Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One

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To everyone’s astonishment, the results of letting Sabin potter around in a kitchen aren’t half bad, even if said kitchen is no more than an airship galley. For the first time since he’s had to pay off his casino crew, Setzer is enjoying a meal he can’t manage to find fault with.

*Fin*

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Chapter Two

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Sabin hides his smile as he listens to his brother brag about his latest fling to an unimpressed Locke. Yes, there has been a girl, and yes, Edgar has spent a fair amount of time dallying with her these last few days as they waited for the rest of their group to rejoin them as planned. But if Edgar actually spent a night with her, then Sabin has somehow missed a third person in their shared bed as he made gentle love to his brother night after night while snowflakes drifted down from Narshe’s cloud-covered skies.

*Fin*

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Chapter Three

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Shadow has forgotten about this. Or rather, he has made himself forget it: What it’s like to sit down at a campfire with a trusted companion after a long day, sharing a bottle or a smoke, to brag about one’s accomplishments in recent or not so recent skirmishes, to get mercilessly teased about one’s blunders in said skirmishes, and to drop off to sleep between a laugh and a swig of cheap liquor, knowing that your companion will have your back.

The young folk he now travels with certainly live all those things, and he finds it surprisingly soothing to have the warmth of the fire against his back and their chatter in his ears. It washes over him as meaningless as the wind, but it keeps away the darker things that haunt him when his sleep becomes too deep.

“Hey, pipe down a bit,” someone says. “You’ll wake Shadow.”

“Too late,” he says loudly.

There is the rustle of several people jumping in surprise, and Shadow smiles behind his mask.

*Fin*

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Chapter Four

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The first time it happened, Sabin came within an inch of suffering a heart attack. For no apparent reason, Edgar had suddenly bolted upright in bed, had shouted something about lizards eating old songbooks into the night and then flopped down again only to laugh at his brother the next morning, convinced that Sabin was making up a story to tease him.

Now, as he crawls into their shared tent after his watch, Sabin is fairly unimpressed to find his sleeping twin mumble unintelligent words into his pillow. “Talking to the sandman again, big brother?” he whispers, grinning.

Edgar turns onto his back with a low moan. “Rene?”

“In the flesh,” Sabin confirms and unfolds his blanket.

Edgar takes a deep breath. “Don’t kick the royal wardrobe,” he murmurs.

Sabin chuckles and wraps an arm around his brother’s waist. “It’s okay, bro,” he sighs, patting Edgar’s hand as he settles down. “I won’t.”

*Fin*

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Chapter Five

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Terra collapses onto the Blackjack’s deck in a heap. Her claws recede and become fingers again, her pinkish fur shimmers out of existence, leaving her naked and looking even more vulnerable. She doesn’t move a muscle, and the rain pours down onto her still form.

Setzer flips a series of switches to activate the auto-pilot before he rushes out to kneel at her side. Her lips and fingers are blue and her skin, when he touches her, feels like ice. It’s hard to say how long she’s been out there; focusing on not dropping dead with shock as she climbed onto the rail and jumped off without missing a beat has somewhat messed with his sense of time.

He shrugs out of his coat and wraps it around her, lifts her into his arms and carries her into the pilot house. Terra’s eyelids flutter. He puts her down gently and tears open a supply closet.

“When your tongue unfreezes,” he says, piling every emergency blanket he can find on top of her, “I would very much like to hear what you hoped to accomplish with that stunt.” Part of him feels a bit affronted - on this ship, reckless risk-taking behavior is his trademark.

Terra’s smile is faint, but there is a gleam in her eyes as if she’d had a bit too much wine. “I just wanted to fly,” she whispers, and Setzer can’t help it: He smiles.

“Yes,” he says gently, tucking another blanket around her shoulders. “I can relate.”

*Fin*

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Chapter 6

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Terra’s Fire magic makes short work of the two Magitek Armors, and the soldiers piloting the things are smart enough to scramble out of the smoking wrecks and beat it as quickly as possible. One of them actually loses his helm in the process, and it takes Edgar but a split second to recognize the man.

“Hey!” He flings his crossbow aside, not caring where it lands. “You!”

Terra shouts his name as he dashes off, but he ignores her as well as Locke’s “Edgar, what the fuck?!” He’s got a score to settle with that guy.

It’s easy to catch up with him. Those Imperials don’t know how to walk properly on loose desert sand, let alone run, whereas Edgar has been traversing Figaro’s ever-shifting dunes for as long as he can remember. The soldier gives a startled cry as he is tackled to the ground.

“I give up,” he wheezes, spitting out sand. “I surren- urgh!”

Edgar plants one knee firmly in the man’s abdomen where it’s not protected by armor, and wedges his elbow between the guy’s chin and collar faring, pressing down harder than strictly necessary. The Imperial goes limp beneath him, trained instinct, Edgar guesses, and stares up at him, his expression a mixture of shock and defiance.

Edgar leans further down so their faces are very close. “So,” he murmurs. “What was that you said earlier? Petty state?”

The impact of his fist against the Imperial’s baffled-looking face is extremely satisfying.

*Fin*

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Chapter Seven

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There can be no question that the magicites the group carries are powerful weapons. Shadow understands the value of a trusted weapon. Some of his favorite knives have been in his possession for more than a decade.

But he has never entertained the notion of making friends with his blades.

Some of the Returners do that, it seems. A bit of careful observation, a bit of reading between the lines, and an intricate pattern of relationships has unfurled right before Shadow’s astonished eyes.

There are Terra and Maduin, Celes and Shiva - both relatively unsurprising. Much more intriguing is the duo Cyan and Ragnarok- a puzzle Shadow hasn’t solved yet but by the Gods will before this suicide quest is over. His latest discovery involves Lakshmi and the little feral boy from the Veldt - and Shadow is not going to do permanent damage to his brain by trying to get to the bottom of that.

Celes speaks of “synchronized arcane energies”. Terra has used the term “spiritual kinship”.

Good thing Shadow has long since put such hokum behind himself.

*Fin*

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Chapter 8

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“Why Mr. Thou sad?” Gau asks.

Surprised, Sabin looks up from where he’s tucking the boy in. “I’m not -“ he begins, but Gau interrupts him by waving a stern finger before his face.

“No lying,” he says firmly.

Sabin smiles, feeling equal parts psyched out and proud of the boy. No lying - that’s what they’ve taught him.

“I think it’s sad that you and your dad couldn’t hit it off,” he says truthfully. “That was a real bummer, huh?”

Gau cocks his head. “Yes,” he agrees. “But… Gau find father. Gau very happy. All good now, right?”

Sabin bites his tongue. Mere physical existence does not constitute a father, in his opinion. But he discussed this at length with Cyan, and they have agreed to let the matter rest, for Gau’s sake.

Clearly, though, they have failed to factor in Gau’s fine sense for his companion’s state of mind. He sits up and wraps his arms around Sabin, pressing his face against the older man’s shoulder like a cat would do. “All good now,” he repeats. “Sabin not be sad.”

For heaven’s sake, he will not cry. “You know what, kid?” he says instead and hugs Gau back. “You’re right. If you’re happy, I can be happy, too.” He ruffles the boy’s hair and pokes him in the ribs affectionately, which, of course, inevitably results in a playful tussle, complete with headlocks, noogies, and gales of laughter.

And yet, Gau doesn’t seem to be fully convinced, because when Sabin finally gets him to settle down, a frown appears on his face once more. “No more sad? Truly?”

Sabin reaches across the bed to turn off the light. “No more sad,” he echoes. “Promise.”

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It doesn’t take Gau very long to fall asleep. He has curled in on himself like a little animal in its den, two fingers stuck in his mouth, and his soft snoring is only interrupted by the occasional twitch of a leg.

Sabin walks over to the window and opens the shutters. The air is hot and humid in this part of the world, even in the dead of night. He props his head against the window frame and closes his eyes.

“No more sad,” he reminds himself, trying to smile at the words.

But he keeps thinking of blood on white sheets, of a slow poison dissolving in red wine, and somewhere far away, an abandoned baby is crying.

*Fin*

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Chapter Nine

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It is absurd, insane and totally beyond belief, and yet there can be no doubt about it: The Phantom Train is a carbon copy of the STR-100.

The 'Star Cruiser', they called it, one of the few trains that was able to cover the distance between Jidoor and Kohlingen non-stop, and the unchallenged pride of the Jidoorian Railway Company.

Shadow eases into one of the velvet-covered seats while the monk and the samurai discuss their next steps, and tries to figure out if this is some kind of panic-induced hallucination. How many times have the Shadow Bandits hitched rides on exactly this train? How often have they made clandestine camp in one of the boxcars, nicking provisions from the produce stored there? How many gils have they pilfered from the pouches of clueless travelers? They would sit in the open sliding door in the evenings, take stock of their spoils, share a smoke, and eventually fall asleep to the ever-present clickety-clack of the wheels.

He runs a hand over the plush cushions he’s sitting on. They feel soft, warm, and real, and for a split second, Shadow is convinced that he can smell the scent of clove-flavored tobacco.

“Shadow?” the monk calls over his shoulder. “You coming?”

Gently, Shadow pushes Interceptor’s head off his knees and stands. He should be terrified, he guesses. Given that he’s spent more than ten years running away from that part of his live, he should, for all intents and purposes, be on the verge of a nervous breakdown right now.

Instead, it feels like he’s coming home.

*Fin*

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

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“Grab him!” Celes shouts.

Cyan and Terra jump into action simultaneously, but to no avail. The little escapee dances out of their reach with a shrill cackle and downright insulting ease. Sabin swoops in from the side, but he, too, is out of luck; his fingers close around thin air.

“Come back, you little -“

With a howl, Gau drops onto all fours and gives chase, both hunter and hunted kicking up dirt as they try to sidestep each other. A sharp whistle rents the air, and Gau is joined by a black-furred, barking blur. Between the two of them, they manage to wrestle their target to the ground in no time.

Celes rummages around in her pouch before she throws herself into the fray. The reptilian-like creature makes it easy for her, because its mouth is already open, emitting screams and screeches that make her ears ring. She pushes the green kernel between its lips and forces them shut.

The creature gulps and gurgles. Its long limbs begin to shorten, the green of its skin is replaced by a healthy bronze. Within seconds, the imp has turned back into a battered-looking Locke Cole. He extricates himself from Gau and Interceptor, coughing and spitting out tiny pieces of green cherry. “Thanks, guys,” he groans. Celes struggles to her feet.

“That’s it,” she pants. “The next couple of White Capes we come across are ours, and if I have to spend my last gil.”

Cyan, standing closest to her, nods gravely. “Thou hast my full support, Lady Celes. This madness hath to end.”

*Fin*

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

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The baby has been crying for an estimated fifteen minutes now.

Shadow checks his pocket watch. It’s one of the many miracles that have taken place in his life lately that this intricate piece of craftsmanship has even survived the fall of Kefka’s tower. By all rights, it should have been smashed to smithereens. Yet here it is, smooth and familiar in his hand.

It takes him a moment to make out the exact position of the hands in the light of the crescent moon. Yep. A quarter-hour. Seventeen minutes, to be exact. The sound is not only grating on his nerves. It’s beginning to bring back memories.

He closes the watch’s cover with a snap and stands. Interceptor slides to his side like liquid darkness, and together they walk over to the house.

The back door is ajar, and a streak of light spills out into a little herb garden. Young Duane is walking back and forth between the patches, clumsily rocking the screaming infant in his arms. “Ssshhh, little one, it’s all right, I’m here, you can stop crying, please, please stop crying…”

Oh, by the Triad. “Swaddle her,” Shadow says.

Duane all but trips over his own feet. Shadow has stopped outside the low garden wall, just close enough for the younger man to spot him. Duane’s face seems pale in the semi-darkness.

“What?” He looks dazed and as desperate as he sounded just a few seconds ago. Desperate and frightened and helpless, just like another young man so many years ago…

Shadow takes a deep breath. Interceptor noses his palm, and he closes his fingers around a pointy ear. “The blanket,” he says, pitching his voice just so that it’s hearable over the baby’s wailing. “It’s too loose. Wrap her in tighter.”

At first, Duane simply stares at him, but then he does as told. His movements are awkward, showing his inexperience, and the baby isn’t exactly cooperative, with all the flailing and kicking. Spirited little thing, she is.

Finally, Duane has her wrapped into a tight cocoon. It takes the baby a moment to register the difference, and even then, the crying doesn’t stop completely. But the screaming slowly turns into sobbing, and the sobbing eventually dies down and becomes the occasional unhappy mewl. Duane looks positively dumbfounded.

“Wow,” he breathes, and then he breaks into an enthusiastic grin as he looks up. “Hey, thank -“

Shadow turns on his heel and walks away, and he doesn’t stop until he has once more reached the dark, silent shelter of the nearby trees. Interceptor presses the dark-furred head into his palm, and Shadow pats him on learned instinct, grateful for the familiar warmth.

This may be a new life, but there are still some things which he isn’t yet ready for.

*Fin*

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

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Edgar groans in uninhibited pleasure and arches into the two pairs of hands touching his bare skin. “Gods,” he breathes. “Words cannot begin to describe how much I missed the two of you.”

“Your Majesty is most gracious tonight,” says the young man who is sliding his hands down Edgar’s thighs while his female companion busies herself with the royal neck and shoulders.

“I mean it,” Edgar says fervently. “I don’t want to be parted from you ever again, not for a single day.”

“If Your Majesty would turn over,” the woman says in amused tones. “We’re not quite done yet.”

Edgar rolls onto his front and sighs happily as his two masseurs pour a healthy dose of warmed oil onto his back and set to work again.

“In fact,” he murmurs, eyes drifting shut, “I have half a mind to grant you my future children’s hands in marriage.”

*Fin*

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

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Cyan locks the door and turns to look at the young man sitting cross-legged on his bed. “Tell me, Sir Sabin,” he says gently. “Hast thou ever been with a man like this? Or a woman?”

Sabin smiles. His eyes catch the light of the candles, but Cyan dares to hope that this is not the only reason that makes them shine so. “Oh, I’ve had my share of groping and making out,” Sabin says cheerfully. “But you mean real sex, so the answer is: no and no.”

It’s the reply Cyan has expected. Traditional martial arts training doesn’t necessarily warrant celibacy, but Sabin has never made a secret of the fact that the lifestyle he chose has been an ascetic one. Still, hearing him say it is different from just assuming it, and it makes Cyan feel strangely warm inside. He gives a slight bow.

“I am honored that thou wouldst choose me to be your first. I shall strive to make the experience enjoyable for you.”

Sabin chuckles, but there is no malice in it. “Hey, this isn’t just about me.” He holds out his hand, and before he can think about it, Cyan takes it and lets himself be pulled down onto the bed. “This is a team effort, okay?” Sabin says. “So, before we do anything, I have a question for you, too.”

“Name it.”

Sabin throws a quick glance at their joined hands. “I don’t really know much about samurai rules,” he admits. “Is there anything we shouldn’t be doing? Anything I should keep in mind? Is there really such a thing as… you know,” and now his grin does become wicked, “Bushido in the Bedroom?”

Cyan feels his cheeks burn. “Thou art incorrigible,” he grumbles. Sabin laughs, but Cyan knows him well enough by now to recognize the younger man’s honest concern behind the teasing. He interlaces their fingers a bit tighter.

“There is but one rule on the bed of love, Sir Sabin,” he says gently. “Whatever happens is to serve mutual pleasure.”

“Alright,” Sabin says and sounds a bit breathless all of a sudden. “Great. Good. So… I’m ready when you are.”

Cyan shifts into a cross-legged position so he can fully face the younger man. A warm, gentle sensation fills his chest. “Mayhap,” he suggests fondly, “thou wouldst care to begin with a kiss?”

*Fin*

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Chapter Fourteen

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They have been trying to get Relm to choose a magicite for days. It’s their best bet, they have agreed. The girl is all but ten years old, can barely lift a weapon, and her pictomancer magic can only do so much. If only the brat wouldn’t fight them tooth and nails.

“No, no, no,” she cries, stomping her foot on the last no.

“Why not?!” Locke snaps back, and he sounds every bit as petulant as she does.

Relm becomes very still. She crosses her arms before her chest, but it looks more like a gesture of defense than of defiance.

“It’s dead,” she says. “It’s a dead body. I don’t want to learn magic from a dead body.”

The group exchange glances, but nobody says a word. Locke slides the magicite he’s holding back into his pocket.

They don’t try again.

*Fin*

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Chapter Fifteen

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“The defendant has been charged with and found guilty of several counts of armed theft, and has therefore been sentenced to fifteen lashes. The judgement is to be enforced immediately. Guards, proceed.”

Baram grabs the leather straps they have used to bind him to the post and glances over his shoulder at the two soldiers who approach him, each carrying a horsewhip. “Yeah, c’mon,” he sneers. “Give it to me hard, if you can.” That’s the only way to deal with those stuck-up Jidoorian prigs: Don’t give an inch. Never.

Those two seem to have some experience, though, because they don’t take the bait. The first one uncurls the whip with a smirk, raising it for the strike. Baram turns away, bracing himself.

The first two strikes are almost negligible. He’s been bruised worse in pub brawls in Zozo. It’s easy to distract himself by scanning the group of onlookers as they cheer their approval, searching for a familiar face.

Three… four…

The two dickheads seem to be getting into the swing of things. No sign of Clyde anywhere - of course not. He stuck to the plan: grab as much of the swag as possible and then beat it. Good boy.

Five… six…

The fifth strike tears his skin open, cutting deep. Baram feels drops of warm blood trickle down his back and seep into his waistband. His breath turns into heavy pants.

Seven… eight…

The pain is constant now, and it starts to cloud his mind. Was there a reason why he shouldn’t belt Clyde one when he finds him, the bastard, for being the faster runner?

Nine… ten…

He will not scream. They will not get the pleasure of hearing him squall in pain, those dirty skunks. He presses his mouth against as much of his arm as he can reach, stifling his groans in his own, overheated flesh.

Eleven… twelve…

There is no up or down anymore, no before or after. The world has narrowed down to the sharp, excruciating sensation of leather wrecking skin. Damnit, Clyde, where are you?

Thirteen… fourteen… fifteen.

Baram’s knees buckle and seem to vanish into thin air. His panting breath stings in his lungs and sides, he feels tears stream down his face, and the leather straps around his wrists are the only reason why he’s still upright, but it’s over. Thank the Triad, it’s finally, finally over.

Someone cuts the straps, and Baram slumps to the ground like a sack of bolts. A voice is talking somewhere above him, but over the crowd‘s jeering and the buzzing in his own ears, he can’t make out the words. Then he’s grabbed by the arms and yanked to his feet.

“Hard enough for you?” one of the soldiers hisses into his ear.

Baram manages a smirk. „Have had it harder,” he rasps. “No spunk in ya, huh?“

The man replies by firmly planting his fist into Baram‘s abdomen. Baram doubles over, feeling bile rise in his throat.

They don’t even bother to give him back his stuff. Dragging him along as he is, bleeding and naked to the waist, they force their way through the crowd and across the square to one of the city gates. The next thing Baram knows is that he‘s literally kicked out and ends up face-down in the mud.

„And don’t you ever show up here again, filcher scum,“ one of the men calls. The other adds a kick for good measure, and this time Baram does scream in pain when he feels his ribs crack.

„Fuck you,“ he pants, but their steps are already retreating, and he hears the gates slam shut with a resonating clang.

He tries to sit up, but every movement is blazing agony, so he quickly gives up. The sounds of the city are a dim background noise somewhere behind him, and it’s hard to tell how much time passes, or if any time passes at all. All he knows is that his back is on fire, his ribs ache, and that he can barely see through the tears and dirt in his eyes. But he can hear just fine, and even through the haze of pain he registers the sound of steps again, and this time the steps are approaching him.

A surge of panic lends him enough strength to push himself up onto his hands and knees. They took his knives when they stripped him, meaning that if someone is out for trying their luck, he can’t even slit the bastard’s throat.

A shadow falls on him, a hand settles heavily onto his neck. Baram gasps and begins to struggle.

„And what do you think you’re doing, asshole?“ someone snarls.

All panic fades away as quickly as it came, dissolving into a gale of hysterical laughter. Baram struggles for breath as his broken ribs protest, digging his fingers into the other man‘s biceps. „Tell me the loot is safe.“

If there was ever a man who could totally bawl somebody out with nothing more than a snort, that man is Clyde Arrowny. Without further ado, he pulls Baram up and half drags, half carries him off the road and into the shadow of some trees. Baram slumps to the ground again with a gasp and runs his hands across his face, trying to rub the dirt out of his eyes.

Clyde crouches down next to him and pulls away the scarf he has wrapped over his mouth and nose before he starts to root around in his bag, fishing out a small glass vial. Baram hears the soft popping sound of the bottle being uncorked - and then screams in shock and pain when his partner unceremoniously empties the contents onto his back. „Fuck you, you son of a cunt!“

„Shut up,“ Clyde snaps.

Baram grits his teeth while the tincture burns the flesh from his bones, or at least it feels that way. Clyde opens a second bottle, and a third one. It seems like an eternity, but finally the pain dulls into intense heat and a stinging, irritable itch. Baram takes a deep breath. „I want a drink,“ he says. His pulse is hammering in his head.

Clyde hands him one of their hipflasks. „I found something where we can lie low for a few days,” he says. „About two miles from here. Can you walk?“

Truth be told, Baram is feeling a bit under the weather right now. Even the booze can only do so much. „What, you not gonna carry me across the threshold?“

„In your dreams, fucker.“ Clyde stands and pulls him to his feet. Baram does his best, he really does, but the world lurches sideways almost immediately, and he practically falls into the other man’s arms.

Clyde stumbles and lets out a string of very colorful swear words. Baram is too busy getting his bearings again, so he doesn’t protest as he’s roughly manhandled, and a moment later he finds himself grabbed around the waist and more or less tucked under his partner’s arm like a piece of luggage.

The whole situation is so absurd that he can’t help but laugh, despite his aching ribs. He leans heavily on Clyde, letting him support most of his weight - which he does easily - and so they set out on their slow, stumbling way to whatever hideout his partner has managed to sniff out. Good old Clyde. When the going gets rough, here’s a man you can truly count on.

*Fin*

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Chapter Sixteen

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Terra can’t think of a reason to join the Returners. She has spoken to most of the people at the hideout now, and though she can relate to their motives, none of them seem to apply to her.

Edgar’s reasons are obvious, and probably the easiest to understand. He’s a king. Defending his realm and his people has to be his paramount duty as a monarch. Terra understands duty.

But Terra has no kingdom to protect.

Sabin has made no secret of the fact that he’s here for his brother’s sake. Terra only has a vague idea of what it must be like to have a brother or sister, but even she can see that the twins’ bond is strong. It seems natural that Sabin wants to lend a hand to his brother.

But Terra has no sibling to support.

Locke has talked at length about a woman who died in an imperial attack, and about the things he presumably should do or shouldn’t have done. It’s been puzzling, to say the least; all Terra really got from that story is that he was somehow close to that woman, and is now seeking revenge for her death. Terra understands the desire to come back at somebody.

But Terra has no loved one to avenge.

She sighs and goes outside to talk to Banon.

“I’ll help you,” she says.

Everybody is happy when the news spread, and Terra feigns to be happy, too, because she has come to understand one thing: Her powers will always make her a target to people who desire to make use of her for their own ends. Gestahl and his Empire have already done so. The Returners may have been much kinder to her thus far, but in the end, their intentions aren’t much different.

If she has no choice but to be someone’s puppet, she can at least decide who will be her master.

*Fin*

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Chapter Seventeen

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If this is a joke, then the humor eludes Sabin. In fact, he feels a bit hurt.

Oh well. Fine. It’s not like he needs someone to keep him entertained.

The inn has a little back garden, and it’s still early in the afternoon, so he decides to go outside. Might as well get some fresh air while he goes over some of his katas…

The plan falls flat when he spots his brother seated on one of the patio tables. Edgar sits with his feet propped up on the opposing chair and is obviously deeply engrossed in the stack of loose sheets in his hands. An opened bottle of wine sits on the table next to him. Sabin steps closer.

“Hey,” he says, rapping his knuckles against the table top. “Mind if I keep you company?”

Edgar looks up from his papers and, on recognition, smiles. “Be my guest,” he says, and Sabin feels better on the spot.

The king of Figaro takes his feet off the chair so Sabin can flop down and pushes the empty wine glass across the table. “Let me guess,” he says. “Our esteemed companions have asked you, too, to give them some privacy while they discuss important matters in the taproom. Am I right?”

“Asked, my ass,” Sabin grumbles, reaching out to hold the glass steady as his brother pours the wine. “More like kicked out.” Then he realizes what Edgar said. “Wait, they didn’t want you in there, either?”

“Oh, don’t take it to heart,” Edgar says. “I’d bet good gold that they simply need a chance to plan the birthday party.”

Which doesn’t exactly help matters, in Sabin’s opinion. He may be a monk, but he knows what a party should look like! Then again, it may depend on whose birthday it is.

Edgar looks at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Are you trying to kid me?”

“Uh, no,” Sabin says, a bit nonplussed. “Whose birthday is it?”

“Ours, you dullard,” Edgar says. “Four days from now.”

 Sabin opens his mouth, but his brain refuses to provide a suitable answer, so he closes it again with a snap. “No way,” he says.

Edgar pulls out his pocket watch and hold it up so that Sabin can see the dial. The watch is custom-made, and does not only display the time of day, but also the current date - which is, indeed, the twelfth of August. “Blimey,” Sabin mutters.

It’s true, he’s been rather preoccupied lately, but how can his sense of time be that off? Perhaps making the transition from secluded monk to world-traveling Returner took more of a toll out of him than he’s thought.

Edgar slides the watch back into his waistcoat pocket. A much too satisfied smile curves his lips. “I’m so glad that we agree on the basic facts,” he says. “So now that we’ve sorted this out, I would love to talk to you about suitable gifts for the occasion.”

And Sabin, being the loving brother that he is, expresses that brotherly affection by treating his smirking twin to a hearty knock on the head.

*Fin*

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Chapter Eighteen

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That moment when you realize that someone is only interested in your body. It’s usually a moment of relief. A partner with purely carnal interests means a win-win situation, maximum profit with only minimal investment. What more can a professional businessman ask for?

Setzer looks up from checking the clamps on one of the gondola’s steel cables and glances at the king of Figaro who is currently manning the pilot house. In terms of a casual fling, he could barely have found a more appropriate candidate. Edgar is physically Setzer’s type, shares his appreciation for the finer things in life, and is a suitably skilled mechanic who can hold up his part in a conversation. And most importantly, he’s not interested in any kind of long-term arrangement. Some easy fun, no strings attached. That was the deal.

He’s jolted out of his thoughts by the sudden realization that he’s been staring, and that Edgar just caught him doing so. The king of Figaro smiles that quirky little smile of his and touches two fingers to his forehead in a lazy salute.

Setzer thanks every deity that might be listening for granting him the presence of mind to return the gesture. He adds a wriggle of his eyebrows, just because he can, and Edgar laughs. The sound is swallowed by the distance between them, but Setzer’s memory easily fills in the blank.

That moment when you realize that someone is only interested in your body. Setzer turns back to his work and wonders why it suddenly bothers him so much.

*Fin*

Chapter Text

Chapter Nineteen

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Shadow takes pride in having mastered the art of hiding in plain sight. Long years of practice have left him with the ability to move as soundless as a wisp of fog and to merge with the shadows he takes his name from - ever so worthwhile skills in a trade like his.

Of course, there are moments when being seen means being on the inside track. Preceding reputation, and all that.

And there are moments when he feels ice cold shudders run down his back when a pair of eyes lingers just a fraction of a second too long, when a gaze is just that tiny bit too cutting for his comfort. Moments when he can’t shake the feeling of being watched, even though he’s personally made sure that there is no one within a radius of a mile but himself, Interceptor, and oppressive silence.

Never does his art feel more inadequate.

xxx

It is on one of those nights, when sleep - an unwelcome visitor at best - is staying away, that Shadow finds himself bearing witness to young Terra spreading out the group’s unclaimed magicites in front of the fire. She doesn’t take notice of him, only settles down with her legs crossed and stares at the stones in silence. Not that Shadow minds the quiet. But as time passes, he begins to wonder what she sees in the ever-changing reflections.

As if she sensed his thoughts, Terra raises her head and looks him straight in the eye. She picks up one of the gems and holds it out to him. It’s pitch black and shimmering like polished obsidian.

“Here,” she says. “I think the two of you will suit each other.”

There is a certain irony in a girl half his age giving thought to who might suit him. Then again, she probably means well in that clumsy way of hers, so Shadow decides to humor her. He reaches out and takes the proffered item into his hand.

Shadow has, by now, become acquainted with the various strange and dizzying sensations that connecting with an esper can evoke. This, however, is new. Even through the leather of his glove, it’s a feeling as if thousands of tiny ice crystals burst on his skin, and within seconds the sensation swamps his whole body. Only stern self-discipline keeps his breathing even. Terra’s lips curve into a smile.

“Oi,” she murmurs. “Would you look at that. The rest of us had to really work for it.”

Her eyes are moving in a strange way, he notices. They flicker back and forth between his face and their surroundings as if she’s looking for something. At his feet, Interceptor scrambles to his paws and starts to sniff the grass, turning around in circles as he does so. His nose keeps bumping against Shadow’s crossed legs, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he begins to paw the ground, and the whining sounds he emits become more desperate by the second.

Shadow reaches out and puts a firm hand on his dog’s scruff. What the hell is going on?

But when he looks down and can’t see his own fingers on Interceptor’s fur, nor the attached arm, nor any other body part currently in his line of sight, understanding begins to dawn. The magicite pulses gently in his grasp, and he senses darkness, and loss, and, born from that loss, an unfathomable melancholy. But within this black abyss, there is also silence, and safety, and a tiny wisp of comfort. Shadow’s fingers close around the gem a bit tighter.

For more than a decade, Clyde Arrowny has gone out of his way to become invisible to the world. Tonight, he’s made it come true.

*Fin*

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty

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Sabin has watched his brother for a while now, and he considers himself a keen observer when it comes to his twin, but he just can’t figure it out. How can one man handle so many responsibilities at once?

Not only does Edgar share the position of the Returner’s head strategist with Locke (it seems, on occasion, that those two keep the whole resistance movement running single-handedly, from working out battle plans to managing resources). He has also quickly become the group’s go-to guy for anything that requires a craftsman’s hand. Be it a strap that has torn or a blade that has blunted, if they don’t happen to be close to a town, the king of Figaro will find a way to fix it.

When they are staying at an inn, it’s not uncommon that Edgar will stay up long after everyone else has gone to bed, filling page after page with letters to his crown council - and Sabin can only guess what kind of state affairs his brother is dealing with, because most of his correspondence is heavily encrypted. There have been occasions when he’s had to practically force his twin to eat or sleep.

“Seriously,” he says. “How do you not go crazy?”

Edgar laughs, cocking his head in that nonchalant way he inherited from their father. “I know,” he says. “I just can’t sit idle. An adverse effect that comes with ruling a kingdom, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve read the job description for that,” Sabin says cheerfully. “Most of the things you do these days are definitely not in it.”

“Well, someone has to do them, right?”

Sabin rolls his eyes and tells him that he needs to do something about that overgrown sense of responsibility of his. They both laugh, Edgar pours another two cups of wine, and then they talk about other things.

Only much later, when they’ve commandeered an airship to infiltrate the imperial capital, does Sabin begin to sense how deep the need to care truly runs in his brother.

*Fin*

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-One

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“Why is everybody singing?” Sabin asks with a dark undertone, and Edgar knows that the moment of truth is upon him. He leans closer to his brother so he doesn’t have to speak too loudly - though it would hardly make a difference, he reckons, considering the volume of the music. “Well, I’m no authority on the subject,” he murmurs. “But as far as my experience goes, this is usually the way an opera is performed.”

Even in the darkness of their balcony, he can see the look of indignation that flashes across his brother’s face.

“There’s gonna be a play, you said,” Sabin hisses, making Edgar jump because he obviously doesn’t buy into the concept of the polite whisper. “Two or three songs at most, you said!”

“Keep your voice down,” Edgar implores, because both Locke and one of the liveried attendants have turned to give them perplexed looks. “And of course I said that. If I’d said there was an opera, you wouldn’t have come.”

“You bet,” Sabin grouses. “What’s your point?”

“My point is,” he answers, “that as brothers, we’re obligated to help each other out when the need arises. And I can assure you, I’ve never been more in need of your support.” Which is the absolute and unshakable truth. If you don’t happen to have a pretty lady sitting next to you, the opera is indubitably the dullest thing humankind has ever conceived, and for reasons sufficiently well-known, Locke is currently not in the running for a sufficiently dedicated comrade in suffering.

The attendant discreetly clears his throat. Edgar gives him the most royal smile he can muster. “And before you answer,” he adds, “please keep in mind that I refrained from collecting the debts from our most recent card games. By my count, I saved you a sum the equivalent value of Figaro Castle, at the minimum.”

Sabin scoffs. “Yeah, you’re hilarious. You mark the cards, and we both know it.”

Edgar has to lay his face into his palm to stifle his laughter. “Hey, can you shut the fuck up now?” Locke hisses. “Celes’ part’s coming up.” He points to the stage where the actor portraying prince Ralse is finishing his aria with a vibrato his voice clearly isn’t made for. Sabin looks ready to bolt.

Edgar leans closer and slings an arm around his shoulders. “Nastay, sayjid,” he murmurs. “You’re right, that was a stupid thing to do. I’m sorry.”

The curtain lowers, and the audience around them breaks out into rapturous applause. Sabin sinks deeper into his chair. “You owe me big, your majesty,” he grumbles. “I mean, really big.”

Other than prince Ralse, his performance isn't half bad, but Edgar is close enough to feels his brother’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. He grins.

“Always at your service, your highness.”

*Fin*

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Two

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Terra wonders if Shadow, were he conscious, would be angry that they have removed his mask without his consent. Then again, after getting torn to pieces by a behemoth, the man has more pressing concerns right now.

“How is he?” she asks, softly closing the door behind her.

Celes’ mouth is but a thin line of worry in her face. “The fever won’t break. I’ve tried to feed him some water, but…” She gestures to the assorted fluids on the nightstand: water, tea, a phial of elixir, a bowl of chicken broth. From her expression, it’s clear that none of them has worked.

Terra wets a cloth and sits down on the edge of the bed to wipe the sweat off Shadow’s face. His breath catches in his chest and he twists weakly, as if trying to get away from her touch. Interceptor, who lies huddled at the foot of the bed, pricks his ears and whines in sympathy.

“The wounds are healing nicely,” Celes muses. “We can use Curaga again in a few hours. But if we don’t get some fluid into him…”

Terra nods; she’s no healer, but even she can see it. She brushes an errant strand of hair out of Shadow’s eyes and feels a twinge in her chest when he gasps. He’s a fighter, that one, and no doubt about it. Anyone else would long since have succumbed to the injuries they found him with. But not Shadow.

“Help me,” Terra hears herself say.

“Beg your pardon?” Celes asks, but Terra is already climbing onto the bed, trying to drag the unconscious man into her arms.

“Careful!” Celes rushes to lend a hand, though more for Shadow’s sake than for hers, Terra assumes. “What on Earth are you doing?!”

It takes some squirming to get into the position Terra has in mind, but finally they’ve got Shadow propped up against her chest. He’s a limp, heavy weight in her arms, his body hot enough to make her break out in a sweat within seconds. “I’ve seen Katherin do this when one of the little ones was sick,” she answers, somewhat belatedly, and gestures to the nightstand. “Hand me the bowl.”

Celes frowns, but she does as told. Bowl in one hand, the unconscious man tucked against her side, Terra hesitates for a moment. How exactly had Katherin done this? At a venture, she takes a sip of broth into her mouth, cups her free hand around Shadow’s face to turn his head towards her, and gently presses her lips onto his.

Celes takes a sharp breath, but Terra tunes her out. She needs her attention elsewhere now, because other than the toddler Katherin had dealt with, Shadow gives no discernable reaction to the new treatment.

Too weak, something inside Terra whispers. Help.

Careful, to not spill any of the precious fluid, she slips her tongue between Shadow’s unresponsive lips. Drop by drop she lets the liquid drizzle into his mouth; a rather messy business, because some of it decides to go its own way, wetting her chin and his unshaven cheeks.

Out of nowhere, a shudder wreaks the comatose body in her arms, and Terra panics. Is she doing it wrong? Is she hurting him? Is she -

The fit passes as quickly as it came. Shadow sucks in a deep breath, a tiny sound escaping him - and then he swallows, the muscles of his throat undulating gently beneath Terra’s fingers.

Terra draws back, her heart beating fiercely against her ribs. When she looks up, Celes’ expression is a combination of surprise and amusement. “A somewhat… unconventional solution. But keep going,” she adds. “I’ll get some fresh water, maybe you can get some of that into him as well.” And before Terra can say something, she has grabbed the water jug and disappears, leaving Terra alone with their patient.

Something cool and moist touches Terra’s hand and makes her flinch. Interceptor has inched closer, she realizes, and is now pressed close to Shadow’s side. His ears move back and forth attentively, and his nose is grazing Terra’s fingers where they still cradle Shadow’s throat. Shadow takes a shuddering breath and turns his head towards her, his lips slightly parted as if searching.

Terra takes another sip of broth into her mouth and lowers her head again. There is a reaction this time, a weak, but insistent suckling, purely instinctual, no doubt, but it makes the process easier.

He’ll live, she decides, and holds him a bit tighter while Interceptor’s steady breath bathes her fingers in moist, gentle warmth.

*Fin*