It was all unfolding around him, confusion disappearing with the arrival of wind swept dust. Men’s shouts rising over the ringing of cold steel on steel, the scream of the enemy’s horses and the stamp of their feet, the cry of the wounded, the silence of the dead. He recognized it all now. He knew what had happened.
     The knowledge of the fact didn’t comfort him.
     Locke Cole shifted in the saddle of his chocobo, a nameless bird that fought against his every move. It warrked as it backpedaled away from the flash of steel in the blazing sunlight, ignoring the kick Locke gave it to move it back into the thick of the battle. He unsheathed his sword and whacked the flat of the blade against its haunches. The chocobo leapt forward.
     His blade slammed into the edge of another’s, the yellow bird hopping merrily back to avoid a counter attack. The other man’s horse snorted contemptuously before dancing forward for another rush at the bird. Locke caught a glancing blow on the shoulder, feeling blood gush underneath his chain mail as the sword sliced through it and into his flesh. He swung his own sword around at his opponent.
     The chocobo danced back.
     Locke’s swing cut through air, falling short of where the enemy had been. He had no time to curse his stupid chocobo, though, as the force of the lunge kept him falling forward in the saddle. His leg twisted in the stirrup as he fought to regain his balance. It was all for naught. With all the grace and dignity of a wet cat, he tumbled from his saddle and onto the dirt road.
     The wind left his lungs as he hit the ground, the small wound in his shoulder flaring hot pain as it impacted with the road. Something warm and wet splattered over him as he fought for breath. It took him a moment to realize that it was his chocobo’s blood spewing forth from its body, its head nearly severed from its body at the neck, its throat’s pink flesh blackening with blood. Locke stared at it, mesmerized by the gruesome sight. It took only the clash of metal to remind him he was still in battle.
     Ignoring the pain from his wound and the grit and dust burning in his eyes, he grabbed his sword form where it had skittered from his grasp, the hooves of his opponent’s horse a constant reminder that he was in danger of being trampled. His opponent, however, seemed content to let him regain his sword and fight rather than kill him dishonorably.
     Locke stood, his weapon clutched comfortably in his hands. His opponent gave him the shadow of a smile, nodding in admiration for his almost fearless stand. Locke frowned. He knew what he looked like to this knight-errant. He was a street rat dressed in loosely fitting clothes that hid a fair share of armor and weapons that had been sloshed together at a last minute ritual before his scrap of an army had moved out. The smile wasn’t one of admiration – oh, no. It was the smile of a man who knew when he had won.
     The man kicked his horse into action.
     Locke crouched low to the ground, his free hand almost dragging in the dirt, Excalibur balanced perfectly in his grasp. He watched the horse as it came charging at him, an interesting tactic. Run down your prey. He’d have to remember that one. The horse screamed as it bore down on him.
     Sweat beaded on his forehead. It was all a game of chance. He could move at any time only to be met with the flash of steel and the spray of his own blood as he fell. Or he could stand here and be trampled by a raging war horse. Neither option was acceptable. He would have to make his own game.
     The horse’s hooves rumbled in time with his heart.
     He waited.
     He could see the froth being bared forth from its mouth, marring its dusty, black hide with streaks of glistening saliva.
     He waited.
     His opponent was standing in the saddle, now, his sword to arms and ready to cut him down.
     Locke smiled briefly.
     Now.
     He switched holds on his sword with a deft flick of his wrist, reversing the hilt so that the blade ran parallel to his arm. The horse charged at him, mere inches from him. He sidestepped back and to his left, arcing out with the sword in a clean maneuver that took both horse and rider by surprise. It was a short-lived moment.
     Locke grimaced as the sword sliced into both of the horses front legs, cracking through bones before severing them entirely and biting deep into the soft flesh of its underbelly. Blood rushed from the horse as its intestines were ripped through and laid to rest on the dirty ground. The horse fell forward with no legs to support it, crashing into the hard ground with the crack of bone. The rider fell from the saddle, dropping his sword in surprise as the horse flipped over on the ground, crushing him.
     Locke winced at the rider’s gurgling cry of pain as the dead flesh of the horse bore down on him. He wiped the sweat and dirt from his eyes as he slowly straightened, cursing the dark stickiness covering him. He spun the sword in his hand once more, his fingers grasping the hilt in a more “proper” position. No sooner had he done that than a lone infantry man came howling at him through the dust.
     Locke caught the charge on the flat of his blade with the ringing of metal on metal. He twisted his grasp on the hilt, forcing the other sword to the side with the practised ease of an expert. The attacker, as Locke predicted, overcompensated with an action that could very possibly have skewered Locke. But he was waiting for it.
     Locke twisted, letting the sword deflect off of his chain mail, and stabbed into the man as he stumbled forward. The man let out a cry of pain before he fell free of Locke’s blade. Locke cringed as he realized that the sloppily armored man had not been a man at all. He started to walk away, ignoring the plaintive cries for help from the soldier. He hated killing women.
     As he walked towards through the field, he realized that the battle had been short and decisive. The fighting was over, and the dirt road was covered with the dead and dying. He hissed a curse. His troops had been massacred by this ambush. The Returners’ losses were great, his entire squad of men wiped out in mere minutes of warfare. But he had more pressing things to worry about.
     “Edgar!” he shouted, surprised when his voice was cracked and harsh, dust filling his mouth with its dryness. He licked his lips. Everyone would have a fit if Edgar had been killed in this skirmish. As if what he had figured out wasn’t enough. “Edgar!”
     “Over here, Locke,” Edgar growled. “And shut up. You want the whole Reb army to come screaming down those hills?”
     Locke turned to find his friend almost impeccably dressed even after a bloody brawl with the enemy. Long blonde hair flowed over his shoulders, silver and white armor flashing in the hot afternoon sun. Chinks and dents decorated his breastplate, the golden lion of Figaro still roaring regally upon it, unmarred by even a scratch. A long, white cape fluttered at his heels, his chocobo still in one piece and standing quietly attentive. Locke ran a hand through his gritty hair, suddenly overly self-conscious about the fact that he probably looked like he’d been through a wrestling match on dried mud.
     “They already did that,” he declared darkly, walking back to Edgar. “Like they’d really come back for just the two of us and risk flaunting their victory.”
     Edgar snorted, sheathing his sword and hooking his crossbow on its loop in the saddle. “The two of us a risk? Against two, maybe three, hundred of them? I hardly call that a risk. For us, not them.”
     Locke frowned. “I’m not talking about this victory,” he snapped, swinging his sword to capture the bloody dust and dead bodies. He took a deep breath. “We were betrayed, Edgar. Somebody sold us out.”
     Edgar didn’t turn from where he was adjusting the armored head of his chocobo. “I know, Locke.” He looked over his shoulder. “I sold us out.”
     Locke nearly dropped Excalibur in shock. “What? Say what?”
     Edgar turned back to Locke with an exaggerated sigh. “I sold us out, Locke.”
     The shock disappeared, replaced by something deeper than that. “I trusted you as my friend,” he growled, feeling his anger mount. Never again. “I trusted you with my life, with this whole damn army! And this is what I get, huh? I get stabbed in the back.”
     Edgar shrugged. “This war is stupid,” he declared, turning back to his chocobo. “If the only way to end it is to stop the Returners then so be it. I’m tired of fighting over something as silly as magic, and the Empire, and world bloody domination. The Empire wasn’t really that bad.”
     Locke couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “After Kefka you’d say that?”
     “Kefka is dead.”
     “And that makes everything better, right?” Locke asked, his tone scornful and harsh. He turned away from Edgar, starting to walk across the battlefield. “And here I thought you were someone I could respect.”
     Edgar’s anger snapped, and he charged at the retreating back, ramming into Locke with all the rage of an angry bull. Excalibur skittered from his grasp as he tumbled headfirst into the dirt. He turned back on Edgar, rubbing his bleeding shoulder.
     “Takes a real man to hit someone from behind,” Locke commented dryly, glancing around for his sword.
     “You know, you got a smart mouth for a two-faced, wise-assed thief,” Edgar declared. “You should respect me. I’m your king.”
     “Then start acting like it.”
     Edgar frowned and drew his sword. “Fine. First order of business is to cut off the thief’s hands, so he won’t go picking my pockets ever again.” The cold steel flashed brightly in the sunlight as he raised it over his head. “On second thought, we can always make that an execution. One less vermin to clog the drains.”
     The blade cut through air with a sharp whistle, descending down upon Locke. He did the only thing he could do in such a position. He raised one arm in a reflexive defense and waited for the blow that would probably cut through his head and kill him.
     I’m sorry, Celes…
     Edgar grinned as his sword bore down on Locke. This was it. The sword slammed into Locke’s forearm, and Edgar grunted in alarm as it met with a hard resistance. His hold on the blade slipped ever so slightly, and the flat of the sword was suddenly grazing down Locke’s arm.
     Locke fell back as the weapon slammed into his metal gauntlet, unable to stop a cry of pain from issuing forth from lips as he felt the delicate bone beneath the band of steel cracking. The edge of the blade ripped through the cloth of his tunic, scraping against his skin as Edgar stumbled to the side.
     His entire arm went numb with pain. He didn’t care. He was about to get slaughtered by his best friend. He scrambled away, ignoring the burning agony from his cracked wrist as he hurried to find an escape route. He couldn’t fight Edgar. Edgar was a full-blown, well-trained swordsman. Any defense, or offense for that matter, he would be able to mount would just be cut through like crepe paper.
     That left one choice: to run away. And, of course, he’d have to live long enough to accomplish that.
     His good hand, unfortunately his left, found the hilt of a dead man’s shortsword that had been partially hidden within the dust. Edgar walked around to the front of him with an alarming speed, his sword still locked within his grasp, its bloody edge gleaming wickedly.
     “You’re such a coward, Locke,” Edgar sneered, shifting his fighting stance slightly, leaning the brunt of his weight on his left leg.
     Locke stood slowly, purposefully taking the time to wipe the dust from his slacks no matter how much pain flared through his arm. He wouldn’t let Edgar have the satisfaction. “Not a coward,” Locke declared, hefting the sword up. It felt strange in his left hand. It always had even though he knew he was an adequate swordsman with any stance. “I just know that I can’t beat you. Even dirty tricks from the street can’t bring down an accomplished man like yourself.” He raised the sword level with his eye, pointing the short blade toward his friend. “Will you walk with me?”
     Edgar laughed. “Have a death wish?”
     Locke laughed back, a phony laugh that mocked Edgar. His laughter cut off abruptly as his face turned back to stone. “You’re giving me a choice?”
     Edgar frowned. “No.” He swung his sword in a hard cut, slicing from right to left. Locke expected the move; Edgar had used it countless times before when they were practice sparring. He met it easily, sliding the edge of his blade down Edgar’s. Had he had a longer sword, he would’ve wrapped Edgar’s knuckles with it like he had so many times in practice, but his weapon fell beneath Edgar’s, and he didn’t quite relish the idea of being skewered by a longer sword.
     “When are you going to learn?” Locke asked, his tone chiding.
     Edgar shrugged in his armor, recovering quickly for a parry to his right that Locke caught easily. “When are you going to learn?” he countered. His sword cracked down hard on Locke’s cheesy weapon at just the right point. The well-made sword shattered the cheap weapon a few inches from the hilt, and the edge of Edgar’s blade grazed his chain mail as he jumped back. Frowning, Locke crouched, tossing the remnants of the sword in the air and catching its blade. He threw it with a deft flick of his wrist as he would have his knife but giving a spin to it.
     Edgar reared back as the blade bit into his cheek, slicing a deep cut and nicking his bone. Blood spewed forth from the wound, running down his face in a red stream. He touched the wound, smearing the crimson liquid on his fingertips.
     “You bastard,” he growled.
     “No, not really.” Locke took advantage of Edgar’s momentary distraction to slide into an easy bar brawling stance and give him a nice left hook right into Edgar’s wound. The king reared back with a howl of pain, falling heavily on his rear. Locke wiped his knuckles on his tunic. “How do you like them apples, huh?”
     Edgar growled his displeasure, sure he felt his bone crack. And Locke, assessing the pretty bad situation, turned and fled.
     Edgar stood and followed. “You’ll pay for that,” he declared. Locke didn’t bother to look back at Edgar, his eyes looking around furtively for an escape route. None presented themselves. He stumbled over something that cut into his slacks and fell, nearly impaling himself on his find. Excalibur glittered in the light. His fingers closed over the hilt, and he stood, turning back to Edgar.
     He slammed the sword into Edgar as he felt cold steel bite through him, cutting into his stomach. Surprise flashed over his expression as the Excalibur rammed into Edgar’s breastplate, punching through the metal and slicing into flesh with the screech of metal being pulled through metal.
     Edgar grunted as the sword entered him, pushing forward on his own blade, impaling Locke on the thick broadsword. He groaned as blood welled up inside of his armor, pouring from his wound and down his tunic. Oh, how lucky you are, friend…
     “So, it…” Locke started, his voice tinged with pain, sweat running down his face. “It all comes down to this, huh?”
     Edgar smiled weakly. “You know, friend,” he declared, swallowing the dry air. “You really shouldn’t lie to your comrades like that. Betray them, eh?”
     Locke frowned, breathing in deeply, forcing the pain out of his mind. “I betray you?” He laughed shortly. “I don’t think so… friend.”
     “You calling me a friend?” Edgar snorted, forcing his words to symbolize a strength he knew was waning. “I don’t know why I would consider a lying weasel like you my friend. You’re hardly worth calling an enemy.” His wrist twisted the hilt of his blade sharply, turning it. Locke bit his lip to prevent crying out. “You are the broken,” twist, “cheating,” twist, “lying,” twist, “little snake that hides in the shadow. I don’t know why I,” twist, “put up with you.” Edgar pulled the sword sharply out of Locke, slicing through his innards once more.
     Locke fell forward to his knees, a cry of pain breaking through the silence that had followed, blood filling his mouth with its iron taste as his life was beat away by his heart. He couldn’t help proving once more to Edgar that he couldn’t take the pain of it all. He couldn’t stop himself from showing his weakness to the king. Excalibur fell from his numb fingers, and he collapsed onto the ground, blood soaking into dust, staining it red as though the sky had been bleeding crimson rain.
     The pain was overridden by cold, the cold by black. And Locke felt his mind slipping away to oblivion. It wasn’t all unpleasant. He didn’t feel the hurt and pain from his friend’s betrayal, the fiery agony burning in his wounds, the guilt that came from knowing that an entire army of men and boys, sworn to help him, had died because he was short-sighted. He didn’t have to feel any of that anymore because his luck had run out. Or maybe he had just become lucky enough to be dispatched from life.
     He faded away.
     Edgar allowed himself a small self-satisfied grin as Locke collapsed, knowing that he had just won a basically one-sided fight. Unfortunately, a turn of bad cards had dealt him this untimely wound. His sword slid from his fingers, hitting the ground with a clatter as he fell backwards, the pain of his wound overtaking him. With one hand he reached for the sword still protruding from his chest and wretched it free with the same screech of metal that had screamed through the air when it had entered the plate of mail. Locke was as good as dead, now. A shame he had to take someone with him as a traveling companion on the journey to hell.
     He wouldn’t let the two-timing thief have the satisfaction of knowing that he had brought down Edgar Roni Figaro with him. He wouldn’t let Locke know that he had taken down the mighty lion with one lucky stab.

     It was only mid-afternoon, and the world already stank of death.
     Heat rose up from the desecrated land in little waves, bringing with it the putrid stench of death from the corpses rotting beneath the sun. Carrion birds circled the heavens above the battlefield, warmed by the smell of blood and death. It was enough to send the strongest man reeling back in disgust, permeating through the air until it was layered over the land as thick as the flies that had come to feast on the bodies of dead horses and men, swarming through the bloodied feathers of chocobos. It had all come down to this slaughter.
     Celes Chere fought hard to keep her stomach full.
     Her chocobo pranced nervously beneath her, not wanting to descend down onto the main road at all. If she had a choice, she would’ve wanted to stay above the death. But she couldn’t. Not when she was expected to walk among the dead if only to declare this battle a loss. She snorted. This battle had been a loss before it had started.
     And, of course, if she went down there because duty required it of her, she would be lying to humor herself. She had a much larger stake in this than that. Her love could very well be one of the fallen heroes, collapsed face-down in the dust and dirt of the road. But she didn’t want to consider that option. He wouldn’t have fallen in battle. After everything they’d been through, she often wondered if he was invincible.
     She doubted it.
     But she had to hope. If nothing else, she had to hope that he had lived through just one more skirmish with the Empire. She had to hope that he was invincible, that no one could kill him, that no sword be able to hurt him. And looking at the remains of a once-proud regiment, she found that hope was the only thing left.
     Her chocobo backpedaled away from the flashing beak of a vulture as it swooped down at them, dangerously close. “Whoa,” she murmured, pulling back on the reins to get the great bird under control. “Calm down, Cid.”
     A man cleared his throat behind her. She turned to look at him.
     Sabin René Figaro crossed his hands over his muscular chest, waiting with some impatience farther from the top of the hill. Even with his immense height, he could not see the mass of bloody corpses and ripped flags that had been part of their army. He wrinkled his nose. He could no doubt smell it, however.
     “Well?”
     Celes swallowed and glanced back down the hill. “It’s bad,” was all she managed to say. She cleared her throat. “Bad” didn’t even begin to describe it. “It’s real bad.”
     Sabin didn’t respond, hefting his pack over his shoulder as he walked up to her. He didn’t need to see the carnage to know what had happened. He had a feeling deep in his gut that something was going to happen on this campaign the moment Edgar and Locke had left. And something had happened. He looked over the rise. They’d all been slaughtered.
     For a moment, he thought he might be sick.
     He licked suddenly dry lips. “I don’t think Banon can argue this one into a victory,” he said dully.
     “No,” Celes agreed sullenly. Neither of them wanted to descend into the battlefield. They both had loved ones that had taken part in this bloody brawl. Neither wanted to know just how they had died. Because they had died. No one had survived that. They all had died.
     “Well,” Sabin sighed, forcing a strong note in his voice that he didn’t feel. “We might as well look for survivors and send in a call for some help burying these soldiers.”
     Celes nodded dumbly. “Come on.” She kicked the ribs of her chocobo, sending it down the hill with a small cry of displeasure. It had sense. It didn’t want to walk among the mutilated corpses and dead. And that’s what she was doing. Sending it through the field where men had hacked at each other with swords and spears and axes and pikes like little boys playing a deadly game until the weaker one fell. They had been chopping and stabbing for their lives in a blood bath. The knights and soldiers could glorify battle for as long as they lived, but soon they too would join the hell they had sent so many others to face.
     The chocobo stopped at the edge of the road, refusing to go on. She wished she could do the same.
     Celes dismounted, dropping Cid’s reigns as she stepped out of the small drainage ditch and onto the road. Sabin stepped up beside her, his face stone.
     What was bad from afar suddenly became ten times worse.
     A blast of hot air hit them, filled with the pungent smell of blood. The air was dry, swirling dust bit at their faces, visions of the dead burned at their eyes. Flies swarmed around them, filling the silence of the graves with their incessant buzzing. The stench was almost overwhelming, dead bodies cooking in the midday sun, their mouths wide in silent screams, their sightless eyes open to the cloudless sky.
     She didn’t want to look on the faces of the dead, she didn’t want to see just how many of the young boys had flirted with her on the sparring fields and in the dining halls. She didn’t want to recognize anyone. But she had to look. If he was lying there among the dead… She couldn’t not know.
     Face after face. Some caked in dust. Some covered in blood. Body after body. Mutilated, missing limbs, twisted and broken. They were all run through with a quick stab to the heart, a final assurance that the dead army would no longer attack enemy lines. There were no cries from the dying; there were no dying, they were all dead, their lives cut from them like so many strings.
     “God…” Sabin murmured, stepping over a fallen shield. “Who could wander through them and stab them all like that?” he asked, even though he expected no answer. There was no answer. Celes shook her head. Only monsters would do something so horrific.
     “If they were already dead, would it matter?” she asked, surprised at her own answer. But it didn’t matter. Locke had fallen with these men, fighting along side them. And for what? And someone had probably walked down this road with a bloody sword, desecrating his body with one downward stroke.
     Sabin didn’t respond, looking through the bodies with a barely controlled franticness. He couldn’t find his brother, couldn’t see the white and silver armor, the proud lion of Figaro, the long sword that had been passed down with the throne for years. He looked at face after face, features covered in the black crawling flies, but none recognizable as Edgar.
     “Edgar!” he called, shattering the silence and causing Celes to start from where she stood transfixed, her gaze glued upon the face of a young man. A group of vultures took flight from where they were perched in a fury of feathers. “Edgar!”
     Sabin’s search became more frenzied as he searched body after body but to no avail. He couldn’t find his brother. He didn’t know if he wanted to find Edgar, fallen with the nameless dead heroes. But surely knowing was better than not.
     “Edgar!” He fell to his knees. “You can’t leave me, you know! I’m no good. I can’t be a bloody king…”
     A groan answered him.
     Sabin’s head snapped up, his eyes scanning the road furtively for the source of the moan, twinkling with hope at the prospect that maybe he didn’t have to ascend on the throne that was already red with the blood of his ancestors. He pushed himself to his feet and started running.
     “Edgar?” He stumbled and nearly fell as he saw the glint of fine weaponry in the hazy heat of the sun. “Edgar!” Celes was right behind him as he stumbled to a stop near the dusty white cape that was stained red with blood. She fell to her knees.
     “Oh, God, Edgar…” With strong hands, Sabin rolled him onto his back, his mouth set in a grim line as he saw what the cape had hidden before.
     Edgar was just a shadow of the great knight he had left Figaro as. His long blond hair was tangled and knotted, matted with sweat and caked with dust. A long, deep cut on his cheek still leaked blood, white bone clearly visible beneath the split flesh of his pale face. Dirt mingled with the blood, sticking in crimson clumps along the side of his face, covering his cracked lips. If not for the labored sound of air scraping through his mouth, he would be just one more corpse.
     And his armor had not helped him. Blood was dried to a dull black on the once majestic suit of mail, flaking away from his breastplate in a small breeze that rose over them. A hole had been cut through the roaring lion of Figaro as though a spiteful enemy had wanted one last indignity thrown upon the king. And down in that hole was most likely the source of all this blood.
     Celes’ shaking fingers found the carefully concealed straps that held his armor in place. She fumbled at the leather and metal workings while Sabin kneeled transfixed. “Help me get this off him,” she growled, her long nails picking at the armor’s bindings.
     She pulled one and then two apart, allowing the breastplate to be pulled away from him, exposing his sweaty tunic. Sweat was not the only thing staining its pure white color. “Sweet mother,” Celes whispered, staring blankly at the blood that soaked through an immense portion of the shirt. It still leaked from the wound, flowing over ripped muscle and torn flesh in small red rivulets. It was amazing Edgar was still alive.
     Sabin reached into his pack, producing an elixir from its jumbled contents. He pulled the cork from the neck with his teeth, grabbing Edgar’s jaw to pry open his mouth. He spit the cork away, tipping the contents of the bottle into his brother’s mouth. “You’d better not die on me now,” he declared darkly. “This crap cost me a pretty penny.”
     Edgar sputtered as the foul potion was poured down his throat, choking on its coolness against the rawness of his mouth. He should’ve been dead long before now. He should’ve died underneath the heat of the sun, broiled in his armor, bled to death on the battlefield. But he had somehow survived all that. And now his fool brother and that damn general girl were bringing him back to life. Not that that wasn’t all bad; there were hundreds of things he could think of doing with his love… if only the war’s battle lines weren’t so black and white.
     His head drifted to the side as the world focussed and unfocussed before his eyes. He closed them tight against the glare of the bright blue sky, wishing for anything to take away the heat. The thundering of his own heart filled his ears as he lay, the sounds of Sabin and Celes’ attempts at reviving him distant. So this was what it was like to die.
     He grunted, his eyes snapping open with unwanted clarity as Celes pushed down over his wound with a scrap of bandage. Pain bubbled through him, replacing the heat and his hands tightened into fists. He could feel the cold of the blade beneath his fingertips, cutting into his palm now as it had cut into him before this. It was hard, sharply numb, unrelenting in its iciness, totally foreign as it had pummeled through his body. And here he was now, grasping it as though it were a lifeline. Had he really killed his friend today? He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t remember.
     Locke…
     Celes’ hands stopped moving as she heard Edgar whisper the word, his name, the only thing that could still make her heart flutter like a little girl’s. She rocked back onto her heels, her eyes landing on the source of an almost blinding light. Clutched tightly in Edgar’s hand, blade black with blood, was Excalibur, still laying in the dirt with an almost regal manner.
     “Oh, where is he?” she demanded hotly, looking around for any clue as to his whereabouts. There were only the corpses of the men and their steeds who had fallen, the dusty ground stained dark with blood, the circling birds and buzzing flies. He was nowhere to be found, lost among the sea of dead. But his sword was here, locked in Edgar’s grip. He couldn’t have fought without his sword.
     An overwhelming sense of panic welled up inside of her. And if his sword was here, and he wasn’t… She felt the tears burning in her eyes. “Oh, no…” she muttered, her hands trembling, Edgar’s wounds forgotten. “He’s gone.”

     The sun rose and fell, taking with it the unbearable summer heat. The cool night air was a needed reprieve, rising and falling in a small breeze that played in the darkened curtains and sailed over leaves of paper. The moon rose up in front of the blackened sky, glowing lonely in the dark night as its pale light filtered through the open windows.
     Excalibur glittered wickedly.
     Banon leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh, grasping onto its arms. His red and gold robes settled around him with the rustle of cloth, skirting the floor near his feet. They were hot, he knew, but the heat rarely affected him. He was getting old, but that wasn’t important. They had a war to win. That was what was important right now.
     He cleared his throat. “Is this supposed to mean something?” he asked, waving at the bloody blade with one hand.
     “Yes, no, I don’t know.” Celes slumped into a chair with a huff of air escaping the old cushions beneath her. She was dead tired. Their small party had returned hours ago to Figaro after a long march through the heated sands, Edgar in tow as the only known survivor of the battle. The dead had been identified and buried. Letters were being written, apologies were sent out to mothers and wives, and the books and notifications were changed to portray the devastating loss. No doubt those soldiers on the front would be most displeased with the fact that they weren’t going to have any more reserves sent up to them. The Returners had run out of recruits.
     Banon was unable to hold back a yawn. “Well, we seem to be in a pickle, here,” he declared. “We have a dead regiment, a half-dead general and king, no reserves, no time to whip up reserves, and a possible breach in our security.”
     Celes glanced at him. “What?”
     “Oh, come on, Celes,” Banon growled, pushing himself to his feet, the chair scraping against the stone floor. “Locke is missing in action. We can presume that he’s dead and take a risk that he isn’t. Or we can play it safe and assume that he was captured.”
     Celes frowned, scuffing her boot against the floor. “Locke would never tell them anything,” she declared, forcing a bravado into her voice. She didn’t voice the fact that she really wasn’t sure if he’d sell some information in exchange for freedom, the sparing of pain. Which was more important, a victory or his life?
     Banon looked out the window, his brow furrowing. “I’m not so sure,” he said softly. “Would you? Would I?” He shook his head sadly. “Our position is compromised. They will make him talk. I don’t know how they plan to do that, but he will eventually break and tell them something.”
     Celes set her jaw stubbornly, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “He would die first.” She didn’t know if that was true. It could have been true; it may be false. She didn’t know. But she had the feeling that he would rather die than see her hurt, and if giving information out to the enemy would cause another massacre just like the one today, then he would let them kill him before he uttered a word that held any meaning. It was either a pretty farfetched dream or the stone cold truth.
     Banon nodded noncommittally, unable to find any truth to the words she had spoken but unable to point out any evidence to the contrary. Now came the real problem. If he attempted to make a change to their strategies, he would end up losing Celes’ confidence, and she would think that he had no trust in Locke. If he didn’t, their men on the front lines were in danger of losing their lives in a sadly one-sided ambush.
     “How much does Locke know?” he asked suddenly, voicing a thought that popped into his head. Celes looked to where he stood silhouetted by the moonlight before tuning her gaze away.
     “You’re not going to trust him, are you?” she asked, her voice uncommonly small.
     Banon sighed. “Celes – ”
     She shook her head. “No, you’re right. I’m being foolish. He knows enough to put a serious cramp in our supplies should they attack as tactfully as they did today.” She didn’t add that she didn’t agree with what he said, that her words held as much water as a sieve.
     He didn’t tell her that he saw right through her. He knew that if he keep losing her confidence, then the whole army would suffer. He couldn’t afford to lose any valuable assets. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “Our original plan will remain operable. We will continue on with our strategy until a time arouses when we are sure that the enemy knows of our movements. Until that time…” He sighed, walking back and slumping into his chair. “Send a bird and a messenger to Cyan’s brigade to inform him of these events. You are dismissed, General.”
     Celes stood slowly, her white cape rustling softly as she did so. She saluted crisply with a fervor she didn’t feel. She didn’t waste the time to wait for him to return the salute, turning sharply and walking to the door. She looked back at him.
     “I just want you to know that I am not pleased with the outcome of this situation,” she said, her voice hard with cold professionalism. “I will back any choice you make concerning this, regardless of my feelings, but I want you to know that I do so out of duty, not out of want. Good night.”
     The door clicked softly as it was latched shut, sealing off the room from the many halls surrounded. Banon ran a hand through his thinning hair, a curse on his lips. The situation was a delicate one, brittle as eggshells. He was skating on thin ice with hot blades. He could only hope that the water was shallow.

 
     Terra Branford sat back in her chair, silently smoothing a wrinkle from her dress, absentmindedly running her hands over the blue silk garment. She wanted something to take her mind off of what had happened. She didn’t think anything could do that. The events pushed into her thoughts relentlessly. And there was nothing she could do about it.
     She was worried. Locke was missing, perhaps crawled off to die alone in a ditch somewhere. She shuddered with the thought, but couldn’t help dismissing it from her mind. Wherever he was, it was far from here and far lonelier. She didn’t know why it mattered so much to her, why it bothered her so. Of them all, it should’ve sent Celes into a frantic fit, but she seemed as cool and composed as ever. Of them all, it should’ve bothered Terra the least. She hadn’t known him long, and she had no love for him that would send her scurrying for him.
     But he was a like an older brother who had been shipped off to a war and hadn’t come back.
     That hurt the most.
     But she could hardly worry about Locke when she had Edgar lying in front of her, clinging to life with an iron grip. Why she should worry about him, she didn’t know. He wasn’t going to die, not now, not like this. He was too strong to leave the world without setting behind him a marker for the rest to look back on and say, “That was Edgar’s tribute to the living.”
     He hadn’t made that tribute yet, or so it would seem.
     Though she would never openly admit it, he had given her a little something that she’d always remember him by. She didn’t know whether it was because he was a shameless flirt or a caring man, but he had always made her feel like she was normal. And she would always know that, and her heart hoped it was because of the latter that he did the things he had done.
     “He’s going to live,” she declared, the firmness of her voice surprising her.
     Sabin looked from where he had been quietly standing by the window, a dubious glance borne from weary worrying. He sighed before turning back to the moonlit sands. “Maybe,” he replied. There was always a chance that the silly elixirs and pungent potions they had stuffed down his throat, as well as a careful job of stitching his wounds, wasn’t enough to save his life. Maybe he just was an incorrigible pessimist.
     “He’ll live,” she repeated, turning back to look at Sabin. Sabin shrugged neutrally.
     And as if to spite his brother, Edgar grunted softy, turning his head and prying his eyes open to look to the side. Soft light filled his vision with a warming comfort, and he found his vision filled with the liquid gaze of two brown eyes he knew by heart.
     “Hey, beautiful,” he whispered, his throat dry and raw, cracked from disuse. “Where’ve you been all my life?”
     She smiled at his comment, her face glowing with happiness. Sabin grinned wearily from where he stood, wanting to run across the room and squeeze Edgar in a gigantic bear hug. Of course, he couldn’t do that with Terra watching, nor could he let the tears of relief flow down his cheeks.
     “Nice to see you back in the world of the living, bro,” he said, walking on shaky legs to the side of the bed.
     Before Edgar could respond to that, Celes burst through the open door, her expression fighting between one of joy and worry. Now she would hear the truth. Now she would know that Locke hadn’t been captured by the enemy, that he had simply gone ahead of the regiment to scout the way. The lie was easy to believe, regardless of the cold evidence she had held in her hand the entire way back to Figaro.
     “Where’s Locke?” she asked quickly, a fervent spark deep within her eyes, her only hope that he was not in the hands of the Empire.
     Edgar’s jaw set at the mention of the name, his mind quickly running over the story he had thought of long and hard. It was perfect in every way, shape, or form. It had no flaws in it. It was so twisted that it might as well have been the truth. No one would know otherwise. Except, of course, himself.
     Celes looked at him in dismay, waiting for an answer to her question with wild eyes. He closed his eyes and turned his head away. He was about to lie to his own brother as well as two lovely ladies who fancied Locke as their own. How the young man could do this to them all was sadly unknown.
     “Our army was sold out,” he finally said, opening his eyes to stare straight at Celes’ confused gaze. “Locke’s betrayed us.”

© 1999 by Junj.