rains had surprised them, and they had to ride under the torrential downpour for hours.

"What would the people of Figaro say if they could see their king looking like a drowned rat?" Sabin says, poking his brother in the ribs with his customary gentleness.

"Shut up," Edgar grumbles back. "I'm your older brother. You're not allowed to disrespect me."

"Older by seventeen minutes!"

"It still counts! Also, did I forget to mention that I'm the king? Because I don't think I'm getting the respect due to the crown."

"We have nothing but the utmost respect for the crown, Edgar," Locke says cheerfully. "It's the head under it that's the problem."

He's standing in a field, now. It's not one of the dying fields of the new world with their crumbling, dry grass; this one is rich and green. The night is young, the sky clear, a fire flickers happily beside him, and Banon is resting in the tent. Edgar is setting up the other one, struggling with all the ropes and poles as Terra sits beside the campfire. Firelight dances across her features, her hair is the color of the grass, and she's cleaning monster's blood off her blade.

"I don't like this," she says, gazing at the stained cloth in her hand. "It doesn't seem right."

"Is it better with magic?"

She frowns at his words. It's obviously not a question she expected. She shakes her head. "I don't think so. It doesn't make a difference, does it? They're still dead."

He moves to sit beside her. "You don't have to do this, if you don't want," he says, after a while.

"No, I... I want to find out what... I don't want the Empire to hurt people like they hurt me. It's the right thing, isn't it? I don't have to like it."

"I understand."

"Is that why you're doing this, too?" she asks, looking at him with wide, inquisitive eyes.

"I guess it is."

She smiles.

He's put the lives of his people in danger because of her, he knows. He's bet everything on her and her power. "We can't afford to let a chance like this slip by," he'd said when Chancellor Almaviva pointed out the risks. "Sooner or later, the Empire's going to drop their pretenses of benevolence. This way, at least, it won't be with their most dangerous weapon in their hands."

Had it been the right choice? Would he have been able to hand an innocent girl over to the Empire, had it been necessary to protect his kingdom?

Edgar tries not to think about the answer.

And so they sit quietly beside the warmth of the fire, and they look at the stars. He points out to the constellations: the unicorn rising in the east, the trickster cat, and the ice maiden, only seen in the winter when the nights are long. Terra sits beside him, face alight with wonder.

He sits with Celes on the grass, nursing his bruises as she watches him coldly. She never pulls her punches, not even when sparring.

"The men of the Empire never went down so easily," she tells him. Her face is like stone, but a hint of amusement rings in her voice. It's good to hear, even if it's directed at him.

"Well." Edgar flashes her his most charming smile and tries not to groan in pain. "I am simply unaccustomed to the attention of a lovely, delicate lady such as yourself."

"What a shame. You deserve every bit of it."

He pretends to swoon, and for an instant she almost smiles. Then something in her face closes, as if she's slammed a door on part of herself. She turns away.

"Why do you act like such a buffoon?" she snaps. "It's unbecoming of you. You're royalty."

Edgar is quiet, for a while. The air is getting chilly, but it doesn't bother him just yet. "Yes," he says at length. "But it's easier if I don't have to act like it all the time. Don't you ever want to stop being a general, just for a little while?"

Her profile is stern and hard against the darkening sky. "You don't understand."

"No, I don't," Edgar admits, because he isn't so conceited as to think otherwise, as much as he may sometimes pretend. "But, for what it's worth, I know what it's like having to have two different faces."

He flips his coin, and she snatches it out of the air.

He's in the engine room of the Blackjack, thousands of feet above the ground, and this time he and Sabin sit before each other in silence. A coin lies between them. It has two identical sides.

"I wanted to go to your coronation." Sabin speaks, suddenly. "You know, disguise myself and watch from a distance. But in the end I didn't do it. I... I couldn't bear to see you standing there without me." He said this with his eyes wide with apprehension.

So Edgar smiles and gives his brother a little poke. "You'd have fallen asleep halfway through," he says. "I know I almost did."

Sabin laughs and pokes him back. Relief spreads through him—

—but it's not real, none of it is real, because his friends have left, his brother has left him, and Edgar's steps echo along the halls of his castle filled with the corpses of his countrymen.

A seagull stared at him, tilting its head quizzically. It slid in and out of focus. He tried to reach for it, but his arm felt like dead weight.

Eventually, it flew away.

He pokes fun at Locke and answers Terra's endless questions about the world. He learns how to toss coins from Setzer, one particularly idle afternoon on the Blackjack. He sits down with Strago and asks him about magic because he doesn't understand it and needs all the data he can find. Relm tells him about monsters and the powers that they hold, and afterwards he lets her braid his hair with ribbons while Locke and Terra lean against the doorway and laugh at the results.

He and Setzer sit in the Blackjack's casino to play cards and insult each other's fashion sense and engineering skills. A decade of politics has left Edgar with a poker face that lesser men could only dream of, and yet somehow Setzer always cleans him out. But Edgar can afford it and Setzer usually ends up feeling sorry enough for him to offer him the good wine.

"Here you go," he says, pouring him a glass of Jidoor's finest Amarone. "For the king who can't even get one royal flush."

They fall asleep in the casino later and wake up to discover that Relm doodled fake mustaches on both their faces that grew into real ones overnight.

He spars with Celes in the plains south of Kohlingen. They find two branches of suitable shape and size, and she proceeds to knock him onto his ass for twenty minutes straight.

"I've been wanting to do that ever since I met you," she tells him with her boot on his chest.

"In that case, I shall endeavor to continue whatever I've been doing, if it inspires you to fight so fiercely."

She hits particularly hard, after that.

He spars with Cyan, who insists on bowing before and after every match. Sabin enlists his help in subduing Gau, who kicks and wriggles and screams in delight as they try to hold onto his limbs.

He wrestles with Sabin, as they used to when they were boys. Back then, Edgar always won, and he would sit on his brother and laugh at his increasingly frustrated cries. But Sabin has grown bigger during his absence, and this time he pins Edgar to the floor with little effort and holds him down until he begs for mercy.

"I am gracious in defeat," Edgar says airily, after he's had enough time to regain his dignity. "After all, it's only fair that you got the brawn after I got both the looks and the brains."

"And the modesty," Sabin adds, laughing in that friendly, open way of his.

Sometimes, Edgar looks at his brother and tries to find the skinny, angry seventeen-year-old boy who'd left him behind. But Sabin has changed so much. His brother has gone on with his life and Edgar wasn't there for any of it. He watches him talk and laugh and fight with Cyan and Gau and he has to look away because they look so much like a family.

He wonders if Sabin ever feels the same when he looks at him.

He sees his brother on Mount Kolts, dread and anticipation mixing in his gut, wanting to reach out and touch him but terrified that he'll turn him away. Then the stab of fear when Sabin turns to look at him, eyes lighting up with recognition, Edgar's shock and dread mirrored in his face.

And on the Blackjack, Setzer picks up the coin and discovered the deception, and so does Sabin.

"Edgar! Don't tell me—"

(He could still hear those words playing over and over inside his head.)

Edgar turns away then. For one terrible moment, he thinks Sabin will hate him.

Later, Sabin finds him in the engine room, where Edgar is crouching to examine the whirring gears. Sabin walks over and, without a word, pulls him into a bone-crushing hug.

"You didn't have to do that," he says at last.

"Of course I did. It's easier to impress women when you're the king," Edgar replies, and any other day Sabin would have rolled his eyes, but instead he simply hugs his brother tighter.

"No regrets," Sabin whispers, and there's a choked laugh in his throat.

"No hard feelings," Edgar replies.

As he holds on for his life, as the world breaks and everything dies around him, Edgar wonders whether it was the truth.

He woke with the sun shining on his face. For a minute, he didn't move, simply staring at the sky as it swum and wavered before his eyes like a mirage in the desert, slowly sliding into focus.

The memories came like a tidal wave.

With a sudden jolt of panic, he checked his pockets—but his fingers closed around his coin. Cold, round, and familiar in his hand. He exhaled and collapsed back onto the ground.

For a moment, he simply lay there, focusing on the feel of it in his palm. Then, carefully, he put the coin back in his pocket and tried to push himself up. It was like escaping quicksand. His body felt like lead, pulling him downward; his arms were weak and trembling, and his head pounded in protest at the strain. Wet dirt stuck to his face. He wiped it away with an unsteady hand, then murmured an incantation. The green aura of healing spell glowed weakly, washing away the worst of the sickness. It helped, but it left him feeling tired and dizzy.

He opened his eyes and took stock of the situation. Siren's magicite was still there, secured to his belt. The wreckage of his raft lay a few yards away, and he found his spear intact among the splintered wood. Everything else was gone: the food, the supplies, the handful of gil he had left. Before him lay the hills of Kohlingen, spreading across the horizon. Beyond them lay the desert.

And, maybe, his castle.

Staggering slightly, leaning on his spear, he began to walk.

His castle.

He tried to remember what it looked like, what it felt like—the council chamber, where he'd argued and ranted and yelled at a table of narrow-minded old men. His workshop, where he'd spent countless hours tinkering and letting his mind wander far away. The throne beside him, empty as long as he could remember. The tower, where he could see the desert all around. The engine, humming and whirring.

But the memories felt distant, unreal, and he wasn't sure why. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the faces of his friends, watching him from the edges of his consciousness, colorful and real as if they were there with him. Everything else had faded, like an old painting.

He walked on and forced himself to think of the sand and the towers and the engines. Of a mother he'd only known in pictures, and of a father whom he'd never had the time to properly mourn. He couldn't quite remember his face—not in motion, only the way it looked in the portraits. Of his brother, how they'd climb the tallest tower to watch the desert, how no one else had seemed quite real when they were together.

He tried to remember the day of his coronation, shaking hands and making speeches with the confidence of a king. The wary eyes of the populace on him, the whispers of the nobles and politicians, the smiles of the Imperial ambassadors as he bowed and wondered which of them had killed his father.

He tried to remember the nobles of the court, bowing to him and gossiping about his love life when they thought he was out of earshot. Matron telling him he was a fool whenever he needed to hear it and Chancellor Almaviva snorting in amusement behind his hand. The guards saluting him with huge grins on their faces and the weapons master sparring with him under the desert sun while the trainees whooped and cheered. The head engineer interrupting audiences to show him her newest designs, and the rush of triumph when a contraption did what they wanted it to, or at least exploded in an interesting way.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

The sun shone on above him, moving slowly in the sky and casting dark shadows on the ground. He walked on.

The castle had once been like an extension of himself, with all its pipes, pistons, turbines, mechanics, guards, merchants, all fitting in together like clockwork. Trading routes, alliances, the Empire and the Returners. His friends, the Blackjack, the espers. Terra, Celes, Locke—and Sabin, who'd tried to rebel against it all. All pieces in the machinery, and Edgar didn't have the blueprints but if he could just figure out which parts to replace, which parts to fix, where to apply leverage, where to smile and lie and flip a coin, then he'd find where the fault was and how to fix it.

And Edgar had been a piece as well, slotted in with the others and chafing against them, trying not to crack under the pressure. The castle had always followed him, its hallways and pipes and engines closing in all around him, and the doors were open, but something held him there, and he couldn't remember what it was.

Why couldn't he?

The hills grew slowly closer on the horizon. The ground was parched and cracked beneath his feet, and stiff, thorny shrubs tore at his legs.

It was late in the day when he finally dragged himself around the final hill and the Kohlingen Desert came into view, a small blot of yellow against the washed out green.

It was empty.

Edgar had expected it, of course. He wasn't naive enough not to know the difference between a possibility and a fool's hope. But it was one thing to know this, and another to see it for himself.

He lay down on the ground. His stomach was empty, and he had no food. His head was pounding and his limbs felt heavy and sluggish. He'd find the strength to go on in the morning.

He didn't know how long he'd lain there, or whether he'd fallen asleep. He only knew that the sun shone in the sky, that his clothes were dry and so was his throat, and that a mass of freckles floated above him, babbling something about finding the others and getting help. After a while it went away. Edgar lay there and listened to the voices in the distance.

Chapter Text

These are the precepts of Kefka: all that is born shall die, all that grows shall wither, all that dreams shall wake. Learn this, young one, and see it is the truth. Discover the anguish of hope and the comfort of despair.

- The Book of Kefka, chapter 7, verse 21

It was early in the afternoon that they finally saw the sea. The hills parted before them and they caught their first glimpse of what lay before them. The ocean was as Edgar remembered it; he suppressed a shiver at the sight. In the distance lay the town of Kohlingen, quiet and unassuming.

"There it is. 'Bout time," said the freckled girl, the one who'd found him. A gleeful grin split her face. "It'll take about half a day from here. Aren't you looking forward to putting your feet up and relaxing?"

"Sure," said Edgar, who wasn't really.

"C'mon! No time for rest!" cried the head merchant, whose name was Niels. "Giddy-up, men! Giddy-up!"

And so the caravan moved. Edgar lingered around the back, where the warking of the chocobos and the cheerful voices of the young helpers were more bearable. They'd given him a potion, but he still felt slightly ill, like a hangover he couldn't quite shake off. He didn't bother to look around; there was nothing for him to see that he hadn't seen on the outskirts of Nikeah or South Figaro.

He'd seen Kohlingen in the fall, before. The sun had shined and the smell of leaves and apples had filled the air. The trees had been red and yellow and orange against the clear blue sky. A scene worthy of Relm's watercolors.

Maybe he could ask Relm to paint a picture. If she was still alive, and he could ever find her again.

He pulled the reins of his chocobo; the bird warked in annoyance, but it obeyed. It had a bad temper. Edgar distantly thought about naming it Locke.

As the caravan made its way forwards, Kohlingen grew larger and larger on the horizon, like a stain spreading on the canvas, and Edgar knew he'd made a mistake. There was nothing for him there.

They arrived late in the afternoon, when the sky before them was beginning to tinge with orange.

"Here we are!" cried Niels, with the tone of a man who'd just circumnavigated the world. "Triumphant we stand at the end of our journey! Be proud, men! And unload the cargo while you're at it."

Edgar helped out until Niels finally decided he'd repaid the favor, then slipped quietly away.

The last of the sunlight was fading by then, and the lanterns that hung from their posts were already lit. Locke had told him about the custom of leaving a light out when a loved one died, so that their spirit could find its way home. There were lights outside almost every house, now. It was walking past one that a nearby window caught the light and he glimpsed his reflection. He doubted even Matron would have recognized him. His clothes were ruined and his hair hopelessly tangled, and he hadn't shaved in days. The scruffy beard made him look a lot like Sabin.

He turned away.

In the end, he didn't have the money to afford a room at the inn, nor the desire to seek company. But on the west side of town the house Terra had wrecked still stood, empty and dilapidated, and it was there that Edgar found refuge. He fell asleep as soon as his head touched the ground.

Kohlingen was barely more than a town, what little importance it had gained simply by virtue of being the only settlement in the area large enough to have more than one shop. It had little to offer except for peace, quiet, and beautiful sceneries, all of which it had in abundance. It had been a rest stop for merchants traveling to and from the Jidoorian peninsula and a summer retreat for nobles and the wealthy. Edgar's family had visited there one summer. He'd played chase with Sabin in the meadows, gone out riding with his father, convinced his brother to sneak away to the midsummer festival with him.

There had been beautiful gardens once, full of colors and scents, and he'd laughed at Sabin for spending so much time looking at the flowers.

Edgar slept fitfully, dreaming of water and waves. When he woke, the sun was at its peak in the sky.

He asked around. He questioned the innkeeper and the travelers at the bar. He stopped people in the streets. They all shook their heads. Some turned away, some stared at him as if he was crazy, some gave him pitying looks. "You've come to the wrong place, boy," said the owner of the town's emporium. "I know about that castle. According to a traveler who was passing by it tunneled down six days before the disaster."

"I'm sorry," said a young man with haunted eyes. "I know what it's like. I grew up in a village in the mountains. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

In the meadow north of town, a little girl with pigtails and a missing tooth yelled at him for stepping on the soil until he appeased her by showing her magic tricks. She squealed in delight when he made his coin disappear and then pulled it out of her nose.

"We come out here and plant new seeds every week," her mother told him with a sad smile. "Nothing ever grows. It's as if the plants have lost their will to live."

"Still, your dedication is to be admired," he said, though the words felt unconvincing even before they were out of his mouth.

"Is it? Or is it better to stop deluding ourselves and accept that we can't fight fate?" She shook her head with a bitter little laugh. "It would have been almost time for the harvest festival, now."

Edgar watched them leave; the girl waved him goodbye, and he waved back.

"Don't see why everyone's so hung up on Kefka, myself," a voice cackled behind him, making Edgar jump. "He kills people and destroys mountains. So does time. No one tries to fight time."

"Yes, but time takes aeons and Kefka takes a couple of minutes," Edgar snapped. "I'm sure we can see how Kefka is a more immediate concern."

"Oh? But is he a more conquerable one?"

Locke's crazy old medicine man hadn't changed a day since Edgar had seen him last. He still wore the same red robe, the same wrinkled grin and wild eyes. He swayed forward, squinting up at Edgar, and the pungent odor of herbs and potions made Edgar's eyes water.

"Have you any news of Locke, by any chance?" Edgar asked.

"Locke?" The man leaned forward to stare at Edgar with narrowed eyes. His face lit up in recognition. "Oh, I remember you, yes! You were one of Locke's friends!" The old man looked him up and down. Edgar felt as if he were being dissected. "Been neglecting your push-ups?"

Edgar swallowed. "You haven't heard from Locke, then?"

"Hm? Oh, no, I haven't lately. Too busy searching the world for that fabled treasure of his, most likely."

"Yes. Most likely," Edgar repeated dully.

"Ah, but where are my manners?" The old man chuckled in glee, rubbing stained hands together. "Are you in need of anything? A friend of Locke's is always a welcome guest in my house!"

Edgar thought of Rachel surrounded by wilting roses, of the deathly sheen of her face.

He quickly made his excuses and left.

He wandered idly for a while. He had no money to buy food, but an old lady took pity on him and gave him a loaf of bread. It was hard and left a bitter aftertaste. "Wheat doesn't grow right anymore," she explained. "Nothing does." But he hadn't eaten all day, and hunger made everything easier to swallow.

Her name was Marta. She was short and bent and had a face like a walnut, and as he ate she spoke of the world before the fall, when the grass was green and the flowers bloomed. She spoke of the kids running through the streets and birds flying overhead, of the sun shining warmly in the bright blue sky.

"And we had to walk five miles in the snow to get to the market, uphill both ways," she added, shaking her head with a chuckle. "Listen to me. I sound like one of those daft old coots going on and on and on about the good old days." She laughed. "Except this time it's true, isn't it? The good old days really are gone."

"Oh, it's not all bad," he told her, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. "Not when you're here to brighten our days." The smile and the flattery came automatically to his lips; there was no energy behind them, but she laughed happily regardless.

Afterwards he sat by an old, withered tree and watched the people walk past, going about their routines, and if he ignored the sickly sky and the dying grass, he could almost pretend that nothing had happened. But something had changed, either in them or in him, and now he could only see their mortality behind every step, every gesture.

He wondered what it would be like to live among them, just another face in the crowd like he'd dreamed about once. How could he, after everything he'd seen?

In the end, he returned to the wrecked house.

He sat down on the dusty steps and considered his situation: his castle wasn't there, no one knew anything of value, and he was a fool. He'd focused so much on a single part of the mechanism that he'd lost sight of the whole. He'd been risking his life for what was likely a castle full of corpses. It had been foolishness to even hope that his people might have survived.

Maybe he'd just been running away. It was what he'd been doing all along when he'd run off with Locke and Terra and left his castle in the hands of his chancellor, hadn't it?

He should have faced the present, instead of chasing after some dream just because he was unable to accept that his home was gone, just because it made him feel better about himself. Because sometimes you needed to sit down and choose who to save and who to give up. He'd done it time and time again, hadn't he? He'd allied himself with the Empire and turned his back to its crimes so he could build up his strength and strike when needed. He'd weighed Terra's life against his people's, and South Figaro had paid the price. He'd sent innocent Returners to their deaths.

He should he have stayed in South Figaro, after all. Do what little he could to help there. Accept there was nothing left to do for the people of Figaro Castle.

He hadn't. He couldn't.

Why couldn't he?

In his pocket, he clutched his coin until it left red marks on his fingers.

Six days before the disaster, Edgar thought as he lay down on the hard floor. He could pinpoint the exact location of his castle during the Cataclysm. And, unless he could invent a contraption large enough to dig it out, it would do him exactly no good.

"Are you happy, Edgar?" Sabin asked him that night. "Staying in Figaro, I mean. Being king."

The question seemed strangely foreign. "Of course I am. Why shouldn't I be? I wanted you to be happy, and I wanted the kingdom to be stable."

"You used to dream of running away and becoming an inventor. Do you remember?"

"Yes. I decided to settle for more realistic dreams, like world peace."

"Why do you always do this, Edgar? Why do you always have to take to whole burden for yourself?"

"It had to be one of us."

"And it had to be you?"

"You left, Sabin. I gave you a choice, and you left."

"Maybe I wouldn't have if you hadn't lied to me," said Sabin, and there was a bitterness in his tone that broke something inside Edgar.

"I wanted you to be happy!" he shouted. "You wanted your freedom, and I gave it to you!"

"What I wanted was to be with my brother!" Sabin snapped, and the words felt like a knife in Edgar's gut.

He closed his eyes and turned away. He was tense and shaking, and he couldn't let his brother see. He remembered what Sabin had wanted, but he'd shoved it to the back of his head, too dangerous and too absurd to even contemplate. "We can't both have what we want," he said quietly. He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I did the best I could."

Sabin said nothing, and Edgar wanted to grab him and shake him; he wanted him to understand, he wanted to make him understand, but he couldn't, because Sabin hadn't been there for all those years, and it was too late, his brother had already left and the world was beginning to shake. The statues glowed, the air crackled, charged with magic, and a high, piercing laugh echoed madly in his head.

"And where did that leave you, Your Majesty?" the voice cried, and for a second Edgar thought it sounded oddly like his father. "Your grand sacrifice, your clever scheming? Is your brother happy now? Did you bring world peace? Did you make the world a better place?"

"I can still fix this!" Edgar shouted. "I just need to—I just—"

But he didn't know what he had to do. His mind spun in circles like an overloaded engine, and he couldn't find the off switch. The world roared inside his head and he tasted salt in his mouth, filling his lungs and pulling him downward into the whirlwind.

"Why did you do it, brother?"

Edgar opened his eyes. Sabin stood among the chaos, a mournful look on his face. Edgar reached out for him.

"I don't know," he said. He wanted to tell him not to go, but he had no right to ask that of him. Silently, he watched his brother walk into the distance.

He awoke gasping and shivering. Something gripped his chest and he curled up and tried to calm himself, but the earth was still shaking beneath him, and—

The earth was shaking.

Edgar opened his eyes.

Screams filled the air. As he rolled over, a young man poked his head inside the crumbling doorway. "A dragon! It's a goddamn dragon, man! Run!" Edgar tried to mutter something, drowsily, but the man had already darted off. Above the screaming, he could hear a deep, low rumble. He blinked away the last of his sleep, grabbed his spear, and rushed out the door and into the chaos.

He ran, ducking and weaving against the tide of fleeing villagers.

The dragon stood near the edge of the town. It was not beautiful, slender, or graceful, as fairy tales would have you believe, and, much to Edgar's relief, it seemed unable or unwilling to spout flames. It towered above the buildings, heavy and bulky, with a snout taller than most men, sunken yellow eyes, and rows of uneven teeth. Dirt caked its skin, thick and uneven like unsculpted clay. Veins pulsed down its neck, and its large, dirty claws could rip a man apart with ease. It was huge, and it was terrible, and for a moment Edgar could do nothing but stand there in awe.

But he'd laid eyes on worse things. The fabled espers. Atma, old as time itself.

Attacking it outright would be useless—like throwing rocks at Magitek armor. Magic, then. He readied his most useful spells, running the incantations over and over in his head. Not that he'd win, of course, not without his friends and his brother by his side, but if worst came to worst, he could distract it long enough for the villagers to get to safety. If all he had was his magic and his magicite—

His magicite.

For a few seconds, the dragon contemplated him, calmly, then its attention slid away. All around it people huddled together, too afraid to move and risk drawing its notice.

Quietly, Edgar grabbed the magicite from his pocket. He held it in his hand, let the quiet hum of the magic spread through him, and tried to clear his mind. He took deep, slow breaths and felt the presence of the dead esper touch his mind. Before him the dragon stood, huge and terrible, but he ignored it, bringing his focus to the hills far away. He closed his eyes, concentrating, and reached into the crystal's power to infuse it with a sense of direction.

When he opened his eyes, Siren hovered before him, golden hair floating gently in the air, with an ethereal grace that left him dumbstruck. She smiled at him and for a second he felt her mind touch his, probing, curious. Then, without a word, she flew off towards the hills.

The sound of her voice filled the air, an otherworldly melody that echoed in Edgar's chest.

The dragon reared; even the voice of a dead esper still held enough power to command its attention. It let out a horrifying screech, then it took off to follow Siren's voice. People screamed as it passed, and Edgar followed.

"Half my kingdom and my firstborn daughter's hand in marriage to whomever slays the dragon," he muttered as he ran. "That's the protocol, isn't it?" But he was somewhat lacking in firstborn daughters at present, and he doubted that aspiring heroes would be interested in winning a bunch of sand for their efforts.

He came to a stop on the outskirts of town, panting for breath. The dragon had paused a hundred feet ahead. For an interminable moment, it looked back with a piercing, almost intelligent gaze. Then, with a swipe of its huge tail, it turned. It plodded away, shaking the ground with each step until it disappeared beyond the southern horizon, following Siren's fading song.

Then, at last, all was quiet. Edgar waited until he felt Siren's power dissipate, dormant once again inside the magicite.

By the time he walked back into town, the people had begun to stir. Fearful whispers filled the air. It was an ancient beast of doom, some said, come to take away what little they had left. It was one of a new race of fiends, bred after the world's destruction, others claimed. It was huge terrifying monster, the others thought, and it was going to kill everyone no matter what it was.

Edgar ignored them, shoving their uneasy murmurs to the back of his mind.

"Lovely little beast, innit?" a sudden voice whispered from behind him.

He stiffened. The old man stood beside him, grinning and wild-eyed as always. "Those dragons sure are funny creatures, eh?"

"You know something about them?"

The man burst out in cackles and rubbed his hands. "Know something about the dragons, do I? Oh, I suppose that I do. I hear things, you see." He leaned forward. "That's one of the eight dragons. All freed by Kefka, they were."

"Kefka," said Edgar.

"So he did! Got a funny story 'bout that. You see, they go back all the way to the War of the Magi. Then some crusader or other came and locked them all away, he did! Sacrificed all his power to do it, too. Then Kefka went and released them all over again. And they sealed away the crusader himself! Poetic justice, and all that." The old man chuckled happily and rubbed his wrinkled hands together. "Weren't the only ones that Kefka freed, either. There's a great green orc called Humbaba... They say he crawled right out of the earth, that one. Oh, and Deathgaze too! Ooh, I hope you don't run into that one, boy. They say that those who lay eyes on it are cursed to die a horrible death!"

"Thank you for the information," Edgar said with a bow.

"Oh ho! How courteous! You might just teach Locke a thing or two about manners!"

Edgar walked away.

So that was it. They were all at the mercy of ancient, terrible, unstoppable forces, and there was nothing—

No, Edgar thought. Enough.

He didn't have the answer to his questions.

He didn't know if he ever would.

But he knew what he had to do, and that was something. He'd find that obnoxious merchant, go back to South Figaro and then... then...

He had no idea what he'd do then. It didn't matter, because the alternative was to stay in this miserable little town with a maniacal old medicine man and the preserved corpse of his best friend's dead fiancee, and his life had never exactly taken the course he'd wanted it to, but there were limits to everything.

He'd learned something, ten years ago, watching his brother walk away: that no matter how much you lost the world kept turning, and if you didn't want to be overtaken you had to find a way to keep up with it.

Somehow.

That afternoon, he went to find Niels. He had job to apply for.

Chapter Text

A traveler would do well to remember: death comes in fives.

- Wilhelm Shore, The Book of Monsters

Edgar spent the next few days in a whirlwind of preparations. Every detail of the trip had to be prepared for, every course mapped. The merchandise needed to be secured, the chocobos tended to. With the advance pay he'd haggled out of Niels he bought himself a new set of clothes and a room at the inn. He shaved his beard and untangled his hair, and for the first time in weeks he managed to make himself look like a human being. He sent a pigeon back to South Figaro. He even had enough gil left to buy an old, broken crossbow at a discount from the weapon shop.

In the hall of the inn, on a small wooden table decorated with a small vase that had once held flowers, they pored over outdated maps, traced a tentative course, and arranged for the provisions and supplies that they'd need for the journey.

He'd stayed in that inn before. He'd shared a small room with Locke, and his heart had skipped a beat at the sight of his brother greeting an assassin as if he'd been an old friend.

"The first to map this route, huh? I tell you, Gerad my boy, we'll be rich!" Niels would exclaim, slapping him heartily on the back.

It hadn't been hard to convince him to take Edgar on. He'd only had to mention the word "machinist" and Niel's eyes had lit up.

Often, he'd escape outside to help load the supplies onto the boat. It was dull, heavy work, but Edgar found it helped clear his mind. The workers chattered happily around him, paying him little attention. They fantasized about the luxuries of Jidoor, told tales of mermaids and sea monsters, gossiped about that barmaid who most definitely had eyes for one of them, though there was no consensus as to whom. All the while they worked, loading and hauling under the watchful eye of Brea.

Brea was new hire like him, a mercenary who'd been working as a monster hunter in town and had quickly taken the role of unofficial second-in-command through sheer force of glaring. She was a tall, intensely pragmatic woman who'd mastered that look of vague disapproval addressed to the world at large yet somehow distinctly focused on you. Flirting with her was like flirting with a stone wall.

"You're not bad with chocobos," she told him once, as Edgar tended to the birds.

"Why, thank you. I spent some time in the stables in my youth."

"Oh?" Her eyes narrowed in thought. "You don't sound like any stable boy I've met."

"I've led an interesting life."

"You might want to learn to drop the fancy accent, stable boy," Brea said, and when Edgar looked up the grin on her face made him shiver. "You know what the world's like now. Lots of desperate people. Someone might think your family'd pay a good ransom for you."

"They're welcome to try," Edgar replied, then forced himself to laugh. "They might need some shovels first. I'll even take them to the desert and help them dig."

"Ah."

For a while, there was only the warking of the chocobos to break the silence.

"I thought I recognized the accent," Brea said, eventually, tugging at her leather gloves. There might have been sympathy in her voice, though none showed on her face. "I've heard the news about the castle. A pigeon managed to get here from South Figaro a couple weeks ago. It must be hard to lose your home like that."

Edgar closed his eyes. "I didn't really like the place, anyway," he replied, because he didn't know what else to say, and wondered if it was the truth.

"I see," said Brea, simply.

They left the following day, with the pale light of dawn behind them.

Most of the crew had been unwilling to risk the voyage, either after hearing the rumors of disappearing ships or after taking one look at the old, rickety boat their boss had found for the job. Apart from himself, Niels, and Brea, there was only the freckled young woman who'd found him, whose name was Mila, and a sullen, sandy-haired young man named Hod.

First, they would head to Narshe—or, at least, to where Narshe had stood before the Cataclysm. Then, after they'd found what was there to be found, they would head south towards South Figaro. Edgar had bristled at the idea of a detour, but he suspected he was hardly the only one on the boat with ulterior motives. Mila and Hod both spoke with the clipped vowels and harsh consonants typical of the northern regions.

In the evening, they passed the Dragon's Neck peninsula. It was there that they saw the construction, its angular, unfinished edges jutting out of the landscape against the darkening sky.

"Oh, I know what that is," Brea said. "There's this nut that's been building some sort of coliseum out there. Wants to build a monument to war and battle or something. Asked me if I'd come and fight for him once he was done, but I don't do public appearances." She gave a toothy grin. "I'm shy."

"Well, nice to see some business spirit still around," Niels said, frowning. "Though, er, I'd have suggested a different sort of venue, myself."

"I don't like it," muttered Hod. "Not like we need any more fighting going on right now."

Brea laughed. "Nah. The problem is that we're not good enough at it. Like the Magi. Now those were some real warriors. Hasn't your gran ever told you the tales of the War of the Magi? Imagine what we could do with power like that. Wouldn't have to live like this, for one."

Hod shook his head and Brea turned to Edgar, who was leaning against the wall a few feet away. "How about you, stable boy? What d'you think?"

In his pocket, Edgar traced the edges of his coin. "I think that trying to be like the Magi is exactly what caused this mess in the first place."

Brea stared out into the distance, her gaze hard and unreadable. "Yeah? And what exactly have we got to lose, anymore? You can wring your hands about it all you like, but we're here right now dealing with the bigger evils."

Edgar found himself snorting. Someone else had said something like that to him once—a criminal, the leader of a notorious gang. His guards had caught him and most of his men, eventually. Edgar remembered the last words he'd heard from him. Bound in manacles hand and foot, led away by the royal guards, the bandit had turned, calmly, to face his king.

"You can throw me and my boys in the pen," he'd said. "But what do you think you'll accomplish? The evils at work right now aren't little people like us. They're bigger evils. You know that, Edgar."

And Edgar had.

"Whatever," said Brea, turning away. "Not much point wondering about ifs. Not like there's anything left for anyone to do."

Edgar sat there for a long time, watching the coliseum slowly pass by until it faded away in the distance. Wield magic against magic. Banon had warned him against it, but in the end Banon had been the first to fall into the same trap. Use Terra's powers, find the Espers. Use the tools they had on hand to fix what was broken. It had all sounded so reasonable. And what other choice had there been?

Before him, the sky turned slowly dark. Edgar shivered as he remembered Kefka's laugh.

After passing Dragon's Neck, they changed course and left the northwestern shores of what had once been the Northern Continent for the open sea.

Time passed quietly. The water stretched out still and livid all around them, and no signs of monsters or other dangers showed themselves. As they pressed onwards, a chill began to descend upon them. For three days they sailed through thick fog, the weak sun barely breaking through. On the fourth they awoke to find the deck covered in icy slush. Mila and Hod ran about shrieking and trying to shove the sludge down each other's shirts; Edgar almost slipped and fell overboard when he emerged from the warmth of the engine room to get some air, and only Brea's reflexes and vise-like grip spared him the humiliation.

He tried not to spend too much time on the deck. He hadn't forgotten; the long nights of Kohlingen had made sure of that. He remembered the roaring waves and the gushing waters—he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, torn apart by the fury of the sea, and it was just like then, when in a blink the earth was torn asunder—and then he'd wake up, gasping, in a pool of sweat. Being at the mercy of overwhelming forces, unable to move, to do anything...

But out here it was easier to keep those thoughts from his mind. The boat had been old even before the disaster, and its engine clanged and whistled as it moved slowly across the water. It kept him busy. He shoveled coal, too, though when no one was looking it was easier to keep the furnace going by magic.

Fire magic had always come the easiest for him. He only had to think of the heat of the desert, or of the furnaces of his castle.

What spare time he had he spent tinkering with the crossbow. He didn't have the tools or materials to make the modifications he wanted, but he managed to bring it to something close to working order, and it kept his hands and his mind busy.

In Figaro, this was how he'd escaped from everything. He'd spend hours poring over engineering manuals, tinkering at his workbench, or losing himself in the engine room of his castle. He knew every gear, every pipe, and every engine, all connected in one single, fascinating puzzle. He'd spent countless hours in the engine room of the Blackjack, as well. He'd never had a chance to study an airship so closely, and he'd been captivated by the complexity of its workings. He'd wanted to take it apart and see how it all worked, which was probably why Setzer kept hovering behind him and shooting him glowering looks.

Sometimes, he'd find Cyan watching him from the doorway. "I was observing thee, sire," he'd muttered, once, after some prodding. "Thou hast a rapport with machinery that is beyond my ken. I have little affinity for such things."

The next time they'd stopped in Figaro, Edgar had looked through the library and assembled a pile of guides and textbooks with titles like Everything about Machines and Machines for the Mechanically Disinclined.

These days it was Mila who'd come down to talk to him. He'd try to explain the basics of the steam cycle while she poked her nose in the engine and asked him endless questions.

"You sound pretty posh. Are you rich? Did you lose all your money?"

"Oh," Edgar said, interrupting his riveting explanation as to why two meshed gears should have coprime numbers of teeth. "I'm actually from Zozo. I taught myself to speak like this to impress women. Is it working?"

"Liar. How'd you learn about engines? What's this thing do?"

"A wonderful question! That is a connecting rod. It operates the crankshaft to convert the reciprocating motion from the pistons into a rotating—"

"All right! All right! Forget I asked!"

She offered her own story in return: "Well, my Uncle Trebor was a merchant, see, and me and Hod were going with him to Jidoor when the world ended. The ground swallowed up Cousin Wer, and he was three kinds of an ass but apparently Uncle Trebor liked him enough that he—oh, don't look at me like that. I'm not happy, but crying about it won't do 'em any good, so what's the point? 'Sides, I know I don't got it worse than anyone else. Everyone's lost someone. The way I figure it if we all started moping about it we wouldn't get anything done."

Hod, for his part, spent the time tending to the chocobos, speaking to no one but Mila. Brea kept watch, checked their course, and strode about giving orders. Niels stared at the horizon before them, in turns excitable and fretful. Once, Edgar climbed up to the deck to find him and Mila in the middle of an animated discussion on the merits of Narshe's cuisine.

"It mostly depends on whether you like sausages," Edgar said when called to settle the argument. Mila burst out in uncontrollable giggling, and the conversation degenerated from there.

And so the hours turned into days, and the boat moved slowly forward. Edgar spent his time surrounded by machinery, hot, sweaty, and covered in grease. He was in his element.

It happened on the evening of the tenth day. Edgar was in the engine room sketching rough schematics on a scrap of coal-stained paper—he'd just had the most wonderful idea on how to make the boat submersible, hopefully without drowning everyone inside—when he heard the shouting above. He climbed up to the deck to find everyone staring upwards. The sky had already begun to darken, and it took him a second to spot it through the shroud of mist: a strange, bird-like shape, dark and twisted. It was growing, fast.

"What's that?" asked Mila.

Brea frowned at the sky. "It's too big to be a bird..."

"Well, it's certainly not an airship," said Niels.

"We need to move out of the way," Hod said, a hint of alarm in his voice.

"On this junk heap?"

"Brea's right," Edgar said grimly. "We can't move quickly enough, judging by how fast that thing's going. We just have to hope it'll pass us by."

Silently, they watched the figure as it grew in the sky, bigger and bigger until—

"Everyone find cover!" Edgar shouted.

It moved impossibly quickly, swooping down towards them with a horrifying screech. Edgar caught a glimpse of talons, leathery wings, and a strange, skull-like head, before something terrible slammed into him, a wave of something dark and icy cold. His vision went black, and pictures of death danced before his eyes.

The feeling washed away, leaving him shaking and reeling.

He hadn't realized he'd fallen, but once he'd shaken the numbness from his body he found his face pressed painfully against the planks. The wind roared in his ears. He swept his hair from his face. He needed to get up, but when he tried to push himself to his feet the ground lurched wildly beneath him. He tried again. A wall of water crashed into him, and then he was sliding across the deck until he felt himself slam into the side of the boat. Distantly, he heard a high-pitched scream, drowned out by the rumble of the waves. His eyes stung, the water was all around him, and he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe.

He grit his teeth. This wasn't the raft. He needed to keep himself together. Edgar clung to the railing and coughed up salty water. Instinctively, he checked his pocket.

His coin was gone.

The ground give out under him. He grasped desperately at the floor—

"Gerad!"

Brea's voice cut through the din like a knife, and suddenly she was there beside him, hauling him to his feet. The boat still lurched beneath them. He grabbed her arm, and together they held on until the roar of the waves and the winds began to die down, giving way to the engine's clanging and the anguished shrieks of a chocobo below.

"What the hell was that?" Brea shouted above the noise.

"We'll worry about it later! We need to make sure everyone's all right!"

Brea nodded. Together, bracing themselves against the motion of the waves, they moved to help Niels.

"Mila and Hod," he was muttering when Edgar and Brea went to help him to his feet. "They're not here, they're dead, they're—"

"We don't know yet!" Edgar snapped, looking around. "Get up and help us look for them!"

"They—oh, what if they're—"

"We're here." Hod's head popped up from the hatch. "We fell into the hold when the wave hit. I'm fine, but I think Mila hit her head."

Edgar nodded. There would be time for relief later. "Good. Brea, you know how to treat injuries, right? I need you to go and help her. Hod, grab a potion and bring it to them." There was a loud, frantic wark from below. "Oh, and go check on the chocobos once you're done. I think one of them's hurt."

For a moment, Brea gave him an unreadable look, then, without a word, she climbed down the hatch. Hod hesitated, shooting a wary glance at Niels, who was clutching his chest, staring wild-eyed at the sky.

"Look," Edgar barked, "do you want to help Mila or not?"

Hod yelped and darted away. Above them, the monster's form was growing smaller against the grey sky. Below, the engine rattled ominously.

It was an hour until everything was finally settled and everyone was gathered on the deck once more, drenched and shivering and chilled to the bone. Around them, the ocean was as still as it had ever been, as if nothing had happened to disturb its peace. Niels remained quiet, staring at the water. Hod looked pale and shaken. Mila rubbed her head and glowered at the world.

"I know what that bugger was," she announced. "I heard some geezer in town talk about it. Said it's called Deathgaze, or Doomgaze, or something dumb and dramatic like that."

"An esper?" Brea asked, frowning towards the darkening sky.

"Well, what else?" said Mila. "Wasn't a bird, that's for sure."

Edgar was silent. He knew the answer. Magic had an aura; there was something visceral about it, a background hum that you couldn't detect with your normal senses. Espers, the living ones, had radiated such a presence. Even Siren, in his pocket, glowed faintly of it. He couldn't feel it as intensely Terra and Celes had, but as he'd grown attuned to the magicite he'd learned to recognize it. Deathgaze was powerful and terrible, but it was something else. Like Atma, perhaps, or the dragon in Kohlingen.

He smiled quietly to himself. When had meeting legendary creatures of immense power become routine?

In the end, everyone was uninjured except for Mila, who had fully recovered. The engine was in bad shape, but not much worse than usual. The cargo was mostly fine, though a few crates had cracked and the water had ruined some of the foodstuffs. Locke the chocobo lay dead in his stable, no wounds on its body.

Edgar's coin was gone.

Chapter Text

As for ale, there's nothing quite like Narshe's taverns to get gloriously smashed in. Be sure to ask for the Dragon's Breath, if you think you can handle it!

But always be careful when walking around drunk in a city built on bridges and ledges! Just ask this one friend of mine (whose name shall remain unmentioned due to threats to my person). In short: it's not recommended!

- Locke Cole, Cole's Tips and Tricks for the Adventurous Traveler

They gave the chocobo a burial at sea. They hadn't managed to figure out what had killed it.

The rest of the journey was spent in silence. Hod and Brea spoke little, as usual, and even Mila didn't seem too inclined to talk. Niels spent most of his time leaning against the railing and watching the water. That night, Edgar sat on his throne as the corpses of his people filled the chamber before him. Sabin sat on the throne next to him, grey and pale, staring lifelessly ahead.

They reached land early in the morning. The sun shone weakly on brittle grass, and in the distance stood the mountains, their shape still recognizable. Narshe lay a few miles away, a sprawling mass of buildings against the cliffside in the distance.

It was decided that Brea would stay behind and guard the boat. The others loaded the bags onto the remaining chocobo. None were in the mood to speak. Edgar felt Brea's stare burning into his back.

Before them, grey, skeletal pine trees stuck out of the ground like needles. In the dawn's first light, they cast long shadows on the ground. The air was cold—dull and lifeless rather than the pleasant briskness that Edgar remembered, but after the dead heat of the desert it was almost refreshing.

In silence, they began the hike to Narshe.

As long as Edgar had known it, Narshe had always been in motion. The mountain's natural geothermal gas had powered the mines and warmed the houses: cogwheels had turned, smoke had streamed from the chimneys, fire had burned brightly in the furnaces, coming together in an almost living network of pipes and ducts that brought the city to life.

It had been it a work of art.

Now, as they walked through the outskirts of town, everything was still. Pipes had cracked, wheels gathered dust, and the occasional gust of gas vented from the valves.

"These damages aren't new," Edgar said. "They must have occurred during the Cataclysm. And no one has repaired them since then."

"Maybe they didn't have the resources," said Hod, but it was clear that even he didn't believe it.

They reached the main gate. It had always been well defended in the past; Edgar still remembered the bruise he'd received when he'd tried to bring Terra into the city. No sentry stood at the gate now, and the archway cast a dark shadow on the frozen ground before their feet, a gateway into another world. Beside them, a wheel creaked into motion, spun for a few seconds, then slowly ground to a halt.

"Stay behind me," Edgar said, gripping his spear.

It was cold—colder than he remembered Narshe being this time of the year. Rime coated the buildings, as if the chill had seeped into the bones of the town. Silently, he stepped into the empty streets.

Narshe had grown vertically rather than horizontally, nested in its gorge in the mountains. Houses stood atop one another, perched on bridges and platforms braced against the cliffside. They blocked out the sky until walking the streets felt like walking through the workings of a giant machine. Edgar had found it cozy, once, when the warm light of the gas lamps lit the town. Now their footsteps echoed across the deserted streets, and the buildings overhead cast dark, looming shadows.

He tried a door. It was locked.

"What the hell happened here?" Mila's voice was barely more than a whisper.

They pressed on. Coal, once piled neatly in crates and carts, lay strewn across the ground; the furnaces and pressure tanks gathered dust in the corners. Every now and then they walked past splintered walls or dented metal. Claw marks. Instinctively, Edgar slid a hand in his pocket and found it empty. He let out a breath, slowly, and focused on the weight of the crossbow hanging from his belt. The spear was reassuringly solid in his grip.

The chocobo gave a long, whining wark. "It's all right, girl. You can do it," he heard Niels say. Edgar kept his eyes on the streets before them. Behind him, Hod whimpered.

"The Elder's house is better defended than the others," Edgar said. "If there's anyone left..."

"Can't be that many if they couldn't even guard the gate," Mila muttered, but there were no objections.

The Elder's house stood on one of the upper levels. They climbed up rickety steps to the platforms above, the wood creaking under their feet. The chocobo balked at first, but they managed to coax it forward; the poor bird wasn't at home in high places and narrow ledges. Slowly, they made their way upwards.

They came to a stop on a rocky ledge to catch their breaths. From above, the city looked like a painting—shrouded in shadows, and utterly still. "We used to hang out here with our mates," Hod whispered, staring glassily at the rooftops below.

"Yeah." Mila shook her head, a shaky smile on her face. "We used to drop paint on people. We almost got the King of Figaro when he was here for a visit once, but we missed."

Edgar had to choke back a burst of laughter.

"Oh, so it was you, huh?" Niels said. His face was pale and clammy. "You painted my favorite chocobo blue, once."

Mila giggled uneasily. "Sorry. Did you come here often?"

"I used to run the Narshe-Figaro coal route. Heh. I'd always bring back chocolate for my daughters in South Figaro."

"See? We do make something worth eating, after all." The manic grin on Mila's face was utterly devoid of humor.

"Well, I still maintain that vomammoth sausages are an abomination unto—"

In the distance, something howled.

They froze.

Hod looked around, blinking. "Where did—"

"Start moving," Edgar said. "Now."

"I knew that Doomgaze thing was bad luck," Mila muttered.

"Just go!"

Behind them, other voices joined the call.

They pressed forward, the thumping of their footsteps joined by others farther away. They were almost there, Edgar saw with a flash of relief; one last wooden bridge separated them from the Elder's house. He went first, spear in hand, ready for anything that awaited on the other side. Mila and Hod followed, with Niels bringing up the rear, leading the terrified chocobo as the bridge creaked under their feet. Almost there.

A cry rang out from behind them. The chocobo had stopped in its tracks, eyes wild with fear. Niels pulled frantically at the reins, trying to drag it forward, but the bird bucked and refused to budge. Cursing, Edgar skidded to a halt and doubled back.

A clawed paw shot up and tore into the wood before him with a sickening crunch. Edgar stopped in his tracks.

He watched in dread fascination as the beast slowly climbed onto the bridge, all bulging muscle and thick limbs and powerful tail; the wood creaked under its bulk. It stared at Edgar with beady black eyes, and foul-looking fangs protruded from its large snout. Edgar readied his spear as the beast advanced and dropped into a fighting stance, eyes narrowed and mind racing. It torso was too thick—the eyes or the neck, then, and it had a large body mass so ice wouldn't be effective, but that long bristly mane looked flammable enough—but no, not on a wooden bridge, he'd have to draw it away...

He heard Mila and Hod draw their swords behind him.

"Stay back!" Edgar said through gritted teeth. "Stay back!"

The rest happened very quickly.

"Hey there, you good-for-nothing monster!" a voice called out.

A glittering object flew out from behind the beast; Edgar saw it trace out its arc and land on the beast's head with the sound of broken glass. A pungent, medicinal odor filled the air—a potion.

The beast turned its head, only to find the retreating backs of the chocobo and its rider. With a bellowing cry, it gave chase. Edgar sprinted forward to follow them. The beast's tail whipped about as it turned, and he jumped.

He landed on the beast's back with a dull thud. He grabbed a handful of its mane and held on as tightly as he could. It ran forwards in powerful bounds; the wood groaned beneath its paws as the bridge began to sway. Beyond the monster's horns, Edgar could see Niels egg the chocobo on, throwing nervous glances behind him. They were nearing the end of the bridge.

The wood gave way with a loud crack. The monster leapt.

It landed onto solid ground. Edgar found himself thrown forward onto its spine, the impact slamming into him and knocking the breath from his lungs. He barely held on, hurled about as if in a storm, and it was just like that day, clutching the Blackjack's railing as the winds—

He gripped the beast's mane. Ahead of them, the chocobo was losing ground. Edgar took a long, slow breath. He could feel the beast's muscles working underneath him as it galloped, and, steadying himself, he managed to find its rhythm. He grabbed his spear with one hand, held onto the beast's mane with the other, and braced his feet against its back. As the monster bounded forwards, he followed its momentum and leapt. He landed on the beast's skull with a heavy thump, stabbing his spear downwards with all the force he could muster.

It went right through its eye.

With a horrible shriek the monster bucked, and Edgar went flying right off the ledge. For one long moment he soared through the air. Above him, the beast writhed and flailed, and Niels on his chocobo dashed away in a yellow blur.

Then he crashed into the roof below with a sharp crack that echoed painfully through his body. Starbursts flashed through his vision, and then he felt himself slide downwards, clawing helplessly at the shingles.

The roof went missing below him. He hit the ground, the impact crashing into him like a tidal wave. A cloud of dust rose, and coal scattered about him. Then, finally, everything was still.

Edgar didn't know how long he lay there, drifting in and out of darkness, but when he opened his eyes the howls of the monsters had faded.

He forced himself to concentrate through the haze. He needed to move, quickly, but when he tried to sit up the world lurched. His lungs didn't seem to be working properly. Slowly, he moved his hand to grasp the magicite in his pouch. In his grip, it felt like the only solid thing in the world. He made himself inhale, then cast a healing spell with all the power he could muster. He took a few gasping breaths as his bones knitted themselves back together.

His senses were still reeling when he stood. Bracing himself, he grabbed his spear and began to walk.

By the time he found his way back to the bridge, everyone was gone.

The shadows followed him as he walked, and a deathly chill filled the air. Edgar remembered the old campfire tales Locke liked to tell, leaning forward and letting the firelight flicker across his wide eyes and manic grin. Tales of miners who'd dug too deep and uncovered nests of tonberries, of forgotten weapons of the Magi waking from their slumber beneath remote mountain villages...

His chest still ached as he breathed. The blood on his clothes was cold and wet against his skin.

He found Niels by the old mill, at the end of a trail of blood. Wolves crowded around him, picking at long, pink strips of flesh, and to the side—

"Stay away from him," screamed Mila, waving her sword. "Leave him alone!"

As one, the wolves turned towards her. Edgar had encountered normal wolves before, but these were another thing entirely, large and slavering, with patches of bristly grey-red fur and muzzles rimed with frost.

One fell to a well-placed arrow to the neck. Another lunged at Edgar and impaled itself on his spear. Thick blood ran down the wooden shaft and onto Edgar's fingers. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mila run through a third.

In the end, everything was quiet.

Mila stood surrounded by the bodies of the wolves she'd slain. Blood had spattered her clothes, and her sword hung limply from her hand. Niels lay there, and there was nothing more either could do for him. Alone, with the monsters on his trail, he hadn't stood a chance. Not after the commotion he'd caused. No sign of the chocobo or of the supplies.

After a long, breathless moment, Mila stirred to life. She ran over to him, eyes wide. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, we couldn't find you, and Hod fell so I had to get him to a safe place and we found a house that was unlocked and then—"

"Mila," Edgar said, firmly, and she fell silent. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. It was no problem," she said. "I used to go out in the mines and hunt rats. The monsters are bigger now, but so am I." She tried to speak casually, but Edgar could see her hands shaking.

"It's not safe to stay here. We need to leave."

"What about—" Mila began, then stopped herself, glancing back.

"There's nothing we can do for him anymore," Edgar said, gently.

"It doesn't feel right, leaving him like that."

"Mila..."

"He wouldn't want... He wouldn't..."

He looked back at Niels' corpse, torn apart by wolves.

"He gave his life to draw the monster away from us," he said, quietly. "The least we can do is not make it all meaningless."

"All right." Mila swallowed. "All right. I'll show you the way."

It felt somewhat surreal to be drinking tea at a time like this.

The armor shop was deserted. Dust hung in the air and covered every surface, shimmering slightly in the pale light that came from the window. Flames crackled in the fireplace, driving away the chill. No armor hung from the racks, and Edgar tried not to think of where it had gone.

Edgar took a sip of his drink. It was stale and over-steeped, and he'd never really liked tea anyway. It had always been Sabin's thing. But the warmth spread through his body, washing away the battle rush and leaving only a dull, hollow weariness.

He turned to Mila and Hod, who sat on the counter. Hod had a nasty-looking bruise on his face. Mila picked at the bloodstains on her clothes with twitchy fingers.

"So..." Hod began, then trailed off.

"Yeah," Mila said, her voice somber. "We found him. He—" She broke off. "It's kind of funny, isn't it? I never thought he'd do something like that."

"We didn't really know him," said Edgar.

They sat in silence for a while.

"We should leave," Edgar said at last.

"We're staying here," Hod said. He and Mila glanced at one another. "We have to look for survivors."

"That's out of the question. You've seen how dangerous it is out there. If you—"

Mila slid off the counter. Hod followed her. "We're not asking for your permission, Gerad! We've seen the monsters. We know it's dangerous, we know it's probably hopeless, but we're going to stay anyway. It's our home." Mila's voice was firm as she drew herself up.

Edgar looked at them. They stood side by side, pale and bruised and blood-spattered. There was a stony determination in their faces that he knew well.

He closed his eyes. Nodded.

"Good luck, then," he said, and tried not to feel as if he were sending yet more innocents to their graves. "I'd stay and help, but I have my own survivors to look for."

"We understand," said Mila.

"Good luck to you too," said Hod.

He gave them his spear before he left. They'd need all the help they could get.

It was dark by the time he got back. He found Brea waiting at the boat when he got back with torn clothes, no chocobo, and no companions. She glanced at him, the question shining in her eyes, but when he only shook his head, she left him alone.

They set out to sea as quickly as possible.

The first night he slept like a rock. Darkness swallowed him the moment his head touched his bedroll, and his sleep was blessedly dreamless. When he awoke, the sun already hung high in the sky. Brea had busied herself elsewhere. Edgar sat there and watched the horizon, and for one humbling moment there was a small part of him—the part that saw the big picture where people were small and inconsequential—that could almost find beauty somewhere in that new, dying world of theirs. It was huge and terrible and full of awe, as if somewhere in its sheer immensity it held the full, complete picture of a puzzle he'd been trying to solve. Something that defied his schemes and patterns and analyses, something bigger than anything he could comprehend, and perhaps there was a sort of peace to be found in accepting it.

But if any answers were out there, they weren't his to find.

They'd reach South Figaro, soon. He still didn't know what he'd do once he was there.

That night he walked across Narshe again; bodies littered the ground and mournful howls echoed in the distance until the empty streets turned into familiar hallways. He walked through them, trying to find the fault to fix, and he couldn't remember why. The ground crumbled around him, winds screaming and drowning him and tearing everything apart. He fell, everything fell, and he reached out to take his brother's hand but Sabin was already walking away.

"Why are you still here? Why didn't you come with me?" Sabin asked sadly, looking over his shoulder.

Edgar woke up shivering. It was still dark out, the air chilly against his skin. He didn't want to be awake, but the thought of sleeping again made him queasy, so he stayed there, lying motionless, and wondered what might have happened if he and Sabin had run away together. The thought felt vaguely surreal.

He tried to picture Sabin's face, smiling and laughing as it always was. He closed his eyes and listened to the clanking of the engine.

That was what saved him.

He rolled away as soon as he felt the flash of movement beside him. Inches away, the knife slammed into his bedroll with a dead thump.

Chapter Text

It was over before Edgar could even begin to register what happened.

The figure beside him had been thrown off balance. On instinct he twisted and kicked out. His foot connected, the impact jolting through his leg, and Edgar heard a grunt as the intruder slammed into the wall. Ignoring the pounding in his ears, he scrambled for his crossbow. There. His fingers closed around its grip.

He whipped around to point it at the intruder.

"Don't—" he tried, but choked on his words. His mind raced with thoughts and questions and warning bells, but he forced it down. "Don't move."

"Oh," Brea said from the ground. A scornful grin twisted her face. "Well, if you insist. You do make a convincing argument."

Edgar stood there, trying to breathe. For a moment, Brea simply looked up at him; then with slow, deliberate movements she drew herself up to a sitting position. "All right," she said, shrugging and presenting her empty hands in a clear gesture of surrender. "Fine. You win. So what are we going to do now?"

"Stand up. Hands in the air." Edgar punctuated his words with a wave of his crossbow.

"Sure, no problem." Brea's voice was mocking, but she complied, her movements smooth and relaxed. Not a good sign, but what could Edgar do? Did he even have anything to tie her with? He glanced around quickly, but no, the rope was kept upstairs. A sleep spell would surely be easier, but he'd need both hands for that incantation and she was watching him closely.

"Walk upstairs."

She stood, keeping her hands in sight, and obeyed.

"And while you're going, you could start by telling me what exactly you were doing," he said, trying to keep his tone casual.

"Oh, just coming down for a talk, you know? Seemed like a good time."

She was trying to distract him, Edgar knew, but she'd chosen her method unwisely. There was nothing he could do quite as effortlessly as talk. He forced himself to smile as they reached the deck and Brea turned to face him again. "Well, I'd never turn down a chance to talk to such an interesting woman."

Brea laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. "Oh, so I've heard. You do have quite the reputation, Your Highness."

Everything stopped.

For one terrible second, Edgar stood there; the world narrowed, unbalanced, as if it had slipped out of alignment, and his mind raced frantically to recalibrate.

None of it showed on his face. Edgar swallowed back the cold dread and affected a puzzled frown. "I'm afraid I don't—"

"Don't give me that, Highness. I know."

"All right," he said, slowly, carefully. "What exactly makes you think I'm... not who I say?"

"Well, you talk like you have a royal scepter up your ass, for one." She laughed again. "And back when Deathgaze attacked, you started ordering everyone around like it was second nature. Besides—" Her face twisted into a smirk, and suddenly something shone in her hand. Edgar tightened his fingers around the trigger, narrowing his eyes—but it was only a small round object. "I guess you just have one of those faces."

She flicked the coin in the air; it hit the ground with a thump and rolled towards him, settling before his feet. For a second, Edgar had to remind himself to breathe.

"I'll give you credit, though," Brea was saying. "It's a pretty decent disguise, if only because no one expects the King of goddamn Figaro to show up in the middle of nowhere."

Edgar watched her quietly for a second, then forced himself to smile. "I'm impressed. No else has figured it out yet."

"Impressed enough to let me go?"

"I'm afraid not. Turn around. Hands behind your back."

Brea's smile widened just a fraction before she obeyed. Edgar grabbed the rope and looped it around her wrists. Dammit, he didn't know anything about knots, did he? He should have listened to Locke more.

"I'm afraid you have the advantage of me," he said as he worked.

"And why should I tell you who I am? I happen to enjoy advantages."

Edgar fastened the rope one final time, grabbed his crossbow back, and moved to face her. "Is some common courtesy too much to hope for, in these troubled times?"

She laughed. "Oh, I'd never dream of being uncourteous. Very well, then. My name is Brandt. Pleased to meet you again, Your Highness. You'll forgive me if I don't curtsy."

"Brandt." He knew the name. Not nearly as notorious as Locke's or Shadow's, but the set it belonged to had been a thorn in his guard force for a while. His guards had caught most of the gang, eventually, but a few had eluded them. "Your wanted portrait does not do you justice."

"You've heard of me. I'm flattered."

"The reports of your gang's deeds graced my desk many times, and despite what the Chancellor seems to think, I do actually read them. It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

"Likewise, I'm sure."

For a few moments, they stood there facing each other. Edgar broke the silence. "What were you doing with Niels? Were you planning to rob him?"

"That idiot? Nah, he's small time. Was small time. I met him in Kohlingen and he kept going on about making it to South Figaro. I wanted to get there myself, and since no one else was brave or stupid enough to try it, I figured he was my best chance."

"And South Figaro would have offered more opportunities for someone of your profession. Still, the risk was pretty high."

"Oh, it was worth it. I was sick of that dump. I need to be somewhere with pubs and targets worth a damn. Plus, I wanted to find some old associates of mine." She grinned at him. "Maybe you should come, too. I'm sure they'd have a lot to say to you."

He ignored that. "Why try to kill me? I didn't know who you were, and even if I had, I don't exactly have any power right now. I'm no threat to you."

"Best time to kill a king, if you ask me." A deadly smile twisted her lips. "Best to take advantage of an opportunity while you still have it, wouldn't you say?"

Edgar felt tired, all of a sudden. Even here, with his his kingdom in shambles, his castle beneath the sand, and desolation all around him, he couldn't escape. He wondered if he ever would.

"All right. How about you, then? What are you doing here?"

"The same as you, of course. I need to get to South Figaro."

"Don't beat around the bush. You know that's not what I'm asking. They found you in the ass end of nowhere, and you clearly spent a lot of effort getting there. From the other side of the strait. If you were trying to get to South Figaro that way, then you'd have to be pretty damn stupid."

"Maybe I am. I'm certain you've heard the rumors to that effect."

"Sure I have. And I'm not stupid, either."

"Of course not. And I think a woman who managed to outwit my guard force should be able to figure it out by herself. Or are you telling me I should invest my money in better guards?"

"Oh, you do. Believe me, your guards couldn't tell a criminal from a nobleman."

"An understandable mistake, I should think. The overlap is significant."

Brandt laughed. "Touché. But you haven't answered my question."

Edgar paused. He had no wish to explain himself. Not to her. "South Figaro isn't the only part of the kingdom. There are others who need my help."

"The castle?" There was incredulity in her voice. "That's what you're doing? Really?"

"Really."

For a moment, she simply watched him, her face unreadable. "I see. All this to bury a bunch of corpses? You know they're all dead by now, don't you?"

"They might not be." And maybe the answer felt hollow, but there was nothing else.

"And as long as there's a chance, you'll keep trying? Is that it? Why?"

Edgar clenched his jaw.

"Hmm." Brandt looked at him through narrow eyes, as if she were studying a difficult puzzle. "You know, Your Highness," she began. Her smile was that of an old cheat dealing her cards. "Back in Kohlingen. I don't think you were lying when you told me you were unhappy in Figaro. Were you?"

He didn't have an answer to that.

When she next spoke, her voice was almost gentle. "You don't have to do any of this, you know."

He blinked.

"What?"

"You could leave. Has it even crossed your mind? No one knows who you are now. Except for me, and I won't tell," Brandt said, a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. "You could just leave. Do what you want. Live another life. Why waste your life for a doomed little country in a doomed little world?"

Silence settled between them. There it was. A simple solution to a simple problem. It was what it all had been leading up to, wasn't it? He could... leave, and forget about the country that had given him so many headaches.

He hesitated for a second, balancing at the edge of a precipice he couldn't name.

"Of course not," he said. "Don't be ridiculous."

He felt calm, all of a sudden, calmer than he'd been in months. He'd spent ten years weighing and measuring and tallying acceptable losses, and maybe it had been necessary, but he knew the one thing he wasn't willing to lose, no matter what.

All this time he'd been waiting for some kind of revelation to come down from the heavens and hand him a reason for him to keep doing what he was doing. But, in the end, there was nothing. Only himself.

It wasn't about duty or obligations or honor. It didn't matter whether he had to do this or not, because he chose to.

And, now that everything else had been stripped away, it was all that was left.

"I see," Brandt said. She looked almost disappointed. "I'm not stupid, you know. You can't possibly be doing this because you actually believe that anyone down there is still alive. So you're really just trying to get back into power. You know, for a moment I actually thought you were better than that."

"You're wrong. I don't care about any of that. I just want to fix what's broken."

"And what is that? I've heard what the world is like, back there. No government, no jails, and the guards are too busy helping the refugees to bother with thieves like me and my gang. If you find your castle and get back into power, one way or another you'd take it all away from us. Can't you see why I'd want to stop you? I'm not a fool—I know that all the stories about the hidden weapons in your basement aren't just rumors. It's not the people in it that give you power, it's the goddamn fortress that matters here, and you know it better than me."

"No," said Edgar, quietly. "No, it isn't."

"All your pretty words. Spoken like a true politician. You know, I liked your reign well enough. But times have changed, and yours is gone. This land is now a paradise for a bandit like me. That's all."

"Paradise? You call any of this paradise? Have you seen the monsters? Have you seen what's growing? Do you want me to tell you what Narshe was like? The world is dying! Do you really like it so much that you'd want to continue living in it?"

"No, I don't." Brandt's face hardened. "Fine. It's hell. All we have left is our freedom. Do you want to take that as well?"

"No. I want everyone to be free. I—" And he hesitated, but just for a moment, because this was it, wasn't it? He'd tried to avoid the thought, but in the end, it all came down to one thing. One man. "What I'm concerned about here are the bigger evils."

Something twisted in Brandt's face. "You're concerned about Kefka? And even if you raise your little castle, what will you do? Bring the Light of Judgement down on us all? Kefka's a god now. You won't change anything. We're better off without you."

Edgar clenched his hands. This was exactly it. "No. Kefka's not a god. And as long as we all keep treating him as one, then nothing will ever—"

He never got to finish the sentence.

Edgar really didn't know anything about knots. In one lucid moment, he saw the flash of the knife appear from her sleeve. He jerked to the side. The blade whistled past his ear, but she was closing the distance. He raised his crossbow, finger on the trigger.

She was quicker. The crossbow flew from his grip as she slammed him into the ground, knocking the air out of his lungs, and suddenly it was just like all those years before when he used to scuffle with Locke, who was quicker and had better reflexes—but it was not his friend's taunting eyes he met now, and he was no longer in the safety of his castle, and it wasn't a game any more.

She was on top of him before he could blink, fast and powerful as the desert wind. With her left hand she pinned his forearm to the ground. Her right arm moved in a flash of metal and Edgar threw up his free hand to block her. Her blade sliced across his palm. He grasped her wrist, and for a few moments they remained like that, locked in a motionless struggle—but she was strong, and his arm was beginning to tremble from the pain. The tip of the knife hovered but an inch from his throat.

He looked up to meet her eyes. No bloodthirst showed on her face. Only sheer, focused determination.

"You're a tough one to kill, aren't you, Your Highness?" she snarled through gritted teeth.

"It's 'Majesty', actually. I've been meaning to tell you." Blood ran down his sleeve, warm and wet.

He couldn't cast magic, not without the use of his hands. He watched her, looking of a chance, an opening. With his right hand, pinned against the deck, he grasped at the ground—

And found his coin.

He clutched it tightly. Even now, the weight of it in his palm made something in his chest settle. Steadying his breathing, he tried to clear his mind and focus. The knife inched closer and closer.

Slowly, carefully, he placed the coin between thumb and forefinger and flicked it towards Brandt's head.

She jolted sideways. It was the quickest of motions, but it was enough. He broke free of her grip and thrust his arm out blindly. The words came instinctively to his lips.

Flames burst from his open palm, bright and burning.

With a strangled yell, Brandt jerked away. Edgar's eyes stung from the sudden burst of light. He pushed himself up.

When he caught sight of Brandt, he tensed. But she was kneeling, one hand on the ground for support, the other clutching her eyes. "What was that?" she asked, quietly. Her voice held no anger, no confusion, no pain. It surprised him.

"A fire spell," Edgar replied. "Magic."

Brandt breathed out, slowly and shakily. For a while, she was silent.

"Kill me, then."

"What?"

"Kill me." Brandt laughed a quiet, horrible laugh. "Stop stalling and get it over with. What else are you going to do with me? You can't exactly throw me in jail."

Edgar stared at her, for several long seconds. He hadn't considered what to do next. Could he even do it? Sit on his throne and decide who would live and who would die? He'd killed before. Weapons were his specialty, after all—hand him a piece of tech and he'd quickly figure out the most efficient way to end someone's life with it. And Brandt wasn't a good person. Maybe killing her would make the world a slightly better place than before.

She'd thought the same of him, hadn't she?

"No," he said.

"What?"

"You heard me. I am the King of Figaro, and by the power vested in me I hereby pardon you of all charges of attempted regicide. All other charges will be examined once we get a proper judiciary system running again." He crossed his arms and paused.

"The hearing is concluded," said the King of Figaro.

He stood there, waiting for her to say something, anything. But Brandt remained silent, kneeling motionless on the ground. He shook himself, quietly. His coin lay a few feet away. His father's profile looked up at him from the ground. He picked it up and placed it carefully in his pocket. The cut on his palm throbbed with pain; he healed it quickly and wiped the blood on his shirt. His skin tingled where the wound had been. Then he walked over to Brandt and knelt down beside her.

With a whispered word he let the magic flow through him and into her. Through the green, sparkling mist of the healing spell he saw her blackened skin begin to change, smoothing over and mending itself. She turned away from him brusquely, and touched her healed skin in wonder.

"So. This is magic."

"It is."

"I didn't—I thought it was just—How—" she began, but stopped. She was quiet for a while. "You said you meant to go after the bigger evils. Do you really think it's possible?"

"I don't know."

He missed his friends. With them, it might be. But his those days were over, and maybe he was the last of them. He missed foulmouthed little Relm and her cheerful old grandpa. He missed Cyan and his unyielding honor, Setzer and his laughter and his thrills, Gau with his wild mane of hair and his piercing eyes. Cold, tough Celes, Terra with her endless questions and inner fire. And Locke, his closest friend. Most of all he missed his brother, like a missing cog in the machine.

"But it might be."

Edgar closed his eyes and he thought of a fading world, vast and relentless, and of one man, laughing madly as everything died.

"It might," he said, and he felt his throat tighten.

She didn't reply, and silence fell upon them like a thick, oppressive fog. They sat there for a while, the stillness of the ocean all around them. Edgar turned his coin over and over in his hand.

"Earlier," he began, at length. "Earlier you said you were trying to find old associates."

Brandt turn to stare at him, silently. Her eyes looked all wrong, misted over, like they hadn't healed properly. After what seemed like an eternity, she seemed to come to a decision. She smiled, almost gently. "Very good, Your Majesty. Yes. I got a pigeon from my gang, about two weeks before you arrived. They knew I was lying low in Kohlingen and managed to send me a note."

A cold feeling began to spread from the pit of Edgar's stomach. "The Crimson Robbers... I threw them in prison. They were in the Figaro Castle jail when the world ended." Even spoken aloud, the words didn't seem quite real.

Brandt was silent.

"Where are they now?" Edgar asked.

"They said were thinking of going to Nikeah on the ferry. Our old boss was killed, and they said they were going to seek their fortune. Catch a boat to somewhere, or maybe try to head down the Serpent Trench."

Edgar nodded, and looked out quietly at the horizon. And, as he sat there, he could feel the gears slowly, uncertainly begin to turn.

It felt like a cruel joke.

But if it wasn't...

He stood.

"Come on," he said and held out his hand. "It won't be long till we get to South Figaro."

Chapter Text

Memories of the world before the fall remain
But the light of dawn doth never change
Nor e'er the hearts of men.

- Cyan Garamonde, Doman Poetry

A thin, ethereal mist drifted in the air when they arrived, hanging like cobwebs beneath the wooden docks. It was cold.

Few people were about so early in the morning. The streets were eerily quiet, as if the lifelessness of the ocean had followed them into the city. They docked the boat and sat on the barrels outside in silence. Brandt stared towards the pale sun rising to the east, her eyes wide and glassy. Her sight hadn't fully healed; some things his magic wasn't enough to fix.

"What will you do now?" he asked.

"Hm. Well. I was thinking now's a great time to pick up archery. Or knife juggling." Her face fell when Edgar didn't take the bait. "Well, it doesn't look like I'll be going back to proper work for a while. I think I might sell off the cargo, keep the boat, and go into the trading business for now. I know the route to Kohlingen, after all. Surely that's useful enough, don't you think?"

"I wish you luck, then."

"How magnanimous. I'd ask you what you're going to do, but I'm sure I can guess."

"And you're alright with it? Your old gang..."

She was silent for a moment.

"Yes," she answered quietly. "I am. I was just going to make the best of things, but... I underestimated you. I think that, maybe, there might be..." She gestured towards the grey clouds and sickly sky. "The world is dying, Edgar. If there's any chance at all you can fix this, no matter how small... it'll be worth it."

"There might not be." He couldn't lie. Not about this.

"There has to be. We can't go on living like this. There has to."

It wasn't desperation that shone in her damaged eyes. It was something else—anger, determination, hope. It had been so long since he'd seen anything like it that he almost didn't recognize it.

"And you're willing to trust such a small chance?"

"Maybe I am." She snorted. "I think I'm starting to understand what you meant. Looks like we're not so different after all, you and I."

"A bandit and a king? I think I see the connection."

"Don't flatter yourself. Bandits have much more style."

"Oh? Can't you imagine Emperor Gestahl hanging out in a pub in Zozo with you and your gang?"

She started chuckling, and he did too, and it wasn't that funny, not really, but he couldn't stop the laughter bubbling up inside his throat as if a dam had broken and everything he'd kept inside suddenly burst through. They laughed until they were wheezing, doubled over and gasping for breath. The few sailors passing by shot them baffled looks, but it didn't matter because the world was dying and there were no emotions that could possibly encompass the enormity of it all and this was all that was left.

When the time came for them to part, she grabbed his shirt and pulled him down until their faces were inches apart.

"I'll kill you for this," she told him with a smile. Her voice held no anger. "Don't think I won't."

"Until next time, then," Edgar said with a bow.

There was one thing he needed to do, first.

"...and that's the gist of it," da Ponte told him as he pored through a stack of financial records. "We've secured food shipments and hired help from Nikeah, and most of the refugees have left, either back to the farmlands to grow what they can or to seek out their fortune elsewhere. Oh, and we got your pigeon. We've managed to find the camp. They chose to remain, but we've managed to transport some supplies."

Edgar nodded. "Good."

"I know there are still people out there. There still isn't much to give them, but there are volunteer groups searching for survivors. We're doing what we can to help."

"See that you do," Edgar said, then straightened. "Well, I think that concludes our business here. Thank you for your time." He bowed, then turned to leave.

"Wait," da Ponte said. "Look... I didn't..." he began, wringing his hands, then trailed off. He took a deep breath, then seemed to find his resolve. "I didn't know. I didn't mean for the city to suffer as it did. General Leo promised me that if he could take the city without a fight... I thought..."

"But the Empire was not in the habit of leaving its conquests intact, no matter what General Leo may have liked to believe."

"I know. Believe me, I've had plenty of time to consider the matter."

That, at least, Edgar could understand.

By the time he stepped out of the governor's mansion, the city had begun to wake. The morning sun cast long shadows on the cobblestone; it shone on the tall, dusty roofs of the houses and on the merchant stands of the plaza with their crates and barrels and colorful stalls. The city bustled with children, workers, merchants, guards, sailors. He'd missed it. For a while, he simply lost himself in its streets.

Niels had mentioned a family in South Figaro. Edgar tried asking around, but he found no one. He scribbled a note on the bulletin board next to the inn, then left.

Eventually, he found himself by the waterwheel once more. The Magitek armor still stood there, a reminder of what had come to pass. Edgar went to sit beside the thing and watched the people go about their day, and for a moment he could almost pretend that everything was normal, that their world wasn't dying. But the sun was still weak, the water foul, the plants twisted, as if the world itself were rotting from the inside. And, yet, the people were still the same. Quieter, maybe, more downcast, but they still held on. Perhaps there were still some things that Kefka couldn't take from them. Edgar laid a hand against the metal.

That was when he saw it.

Someone had written something on the metal plate.

'Fuck Kefka,' it said.

Edgar stared at it for a long time. He blinked, half expecting it to suddenly vanish. It didn't. And it was not alone.

'We can't let a freak run our lives,' someone had written.

'South Figaro is our home! We won't let anyone take it from us!' proclaimed another.

'Down with Kefka!'

'Imperials go home!'

Edgar ran a hand across the rusty metal.

'There's only one clown who's allowed to rule us,' was written in a corner.

'If the Light of Judgement burns down our town a hundred times, we'll rebuild it two hundred times!' he found scribbled on the mechanical leg.

'Figaro will live forever!'

Edgar brushed his fingers across the letters. He smiled. Then he rummaged through his pack, and began to write.

By the time the sun reached its peak in the sky, Edgar found himself back at the docks.

He bought himself an apple at a stand. 'JUST like the one's BEFORE the caticlism!!!' the sign proudly proclaimed. It wasn't, but it had been so long since he'd eaten fresh fruit that he didn't mind the dry texture and bitter aftertaste. He leaned against a spare crate and ate in silence, looking out towards the sea and listening to the sound of the waves, of moving crates and the shouts of the dock workers as they toiled under the weak sun.

Edgar fished his coin out of his his pocket. Held it tightly in his hand.

In the end, it all came down to this: one moment, under the stars, on the tallest tower of Figaro Castle. One brother standing there, taut with suspense and dread; the other smiling the calm smile of someone who's finally made a choice. A chill in the air and silence all around them.

His kingdom, his brother's happiness, his own happiness, their freedom to choose—all variables in the equation, each weighing against the others.

A coin at the peak of its arc, bright against the night sky. Two heads, forever linked, forever facing away from each other.

He hadn't forgotten. But perhaps he'd needed the reminder.

All right. So he'd find the Crimson Robbers. And after that he'd set out for Figaro. He'd find his castle, he'd fix the problem... and then? Maybe they were all dead. Maybe the world would decay regardless, and nothing he did would matter in the end.

"When things fall, they fall," Setzer had said once. "Life's a game of chance. You play your cards, and Fate plays hers."

He twirled his coin around his fingers.

Well, life may be a game of chance, but Edgar knew how to deal with those.

Before him, the sailors laughed and shouted as the ships disappeared behind the horizon. Edgar flipped his coin into the air. For an instant it caught the light and shone against the livid sky like a second sun. Then, it fell.

As always, it was heads.