Author's note: The following piece was insprired after reading the classic "Jane Eyre." The events in the story also touch upon my real life experiences and romance with my husband, AlbaSetzer. Of course, being a fan of Kefka didn't hurt either. Enjoy :)

Eighty-five....eighty-six....eighty-seven.....

Another pounding vibration of irritation grated across the faded blue eyes of the pale, sweating man lying in the ancient bed. He had fallen ill yesterday, his body tossed in a gloomy tempest of nausea, chills, and fever. He awoke, breath short and mind strained. Surrendering himself to the fatigue, he now groggily and hypnotically counted the narrow stripes of the wallpaper decorating his room; his head occasionally struck by a lightning jolt of pain.

Kefka Pallazo, over nine years, had grown reluctantly accustomed to such violent spells of illness, coupled with weeks of depression, paranoia, and sensations of severe isolation. The attacks lurked beast-like in the recesses of his scarred body and mind, eager to mutilate the remains of his former self. Thus, he had allowed himself slowly and methodically to drift into madness. This, he felt, served a dual purpose; first, to avoid his inevitable desire to destroy himself, and two, simply to demonstrate to all of THEM what horrid curses they had woven upon him. He had positively gloated at the thought of THEM dealing with the new "Kefka."

Now, he squeezed his eyelids fast shut, as concentrating on any image even briefly made his retinas seem to bulge and scream with dazzling, ink drops of colorless flashes. He had nearly erased the pain when a gentle and timid knocking came upon the door. He started convulsively, and yelped helplessly. He wanted to shriek, to banish whatever creature had invaded his dreary privacy. And yet, he only clutched the bed covers closer and groaned loudly,

"What do you want?"

Silent, the figure at the door seemed to consider the question for a long, agonizing moment. He detected the fearful clearing of a throat, and grew entirely angry with himself and the cruel demon that crouched at his door. His fury divided when the awkward, feathery voice simply said:

"I'm here to bring your breakfast, Sir. May I....come in?"

The latter half of the request, he decided, had been uttered in pure doubt. Kefka felt his nerves instantly retract, and the workings of his battered conscious slowly began to turn their gears. He propped himself up a bit against the fat, generous pillows and half-answered, half yawned a lazy Come in.

The iron handle rattled, and the door gracefully slid open and cautiously the young snippet of a girl crept into the room, her arms stiff, as her hands tightly gripped the handles of a glossy silver tray. She seemed to dread looking anywhere but straight ahead, but perhaps morbid curiosity bested her and she glanced at Kefka, and then stood there as rapid, noiseless gusts of breath left her. His face drawn in a tired and puzzled frown.

He cocked his head slightly, and muttered, "Well, do I get to eat, or will you go on standing there until I starve?"

She heaved, and then blinked several times, and approached him. As she came closer, he examined her manner and appearance. Her face was certainly plain, and very young. Her eyes a tepid shade of brown, not very dark at all, and absolutely brimming with an expression of melancholy loneliness. He stayed with them a moment, and then glanced at her body. Again, nothing special seemed to stand out in her shape, although she was very slender, her steps tiny and bare of any charm. She wore a loose, beige dress that brushed her ankles. Her shining brown hair pulled back casually. All of this he did very quickly, before she reached the bedside and nervously, though softly placed the tray on the covers. He smelled the sweet fragrance of lilac, and then looked at his breakfast, which he had no hunger for now.

She lingered there, watching him. He shot a hawk-like eye at her, and then sighed emphatically. She rubbed one arm with her small, delicate hand. Impulse begged him to sling an insult at her, and still...he looked at her again and frowned, he couldn't bring himself to speak. And then she did,

"Are you all right, Sir?"

He now raised himself, so that he sat very erect, the contents of the tray shifting. He hadn't expected her to ask that. Her voice, with such a natural sound of concern, he scarce believed she had mustered the courage. It frustrated him and pleased him. He forced his gaze into hers, searching blindly for sarcasm, deception, stupidity. He only found a pitiful, quivering fear, and something else, something akin to hope.

"It's nothing. I get like this once in awhile, that's all. I suppose I will feel better later, thank you for bringing...." he found himself searching those strange, sad orbs again...he needed to reveal hatred and repulsion in her mournful stare. His paranoia now flared and he locked himself in mid sentence. She nodded and turned. She went to exit, and paused at the door, she projected a weak smile, her voice failing and dry.

"Well, I hope you'll feel better by lunchtime."

The image of that motherly, innocent smile painted itself into a foreign memory that would haunt his soul for eternity.

The hours that passed, he solemnly picked and nibbled at the breakfast that rested warmly on his aching legs. Everything had such a bland flavor, but the presence of substance in his stomach seemed to provide for some energy. Random exposures of thought processed themselves in the core of his mind. Meanwhile his fever rose, making his attempt at eating impossible. So he removed the tray, laying it to his side and broiled beneath the down quilt. He sunk down very low in the bed and curled himself childishly facing the wall. He settled into the sleep of a tortured body, one deep, labored, and black.

His eyes finally parted, as gauzy, phantom shapes turned into reality. His fever, he sensed had broken, and his body felt glazed in a thick, sickly sweat. He scanned the room, and near the window, looking out at the pastel sketch of the sunset, stood the girl. At first, he could not remember where he had seen her, then that vivid picture of her smiling floated before his imagination's eyes. He didn't wish for her to know he had awaken, he fancied her turning around, her face distorted and demonic. A new wave of paranoia slipped over him, grappled his throat tightly, and squeezed his heart equally--he now felt as if all the blood within the vessel had been wrung out. He must have rustled the cover a bit, because she now glanced over her shoulder, he felt relief when those hushed, reaching eyes touched him again. He almost smiled in spite of himself; however, the cool nature of his will presided and he simply looked ahead. She seemed disappointed, as if she knew he had aborted the smile purposely. She faced the window, casting her eyes downward.

He began to honestly wonder what on earth possessed this girl. She had most likely been waiting for him to wake hours, perhaps even watching him a great deal of the time. Hadn't she been harassed and filled with all the rumors that clung to the name of Kefka Pallazo? Or was she simply ignorant, unaware that she had been keeping her uninvited vigil over a man more people sneered at more than admired? The latter seemed the most likely, for she had the appearance of a person who walked the path of life in miserable solitude, ignoring the blaring noise that rang about her ears. Trying to suffer through life one ticking minute after the other, gaining nothing, impressing no one. Remorse flowed over him, and trickled between the angry shell that encased his idle heart. He had subjected himself to guilt before, always flying into a raging tantrum of self loathing. This time, he simply sighed. He summoned the memory of her smile again, now it seemed comfortable and antique, a sort of prized possession.

"How long have you been here?" he inquired impersonally.

She paused, and spoke, her eyes now staring ahead. The feathery quality of her voice now wavered, "Off and on all day."

Is she crying? he thought in dreadful surprise. The whole situation now tumbled into a state of pure confusion and queerness. She now faced him fully, her fingers laced together in a gesture of worry and her eyes free of tears, but burdened by some awful emotion.

"Do you need anything, Sir?" she asked in robotic staleness.

"No, you may go now," he replied in parallel tone.

She paced quickly towards the door, with the air of having just been severely scolded and rejected. For the third time, the smile materialized in his thoughts and he called out to her in a kind voice that sounded so very odd to him:

"I'll see you tomorrow morning."

She nodded a bit, and exited.

The following days, Kefka progressively left the misery of illness as the girl tended to him periodically throughout the days. Through very brief and uneasy conversation he learned her name, Olivia, and that she was actually much older than he had first perceived, being 22 years of age. She never once initiated the words between them, and always answered shyly, almost eagerly.

By Thursday of that week, he had recovered enough strength to at last leave the bed, and rose very early just as blurred shafts of light filtered through the linen draperies that hung stately over the windows. He peeked through these draperies unto the vast and smoky streets that stretched out below. He detested the staid city, and yet today he found the view to be almost pleasant. His muscles welcomed the light exercise of moving about the room, and he indulged himself if a particularly hot shower, that seemed to improve his overall feeling. He now dressed in his unusual attire; every piece dyed frightening hues of reds and greens. He slung an oversized cape over his shoulders, and pulled on immaculately clean, leather boots in the same ghastly hues of his clothing. Without thinking, he sat himself down before a large, oaken framed mirror and began applying face paint, drawing intricate patterns of lines upon the whitened pallet of his face. He worked busily, as a performer preparing for the next big scene. He examined his work, and began tucking and fixing various trinkets of lace into his thick blondish hair, and two soft blue feathers into the back. He neither smiled, nor grimaced. He merely left the mirror and paced around as if something were to happen. Fifteen minutes later, Olivia arrived and knocked gently upon the door. He gave word of admittance and she stepped into the room, nearly dropping the tray that now trembled between her tiny hands. Her eyes now coated in disbelief and terror. His mind wandered in circles as he searched for an explanation to why she now stared at him with even more sadness and fear than ever before. He felt as if she were slipping far away, as she put the tray down on a table and backed out of the room, not once taking her eyes off of the motley jester that now stood before her. She fluttered her eyes before turning to the corridor, seeming to beckon to him, where have you gone?

She hadn't even bothered to shut the door; this added to his perplexed fury. Had she become on of THEM? Surely not, he couldn't accept it. He impatiently closed the door, and marched with predator speed to the mirror. He then realized why she had received him so oddly, he had taken the guise of the new "Kefka." The image struck him so strongly, he practically fell on his knees. He now growled quietly to himself, and thrust his hand out to the surface of the mirror, not hard enough to fracture it, but enough to send a stinging bite into his hand. He brooded the whole morning in his room, and felt as if he could have completely let himself dive without struggle into insanity. He at length oppressed the idea, as that simple smile caressed his mind once more. He felt an enormous, crashing wave of loneliness wash over him, as the smile melted into that terrified look of surprise she had thrown brutally at him. He knew he had obliterated any chance of future kindness from her, and especially any sense of trust she might have one day grown towards him. This thought tasted most vile and bitter.

However, around noon, she returned. This time she made every effort to keep her composure, she even stayed a few moments after placing the tray on the little dining table he kept in his room. He noticed that she made absolutely sure that she looked at him as often and as naturally as humanly possible. His heart jumped a little when his eyes met hers, and he detected that something else again. Perhaps she had reconsidered the situation, and forgiven him for giving her such a nasty, ugly fright. He hoped so, sincerely. She softly excused herself and left him alone once more.

Clouds had now devoured the sunny morning, and that afternoon frigid rain charged at the glass, swirling winds hunting each other as they howled their war cries. He focused his conscious on Olivia, fretted at moments, and rejoiced at other times. Within hours he had backed himself into a frustrating, unrelenting web of contradicting emotion and reason. He could feel his stability wane thin, he fought valiantly to gain control of his mental motions. Evening descended, and he now felt more exhausted than all the days of his illness. Dinner time was approaching, that meant she would be coming soon. He panicked slightly, and meditated on everything but the concept of madness. He wanted so dearly to hear her gentle knock, then open the door.

She came down, just as the crimson blush of the evening sun hatched from the dusky storms, and sent a rosy light into Kefka's room. She entered warmly, and he spoke suddenly, just as she had released the dinner tray from her grasp.

"Olivia, please..don't."

She raised her face in question of his words. He felt everything crumble, and then shrieked loudly:

"This isn't me! This isn't me! I hate myself! I hate this..." he smeared his fingers over his face roughly, causing the make-up he wore to smudge. He looked at her, then at his hands, and then to her again, "I hate this!"

Two acrid tears emerged from his tormented eyes, and he stood there, in an infantile fashion. She bit her lip in a gesture of sympathy, and then felt her strength suddenly bolstered.

"Why don't you try to sit down? I, maybe I should leave you alone?"

"Please...stay."

"All right, I promise I won't leave."

He now seated himself at the squat dining table and pulled his dinner close to him, taking fork and knife in hand, he gingerly cut at the piece of meat that lay silently upon the fine ivory plate and inserted it into his mouth. She pulled out the chair across from him and took her place. She observed his every action; he rapidly finished his meal.

"You really are a gentle girl," he said quietly.

"Thank you," she replied in that feathery voice.

"I didn't mean to scare you today, just now..."

"I know you didn't, Sir...I just wish..." she looked up at him, studying the red and white streaks that stained his face.

"Do you want to leave?"

"No."

Such timid phrases, each spoken by a person carrying the weight of a thousand griefs and sewing a plethora of intangible dreams each and every day. She, a misplaced spirit, with no attachments and no identity. He, the unfortunate result of Man's infatuation with experimentation and greed. Now they sat face to face, ready to mend each others wounds. More than anything he desired to touch her, to know he had not conjured up this waifish angel of sadness in one of his saner moments. He had never known affection since childhood, and those lost sensations had been burned to ashes years ago. And now he wished so desperately to reacquaint himself with all of those human privileges. He had found equality in her marked loneliness, he had comprehended every glance, and now he wanted more than anything to replace that dark, unstirring sadness with the secret beauty he sensed was hibernating beneath the shadows that imprisoned her eyes.

The shuffling hands of the time now brushed past nine o'clock. Little by little, sentences of every shade of emotion filled the air; the average observer would have rolled his eyes disdainfully at the two, as they unfolded the poignant events of their lives. On his part, he told her of his career in the Imperial army. He explained in hurtful detail his recollection of the first of his infusions with the forbidden and deadly force of "magic." How these exposures had deteriorated his natural immune system, and locked him in an unbearable fist of emotional and neurological ruin. He also addressed why no one ever seemed to bother him, even during his illness. Because every inhabitant of that dirty city, including his "comrades" and soldiers, even the Emporer himself positively loathed going near him. They snickered at societal events as he passed by, they pelted him with insults the moment he exited a room, he had even on several occurrences overheard the young general Celes Chere call him "General Psycho." Even that snide remark from an insipid teenager had embedded itself into the mocking kaleidescope of his his memory.

Her story, though not as dramatic, wound depressingly from her first years after leaving the toddler age. She had begun her schooling, and had difficulty finding a niche in the circle of children that she studied with. Soon on, her peers noticed little Olivia hardly spoke, was well-behaved and always floating on a cloud of dreams. These qualities, though very thrilling to her teachers, sat less agreeably with her classmates. The older she grew, the more and more aggressively she had been teased, jeered at, even attacked once physically. Every friendship she had worked so hard to attain had failed shortly after birth. By the end of her years as a student, she had tried to petrify her emotions, but being so sensitive could scarce keep from going hysterical each afternoon after classes had finished. Her family tried to provide for as warm a reception as possible, but even they had betrayed her on occasion. Her own mother had given up on the pathetic creature after a certain point, at least Olivia had perceived things that way. She shed tears when citing particular moments of her life, and Kefka found himself unable to react, only capable of listening and silently mourning the wasted years they were both trying to inter. By the time they had run out of words, Night had spread her inky, sapphire cape over the skies and the hateful city below had gone to bed.

They now spent an elongated minute just staring vaguely ahead, each ruminating the exchange, and then it seemed, simultaneously they began to laugh, they stared right into each other's faces and positively giggled under the heavy pressure of the sadness. The noise exploded and resonated hauntingly in the walls, though with an undertone of pity. They eventually calmed down, and traded relieved and hopeful smiles.

"We're just a couple of crazy idiots, aren't we?" he said matter-of-factly.

"Maybe," she grinned.

"Hmmm..." he now intently and intensely found her eyes and possessed them, "I don't care if we are."

"Neither do I, now."

"It's getting late, perhaps we should call it an evening," he suggested in a disappointed sigh.

"I am a bit tired," she even yawned as if to prove she was not lying.

She now pushed back on the chair, and it scrapped backward and she rose, rubbing her back for the evening's conversation had physically worn her. He followed her lead and she trapsed dreamily to the door. He kept a safe distance, as if afraid to disturb her six feet of personal space. She opened the door, and entered the hallway of the living quarters for the Imperial elite forces. She turned around and they spoke a few uncomfortable phrases. Before departing, he awkwardly grabbed her hand and lifted it slowly, giving it a soft and gentlemanly kiss. Her cheeks blazed with womanly embarrassment. He released the hand and she drifted down the way until reaching the tiny room where she slept. He watched until the door shut silently, and returned to his room in a cloud of confusion, wonderful and miserable confusion. He didn't even remember getting into bed that night, for all his concentration leaned upon that evening.

Miniature specks of rain drizzled and streamed down his window, as Kefka awoke the following morning and stared blankly at the gloomy weather outside. He tossed his eyes around the room, and then stared a very long time at the dining table. The tray and plate still lying there, for in those hazy hours last night, she had forgotten her responsibilities. Now he fixed his mind upon Olivia, and pulled out the cherished memory of that first smile she had directed at him. He at once felt a cutting pang of hunger, and laughed to himself: Kefka, you villain, you made your stomach growl just so she'll come sooner!He chuckled aloud, and then smiled. The sensation of this expression felt so light and, human. Perhaps he hadn't lost all connection to humanity after all, the mere idea seemed such a distant and beautiful gift. Yes, this monster wanted to be liberated from his filthy cage and walk amongst the mortals again, as a man, not a freakish beast.

In the middle of this soliloquy of thought, that familiar whispering knock came upon the door, Kefka nimbly slid from the bed, and turning the cool, iron handle revealed the little figure, thinking how lovely she looked today. She cast a sweet, timid smile upon him, her face now pink with blushing. Every gesture, every motion she made encircled his soul, as if he had fallen into the soothing violet tissues of some cliche desire. She had no sooner set his breakfast down, that he put his need into realization; perhaps he approached this new task with unrefined instinct, but he could not bear to live another moment without knowing. He roughly pressed the girl to him, his lonely arms closing snugly around her. She gasped a bit from the sudden shock of this profound gesture. Her thin, fragile body locked abruptly to his, she couldn't even budge her arms. Kefka kept her to him, as a young boy might cling possessively at a teddy bear. He finally loosened her, and now flushed a bit, overcome by his impulsive behavior. She simply blinked and curled her lip in a budding smile. Though surprise kept the bloom from expanding entirely.

His lips moved without uttering a single word, as he rode the mighty crest of emotion that had moved him to embrace her. He searched for the exact and proper phrase that would explain what had driven him to take her so rashly into his arms. He failed to piece together the words, and now regarded her with a gentle sense of knowing that she hadn't been disgusted by his actions. She enforced this by stretching her slender, trembling fingers out to his, wrapping them tenderly, he felt the clammy moisture of her nervous hand as her palm brushed his. They stood in awe of the moment, saying nothing, feeling everything. Though in their childlike state of mind, neither of them was able to cope with the true impact of what had just occurred between them. And so after the first wave of fascination died down, they grew impatient and worrisome over what would happen next. He didn't know whether to hold her again, or simply take his seat and begin eating his breakfast as if nothing had happened at all. Was he being a fool? He felt dizzy suddenly, positively sick with confusion and spun by his hurtling want for such beautiful, ethereal things such as affection and dare say it, love. The word fluttered translucently through his soul, had he really considered and dreamt of loving someone before? He groped determinedly towards the answer, and then looked at the frail creature whose warm fingers laced his with such assurance and doubt. He turned within, and found the dancing, sputtering essence of love trying so pitifully to ignite his heart's parched and withered ruins. He released her hand softly, and pulled out the chair.

He needed patience. She looked at him and understood everything within an instant.

-------End of Part One-------

Part Two-->

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