Standard disclaimers for Final Fantasy IX apply. Final
Fantasy is property of the almighty none-too-minor deity commonly
known as Squaresoft. ::Mina bows humbly at the game giant's feet:: My
fervent love of the characters (specifically Kuja and Zidane) is fuelled
by Amano Yoshitaka's art—this man is my idol. I make absolutely nothing
from this fic other than odd pleasure from manipulating characters with my
twisted imagination. Yes, this means that suing would probably give you
more of a headache than it would give me. ^_^
Warnings: Some language, lots of angsty introspection, Kuja (Who
is currently much hotter than Sephiroth now, in my opinion. Maybe when the
FFVII PS2 remake comes out it'll change…at the moment, I sincerely
doubt it, though.), SPOILERS for the end of the game—scratch that: make it
spoilers for the entire game—and lots of abuse of the Fanfic Author's
Creative License clause. Face it: there's a lot about this game we don't
know, like FFVII, and speculation's a helluva lot of fun. =^_^=
Dialogue at the end is taken and slightly modified from the end of the
game.
Extra Warning: Shounen ai involving very young boys.
'Course, it looks a bit like shotakon in the introspective flashback, so
I'll throw in that warning as well…and it got a bit limey in parts. Well,
kinda, I guess, though it's definitely got nothing on Blood Dance.
Hmmm…come to think of it, some people take the whole 'brother' thing
extremely literally, so I guess this should have a possible incest warning
too. ::sweatdrop:: Shit, I'm breaking all of my own 'no-no' rules with
this one. ::pathetic whimper:: Help?
K'lendel: ::pats on head:: Just listen to the muse, Mina-kaachan, and
everything will be fine.
…That's what I'm afraid of.
It's funny—or, at least, ironic—how things eventually come full-circle
in one's life. Garland once told me it was in my nature to feel too
strongly, and because of that, I would abandon my feelings elsewhere—would
abandon the things I felt strongest about elsewhere. I think he knew,
twelve years ago, why I did what I did, but he never spoke of it to me—not
after the initial confrontation, that is. Though he was arrogant, and
though I hated him with a deep-seated passion that has yet to be quelled
even after his death, I can admit that he wasn't stupid. No, he wasn't
stupid by any means, and though he didn't pay as close attention to me as
he did to Zidane and then Mikoto, he did know me well enough to surmise
the reasons behind my actions.
I just wish that I had remembered my reasons.
Years of loneliness—combined with that hint of zealously ambitious
drive to prove the measure of my existence that I was never able to rid
myself of—is what set it all off, I think. Of course, I'm at liberty to
reflect upon such things, now, like I never was before.
I'm dying. I, one of the most powerful creatures in existence, am
dying.
It's stupid, I decide, as I lay back in my prison of roots, listening
to the wails of the distraught Iifa Tree in my head; it makes me wish that
telepathy wasn't part of the Genome design. In all honesty, though, I wish
I could have died without remembering all of these things. Now I die with
guilt, with fear, with sorrow, with regret, and I hate it as much as I
hated Garland.
Oh, irony, how I loath thee.
I sent him away though, despite my more selfish urgings to keep him
with me. For that, at least, I can feel a hint of pride in myself. Who
would have thought that I would have the strength of will to do it again?
I sent him away twelve years ago, hoping to save him the pain and sorrow
of becoming the Angel of Death and instead… Instead I fell off the path
and forced him to become a part of it all anyway.
He and his friends are safe—dying makes me want to be selfless for
him. I can feel Mikoto out there as well, searching for them. I sigh,
closing my eyes. Take care of him, little sister. Though I didn't know you
well, though you probably only remember me as the vain maniac who was out
to destroy a world, you are probably the only one who will know why I did
this. And Zidane… Ah, Zidane will most likely never remember, and perhaps
that is for the best. I am the only one left who will remember his time
before Gaia, who will remember his life on Terra and at Bran Bal, and my
knowledge will go with me. My little Zidane, the sun to my shade, the one
I loved best of all.
The Tree is growing more agitated, the roots around me rising and
falling in chaotic upheaval with the Tree's anger and pain. I can't help
but laugh as it screams though. Give it up, Iifa Tree. Like me, your
design was flawed and your life has ended. Give it up and die gracefully.
Die as I am willing to die: alone.
…Farewell, Zidane, I think to him, smiling faintly. Though I
die alone, I will remember all of the time I spent with you before I
abandoned you to a life of loneliness and thievery on Gaia, before you
were Zidane Tribal, member of Tantalus. As I die, I shall remember the
time when you were simply Zidane. I will remember a time before I was
Kuja, owner of King's Auction House, a warmonger for Terra who couldn't
remember himself. I will remember a time when I was simply a flawed Genome
without a name.
I was told almost daily that humanity's ultimate concern is with
existence, the 'here and now.' 'Are we real?' 'Do we have purpose?'
'Why?' …Such thoughts, I was told, I shouldn't understand, I
shouldn't have.
Why?
Because I am not human.
Garland told me often that I shouldn't exist in the first place. I was
an experiment, a prototype—I was supposed to be a shell without thought,
without feeling, without a soul.
I guess that was really my first act of defiance against Garland, the
fact that I had a soul. I didn't see it as such, but my creator did and
hated me for it. You see, a soul should only go to a special sort of
person…and I was never intended to be special.
He called me a 'Genome,' my creator did. I wasn't the first, and he
assured me often that I wouldn't be the last, but I was unique…I was
flawed.
There were other Genomes at Bran Bal, others that fit my creator's
blueprint. They were slim and agile, fair of face, quick with their
hands…and utterly mindless.
I was an outcast there, even amongst those that Garland deemed my own
kind. The others all possessed skin of a pale gold, hair of variant shades
of gold, tails of gold, eyes of deepest sapphire. Despite their lack of
soul, of their own will, they glittered in my eyes like diamonds in the
sun. They were carefree, peaceful, content—mayhap, even happy.
Though we all wore the same clothing, pants and shirt of dreary grey
with added bits of blue, pink, or purple, I felt so awkward amongst them,
so out of place. They were like the sun, bold and brilliant, and I…I was
like the washed-out moon, pale and silvery, as different from my brethren
in appearance as night and day.
My hair was silver-white, fading more towards a blue-violet every day
that passed. My skin was marble pale, as flawless and colourless as milk
or crème. Though I did the same work as the others, my body remained
without real muscle definition; I wasn't weak, but my appearance made me
seem delicate—it galled me to admit that. My tail was much the same shade
as my hair; I tended to keep it curled about my waist or upper leg, unable
to let it lash about like the others.
There were no mirrors in the compound—Garland knew nothing of physical
vanity, and he was the only one other than myself that would have cared to
look at themselves—but I had viewed my face often enough in the still blue
water and glowing crystals that littered Bran Bal. I knew that I looked
more like the female Genomes than the males, that my face was angular and
pretty. I knew that my eyes were more amethyst than sapphire, that they
tinged amber-red when I felt strong emotions, and that they were framed by
long, thick black lashes—my body's one defiance against my paleness. The
thing that truly set me apart, though…
Feathers. There were four, downy-soft and silver-violet like my hair.
They swept up and back from my forelock, like the crest of a bird—and they
were yet another reminder of how flawed I was.
Scowling at that thought, I drew my knees up to my chin and scooted
back further on my bunk. If my creator was truly the god he says he was,
why was it that I was flawed? Shouldn't I be perfect, like the others?
Maybe not. Maybe it wasn't that Garland had made a mistake, maybe it
was that I had simply wanted to be real, that I had wanted to be myself.
If that was so, then Garland would hate that even more, knowing that I
possessed a soul because I, the mistake, had willed it—not because he had
made a mistake.
There was the sound of heavy boots on the floor, and I looked up just
in time to see Garland standing in the doorway.
"Somehow, I thought I would find you here."
He seemed almost amused, and amusement was something I did not
appreciate in Garland. When my creator was amused, it usually spelled
disaster for me. I had learned quickly not to show any fear I might feel,
because Garland enjoyed that. If I feared him that meant that, despite my
free will and soul, he had power over me.
I didn't want him to have power over me.
"What do you want, Garland?" I asked shortly.
Garland smirked, running a hand through his beard. "Come now, mistake,
show respect to your creator."
I believe that, in all my eight years of life, there hadn't been a
single time that he hadn't told me to show him respect.
Just what was it there was to respect about the man? His insane
genius? His skills as a master manipulator? Oh, Garland, how you would
have hated to view my thoughts; I know every trick you use to push my
buttons and it is but by my will alone that I allow myself to succumb.
I smiled coldly, allowing my eyes to slide partially closed. "Creator,
Garland? You didn't create me; you created this shell that I call a body.
I created myself, Garland—I willed that I should exist, that I should
live."
"I don't know why I just don't kill you now and be done with it,"
Garland muttered, glaring at me.
I had been correct with my earlier guess; Garland really was offended
by the thought that I might not be a mistake, that I might be something
else. "You've tried that already, numerous times," I reminded him. "Your
last poison made me violently ill for three days—I guess that means that
you are improving."
Garland snorted, continuing to glare at me. If I hadn't known him for
as long as I had, I probably would have been scared. By appearance,
Garland was a very old man, his hair and beard long and white. But he wore
a suit of black body armour that was quite daunting, complete with a black
and crimson cape. I know that he, himself, was a creation like the rest of
us, and that he has been around for longer than I could ever imagine. He
is extremely intelligent and powerful, too—I know that quite well, though
I outwardly deny it.
I couldn't say for certain why it was that Garland no longer frightens
me. All I knew is that his threats have long since ceased meaning anything
to me. A large part of it comes from the fact that he had failed to kill
me so many times, I think. I wasn't cocky about it, but I was rather
pleased that he hadn't been able to do anything more than make me ill.
Truth told, though, Garland merely had to show his face for that to
happen.
"So why did you seek me out?" I asked coldly, cradling my chin on my
knees. "Was there something you wanted to share with me or did you merely
come to gawk at me in order to remind yourself of your failings?"
"When was the last time you came down to the laboratory?"
Garland's almost purring tone had me instantly on alert. "It's been a
month or two," I said. My eyes watched him closely, heart clenching when I
noticed that satisfaction and triumph glittered in his cold eyes.
Smiling, Garland said, "Then I think it's time that you came to pay
myself and your brethren a visit. I have quite a…surprise for you, my dear
mistake."
With that, he laughed softly, a decidedly menacing sound that grated
in my ears, and left the room with a swirl of his cape.
Snarling, I slapped my hands onto the bunk, glaring at the doorway
through which Garland had disappeared. If he'd been up to something for so
long, how had he managed to keep silent on it? Usually he was in my face
with his achievements…
…which led me to conclude that this was something big.
Scowling, I scrambled to my feet and out the door, racing through the
myriad halls and trails of Bran Bal, around the still blue ponds that
pulsed and glowed. I worried as I noted that none of the other Genomes
were about—typically they never stray far from the blue of the ponds and
crystals.
I was panting by the time I slid into the lower levels, into Garland's
laboratory. I found myself at the back of the pack, stuck behind the rest
of my brethren who were gathered about the testing stations and growth
tanks, murmuring quietly. "What's going on?" I snapped, grasping the
nearest shoulder.
Sapphire blue eyes blinked blankly, sombrely back at me. "Master
Garland has created another. We shall have a new brother today."
My jaw dropped as I reeled back at the news. A new…brother? Garland
had finally created another?
I had been the last, eight years ago. It had seemed that my…soul…had
so disturbed Garland that his plans for Terra and Gaia's integration had
been waylaid, and he hadn't created another Genome since.
"Yes, mistake. A new Genome shall be brought into this realm soon, one
like yourself…one with a soul."
Garland's self-satisfied tone broke into my whirling thoughts, and I
pushed my way through the crowd till I was standing in front of him, my
feet braced apart as I prepared for battle. "What do you mean?" I hissed,
hands balling at my sides. How could he create another like me? I was a
mistake!
"You were intended to be a model," Garland said, as if reading my
mind. "I used your genetic print in the design of my perfect Angel of
Death. Everything has proceeded according to plan. The Terran soul has
germinated inside of the Genome, and now shows signs of awakening. Aren't
you pleased, mistake? From you, I have managed to create perfection. It
seems that you served a purpose after all."
Jerking my chin up at his tone, I said, "That which is force-made
shall never be as good as that which is self-made, Garland."
My words seemed to trouble him, but after a moment, he shrugged and
turned away. "I told you that you would have to be replaced. Your design
is perfect for the Angel of Death that Terra needs, but your will is too
strong. Had you remained a dormant soul…had you remained dormant, I may
have been able to do something with you. Now, you are simply a hindrance."
A hindrance. Garland had muttered over the years about how he would
have to make do with a sub-par Angel of Death. Now, it seemed, he had
somehow managed to create his perfect Genome after all.
That meant that I was no longer necessary. That meant that Garland had
no reason to hold back on killing me.
"Where is he?"
My voice sounded odd, hollow and dead. Was it really my voice that had
emerged from my mouth?
Garland arched an eyebrow as he turned back to face me. "Why do you
care?"
I refused to flinch away from him. True, he was in his element, here
in the laboratory, his mindless Genomes surrounding him adoringly. But I
was hollow, empty…and quickly filling with the emotion I had learned early
to call 'hate.' "Where—is—he?"
Snorting, Garland gestured absently with a wave of his hand. "In the
tank, of course. It will still be a few minutes before Zidane awakens
completely."
Striding past him, I stood in front of the floor to ceiling growth
tank, eyes riveted on the small figure that floated serenely within. He
was so small compared to myself and the others, yet everything I could see
appeared to be the same, perfectly proportioned to his frame. So this was
my replacement. Zidane, the only one found worthy of a name.
The perfect Genome.
I found it odd that something deemed "perfect" by Garland could be so
small, so innocent. How was it that this child would be stronger than I? I
wondered. True, I had been grown to near maturity from the start, but this
new…child—yes, that was the word. This child, this Zidane…he was important
enough to have a name, and someday he would grow up to replace me.
Giving up the position as Garland's Angel of Death wouldn't have been
a terribly big loss, but I wasn't about to give up on living. That's what
my creator wanted, and I was determined to defy him till the very end.
"Whatever you're thinking just now, you can stop it," Garland said
sharply.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I murmured, pressing my
hands flat to the glass. This new Genome of Garland's was so small—I
couldn't seem to get over that fact—far smaller than I and the others had
been when we'd emerged from the tank. How would this scrawny, awkward
thing replace me?
Machinery began to sound, and I could hear the other Genomes scurrying
about, muttering orders, fulfilling their designs. I felt more than heard
Garland step closer, and I braced my feet apart in anticipation.
"Step away, mistake."
I flinched at his harsh tone but shook my head in defiance, pressing
even closer to the tank. "If he is to replace me, to be better than me,
than I want to be the first person he sees!" I spat. "Let him know with
the first flutter of his eyes that I hate him!" For I did hate him then,
because his birth signalled my death.
And then it became quiet and still, the only sound the hum of
mechanics and the whisper of the other Genomes. I waited, breath coming in
fast, light pants as I saw my replacement's hands twitch, his tail uncurl.
Golden hair swayed through the green liquid as the small head slowly began
to move.
I tried to put all of my hatred and anger into my eyes as I waited to
see his face. It was childlike, round-cheeked with slightly pouty lips,
golden skinned. In a sudden snap of motion, black eyelashes fluttered and
I found two brilliant, deep wells of sapphire locked with my own paler
ones.
There was life in those eyes, sharp and shining. But there was
knowledge there as well, intellect. This Genome knew, was aware at
birth as I myself had been.
This Genome had a soul.
I hate you, I hate you! I thought darkly, the words hissing
venomously through my head as Zidane and I continued to stare at one
another, locked into a contest of wills. Why are you perfect?
Why am I a mistake?
At that moment, when I thought that our battling wills alone could
shatter the planet, Zidane did something that startled and confused me. He
cocked his head to the side, reached his small, chubby hands forward until
they were pressed flat against the glass, mirroring my own, and he smiled.
Perfection had smiled upon flaw.
I reeled away from the glass, confused, frightened. This…I wasn't
prepared for this. I didn't know how to handle this sudden curve that
Garland had thrown me. So I did the only thing I felt I could do.
I ran.
Running can only last for so long. After awhile, the runner either
becomes exhausted or the pursuer catches up.
In my case, it was a matter of both.
For the first year that Zidane had emerged from the growth tank, I
somehow managed to avoid him. It wasn't easy, for it seemed that he had an
endless supply of energy. He was everywhere, almost as if he couldn't make
himself slow down, as if he wanted to take in everything at once.
Truly, though, I believe that was one of Zidane's traits that confused
yet attracted me. I, too, had been curious—I still was. But Zidane's
position of favour with Garland seemed to serve him well. He was
constantly found trailing after Garland, chattering up a storm, pelting
our creator with question after question.
I felt torn, conflicted. On the one hand, I wanted to follow Zidane,
to learn more about this strange new creature that was like myself. But on
the other hand, I couldn't forget that smile….
I shuffled down the corridor towards my room dejectedly, sweat
trickling between my shoulder blades, down my forehead, making my hair
stick to my skin. It was hot and sweltering in Bran Bal, high summer on
Terra at its worst. I'd spent the entire day in a remote region of the
territory, practising my black magic skills. It was a point of contention
with Garland that I was determined to win; he maintained that I would
never master anything beyond primary level spells, while I knew that I was
capable of more. Though I was hot and tired, I was quite pleased with
myself; I'd managed to cast all three secondary level elemental spells
without a major effort. Fira, Thundara, Blizzara: they were now mine to
call at whim.
At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to get a change of clothes
from my room, scrub myself clean in the springs, and sleep for a week.
Hopefully Garland would be holed up in Pandemonium until I felt ready to
leave my room.
As it was, when I reached my room the bed looked so inviting, I
couldn't help but flop down across it with a relieved sigh.
Or, at least, that was what my intention had been. When I fell
forward, I fell on a soft lump that emitted a suspicious squeak when I
landed on it.
I scrambled off the bed, tearing the sheets off with me as I stumbled
and fell onto the cold, hard floor. My mouth fell open, working like a
fish on land as I struggled to find the words to convey my surprise.
Large sapphire blue eyes blinked at me quizzically, a slightly chubby
finger absently poked between pouty lips. A slim, golden-furred tail
lashed about with unrestrained energy, caught in the other hand after a
moment.
Somehow I managed to dig deep within myself and call up all of my
anger and hatred. I scowled, pointing towards the doorway. "Get out," I
snarled. A corner of my mind whispered, Cast Death. It was a
tertiary level spell, but my determination at that moment seemed like it
would be enough to pull it off. How dare he invade my territory?
A small smile crossed the heart-shaped face, a giggle emerging.
Great. I was amusing him.
Surging to my feet, sheet wrapped around my arm, I continued to point
at the doorway. "Get out!"
Again, to my surprise, he shook his head, smile not wavering in the
least. The finger left his mouth with a slight 'pop,' his other hand
releasing his tail. He crawled forward to the edge of the bed on his hands
and knees, tail lashing once more as he cocked his head to the side and
blinked at me curiously.
"Who are you?" he asked, timbre childishly light and cheerful.
I sneered, arching an eyebrow. "Didn't your beloved Garland tell you?
I'm the mistake."
He frowned at that, chewing on his lip. "Doncha have a name, though?"
His question confused me. I felt a stabbing sensation in my chest, as
if someone had stuck a hot poker in me. "A…name? Why would I have a name?"
"Well, I've gotta a name," he said matter-of-factly. "An' Father has a
name. An' the other Genomes kinda have names like Rose an' Leaf an' Chaser
an' stuff. So why don't you gotta name?"
The others had…names? Slowly I sank back down to the ground, clutching
the sheet in my hands. If they had…names…then why…why didn't I…?
The hot poker in my chest was twisted and buried deeper.
He jumped off the bed, slowly walking towards me as if I were a wild
animal that might try to dart away at any moment. Had I had my wits about
me, I just might have. His close proximity was disturbing on many levels.
He crouched down so that we were on eye level, hands balanced on his
knees. "Doncha want a name?" he asked softly.
…The child was incredibly cruel. "Of course I want a name!" I hissed
icily, hoping that my eyes were spitting the venom that I felt. "But I was
a mistake—I don't deserve a name."
At that, he smiled sunnily, another burbling giggle escaping.
"Everyone deserves a name, silly!"
I watched him warily. I wasn't used to dealing with another such as
myself. But the hot poker sensation was lessening. "Why? How do you know?"
Pressing his fist to his heart, he said, "'Cause what's in here tells
me. It whispers to me all the time. Doesn't yours?"
My…heart? My soul? To which was he referring? I knew that I possessed
the latter, but the former…? "I…I don't know."
Suddenly my lap was full of grinning, giggling golden boy, thin
child-arms yoked around my neck. "You're so silly! I know, though. I know
that you're supposed to have a name." He whispered that last statement
softly, conspiratorially.
Unsure of what else to do, I decided to humour him. "I am, am I?"
He nodded, hair tickling my cheek. "Uh-huh. I was reading a book this
morning, and I saw a name… And when I said the name out loud, I knew it
was yours. You're Kuja."
Kuja. Ku…ja… Ku-ja.
"Are…are you sure? It was probably just some word you read, wasn't
it?" The hot poker returned, not as forceful as before, but still there.
Those small hands laced into my hair, tugging none too gently.
"Nuh-uh! It's your name, I know it. You're Kuja, no matter what. So,
that's what I'm gonna call you—always."
It's silly when you think about the little things that make you happy.
To most people, a name probably isn't that big of a deal. But I was nine
years old and I'd never had a name other than 'mistake.' Now, here was my
replacement telling me that I had a name…that it was my name, for always.
I felt him sigh against my chest, child's warmth seeping into my
bones. Despite the heat, it felt…welcome.
"Know what else my heart tells me?"
Tentatively I wrapped my arms around him, wondering at the feel of
holding another living being. How did one's heart talk to them? I
wondered. "What?"
"That Kuja and Zidane will always be together."
"We will?" Why…why did I suddenly feel light and happy?
Zidane nodded, stifling a yawn. "Yep. 'Cause Zidane and Kuja are
supposed to be together. That's why I was reaching for you. But then…then
you ran away." He sounded hurt, confused. "Why'd you run away?"
"When…?" When was he talking about? There had been innumerable times
that I had seen or sensed him coming and had run the other way.
"When I first opened my eyes. I felt you there, waiting for me. I
tried to go to you, but I couldn't get out yet. And then you ran away. I
couldn't figure out how to find you until today."
I felt as though I should apologise—yet another oddity. "I'm sorry.
I…I don't know the kind of things that you do."
And I didn't. I didn't know about listening to your heart. Did mine
even talk to me? And I didn't have his certainty, his conviction.
"That's okay," Zidane replied cheerfully, cuddling closer. "I'll teach
ya what you need ta know."
And something told me that the little imp would do just that.
"Hey, Kuja?"
Kuja. My name.
"Yes?"
"Do ya plan on takin' a bath anytime soon? 'Cause you stink."
"Disrespectful imp!"
Dancing out of my arms with a laugh, Zidane paused in the doorway,
eyes bright, grin in place, gesturing to me with his hand. "Come on, Kuja.
I'll race ya!"
He waited till I rose to me feet before he took off, and to my
surprise, I found myself racing after him.
Life is full of surprises, and none is more surprising than finding
out that 'joy' is an emotion that can be experienced outside of a word on
paper.
"Kuja, what's that place in the sky?" Zidane asked, turning to me with
his wide sapphire eyes sparkling. It was the fourth time that we'd managed
to sneak away from Bran Bal in the past four months, and the freedom of
roaming about the twisted countryside was heady. We'd been gone from the
main compound for nearly two days now, and I was more than a little bit
surprised that Garland hadn't come from Pandemonium to look for him.
However, I wasn't going to look my gift horse in the mouth.
Zidane was boundless energy, guileless existence, and utterly
infectious. I wanted to hate him for the fact that, when he matured,
Garland would do his best to end my life. A part of me did hate him, I
think. But another part of me…
"Kujaaa!" Zidane wailed, tugging on my arm.
I sighed, glancing down at the boy beside me. I had only 'known' him
for such a short time, yet it felt as if I'd known him forever. "Why do
you wish to know, Zidane?"
He grinned, pointing into the sky with a chubby finger. "That round
thing in the sky, all blue and shiny…it's so pretty! What is it?"
I couldn't help but smile at his exuberance, pulling him into my lap
and settling my chin atop his head. Touching him seemed second nature, as
if I had never not done it. How I wish that I could have even
half your innocence, half your purity. "That's Gaia," I murmured,
breath stirring strands of gold. "It's our sister planet—our mirror." A
younger version of this dead rock that we will one day make a new Terra
from.
"Hey, are there people like us there, Kuja? Huh?" Zidane wriggled in
my lap, craning his neck to look at me. "Does Gaia have people like us?"
Closing my eyes to try and block out his painfully open and eager
expression, I shook my head with a small, breathy sigh. "No, Zidane. Gaia
has people, but not like us. The only people like us live in Bran Bal. But
even then…even then, you and I are different."
Zidane sighed, tail absently winding around my wrist and forearm as he
settled against my chest. "Is that why you're always so sad, Kuja, because
there aren't others like us?"
Again, I smiled faintly, running my pale fingers through his golden
hair a few times before wrapping my arm around his waist. How could you
explain to a creature whose soul couldn't remember pain or sorrow or fear
that you were afraid of them, that a tiny portion of yourself hated them
even as you liked them—liked them more than you'd ever liked anything ever
before. He'd told me that he'd watched me from the shadows constantly,
often noting my melancholy moods; any chance he had to escape from Garland
he spent trailing me. "Maybe."
"Don't worry, Kuja—I'll always stay with you."
Such solemn words and expression seemed out of place coming from my
little brother…and yet, at the same time, they fit him so well. "Don't
make promises that you can't keep, Zidane," I whispered harshly. I hated
to disillusion him, but I didn't want to lie to him either; the truth of
the matter was, he would be stronger one day and when that happened, my
use to Garland would cease.
My life, as it was, would cease.
Zidane turned in my lap, throwing his arms about my neck and burying
his face in my hair. "I love you, Kuja."
So innocent, so naïve…little Zidane must have been reading from
Garland's library again. Where else would he have picked up those words,
picked up their meaning? Certainly not from our creator…nor from myself,
for I have never believed in them—not until Zidane. When he does things
like this, curls up trustingly in my arms, speaks those…those words, I
wonder how it is that he will become Garland's Angel of Death. He won't
survive it, my little Zidane. The part that makes him so special, so
precious—his kindness, his quick smile and bright laughter, his innocent
trust—will be crushed beneath the weight of the guilt and pain that
accompanies the position.
And he has become that—my little Zidane.
"How do you know, Zidane?" I asked him softly.
He shrugged, but I could feel him smiling against my neck. "Just do."
I didn't understand love—didn't even try to pretend that I could
understand it. Four months ago, I wasn't even certain I had a heart. In
Garland's books, "love" is why children were born, created. But Garland
doesn't love me; he hates me, hates that I draw breath, that I exist. And
I can't pretend that he loves Zidane either, for all that he makes my
brother call him "Father." Garland wants to keep Zidane a tool, a coveted
item.
As for myself… I knew that a small part of me resented Zidane,
resented the fact that he was perfect, that he was given a name, that he
met with Garland's approval. And part of me hated the fact that Zidane
could do not wrong in Garland's eyes, that despite Zidane's currently
lower magic abilities, I was still a "failure" to my creator.
I'd hated Zidane at his birth, hated him while he was tottering around
at Garland's feet in his first weeks. I can still recall how much I wanted
to cast Death upon him when he ran away from Garland and into my bed not
quite a year later. But when he just sat there, expression quizzical,
innocently open and asked my name…
I felt something then, some sort of sharp stab near my heart. The pain
only grew worse when he insisted that I have a name and gave me mine:
Kuja. I hurt at that moment, and again a month later when he first said
those unheard before words to me.
It still hurts, every time he says my name, every time he says that he
loves me.
But it's a nice pain, a reassuring pain—it lets me know that I'm
alive. I still pinch myself from time to time, just to make sure that this
isn't a dream, that my little Zidane isn't a dream. He always laughs when
I do so, but not maliciously.
Zidane is more precious to me than my own life. He taught me to smile,
to laugh, to love myself. I would willingly sacrifice this free will of
mine that Garland so curses if it meant that Zidane would be safe.
Soft child's fingers trail across my face, settling on my cheek. I
look up from my musings, a little surprised to find Zidane staring at me
solemnly with wide sapphire eyes. "What is it, Zidane?" I asked gently.
His bangs had fallen into his eyes, and I couldn't help reaching up to
brush them back.
"Why are you always so sad?" he whispered, sounding on the verge of
tears. His fingers wandered over the planes of my face, and I closed my
eyes to avoid his watery gaze.
"I am a creature made for sadness," I replied. In my nine years of
life, it had seemed to be the truth.
His fingers brushed over my lips. "But why, Kuja? I try so hard…I try
to make you happy. Why can't I?"
I felt guilty when he said that. Did I truly never tell him? Could he
really not see that he did make me happy—that he was the
only thing that made me happy? "You do make me happy,
Zidane," I said, catching his hand and pressing my lips to his knuckles.
"But it's not enough, is it? I'm not enough."
He sounded so tired, so pained when he whispered those tearful
words—and he seemed so certain as well. I had to remind myself, in that
moment, that he was only a year and a half old; for all his wisdom and
maturity, for all the knowledge his Terran soul contained, he was still a
child.
Ah, but what a child! It was my turn to wrap him in my arms, to bury
my face in his sunshine-scented hair. "You are enough, Zidane. You're all
I need."
I felt his hands slowly begin to draw through my hair, and I sighed in
relief, relaxing my tense posture.
"I love you, Kuja."
…Love…
…Kuja…
Kuja, the mistake…
Kuja, whose will was too strong…
Kuja, who had no purpose…
Kuja, who wasn't supposed to be real….
I've never cried before—not really. But hot tears slid down my cheeks
as I closed my eyes and hugged Zidane tighter. Had he been anyone else, I
would have felt foolish, embarrassed…weak. But in this game of tumultuous
emotions, my little Zidane and I knew our places. He was the strong one,
the one with the power and without fear. I was the weak one, the
frightened one
In this, I was the child.
"Shhh…it's all right." His hands were in my hair again, gentle and
soothing, tracing across my scalp and down the back of my neck. "Please
don't cry, Kuja. I didn't mean to make you cry."
"How can you love me?" My voice sounded harsh and thick to my ears.
"How, my little Zidane?"
"Because…I believe that you are beautiful. Not just outside, but
inside too."
In that moment, as I continued to quietly cry, I wondered how it was
that Zidane could be so much older than his years—older than myself. Was
this what made Zidane perfect?
I would never really know the answer to that question, what it was
that made Zidane perfect. But I would remember, for the rest of my life,
even during the mania that came to rule me later, that he was just that:
Perfect.
My relationship with Zidane was different from any relationship I'd had
in the past—indeed, it was different from any relationship in Bran Bal
period. We were close, touching often, found lolling together in the same
bed like children, soaking up the warmth of the blue-tinted sunlight and
each other. It was comfortably, the ease with which we talked, touched.
Inevitably, though, it spawned its own problems.
"Kuja? Why aren't the others like us? All they every do is stare at
the blue light all day."
I paused in eating, absently setting my fork back down as I considered
his question. Why, indeed. I'd always known I was different—that Zidane
and I were different—but I'd never stopped to wonder why. It wasn't as
though Garland urged me to consider such free thoughts either.
"I—" Closing my mouth, I frowned. Why hadn't I bothered to ask
Garland? If I was a mistake….
Zidane flashed a sunny smile, unrepentantly stealing a handful of
grapes off my plate. "You don't know, do ya?"
Snorting, I smacked him lightly upside the head. "Disrespectful imp."
Sapphire eyes went impossibly wide as Zidane gave me his "innocent"
expression. "But…" His bottom lip began to tremble, eyes turning
watery…and I knew I was in trouble. "But you still love me, right?" He
sniffled, small fist knuckling his eyes. "Right, Kuja?"
My little Zidane is a master manipulator.
Sighing in exasperation, I nodded and prepared for what I knew would
follow.
"Yatta!"
Like a shot, my lap and arms were full of grinning, golden boy.
"One of these days you're going to injure me," I grumbled.
Nonetheless, I wrapped my arms around him, settling my chin atop his head.
"I'll never hurt you, Kuja," Zidane avowed, snuggling against my
chest.
I laughed. "Not even on accident?"
He shook his head, hair tickling my chin. "Nuh-uh! I'd never forgive
myself if I hurt you!"
"So vehement," I teased, trailing my fingers through his hair.
With a small sigh, Zidane subsided into quiet, and I contented myself
with holding him. Silence was plentiful in Bran Bal, but not like this…not
this peaceful.
"Kuja, if I was made to be like you, why does Father say you're a
mistake? Does that mean I'm a mistake too? Huh, Kuja?"
…Then again, Zidane never had liked the quiet.
Smiling wryly, I pondered how to word my response. "I was supposed to
be a model," I said slowly, chewing on my lip. "Garland designed my body
in detail—how I would be built, my mental and magical capacity, the whole
bit. …I was supposed to look like the others though, like you. And I did,
for a couple months. However, I began to lose my colour and assert my
independence, and that is what makes me a mistake. Something in Garland's
plan didn't go right…and I am the end result."
I smiled bitterly, glad that Zidane couldn't see my expression. "You
are lucky in that respect, my little Zidane. You, at least, look like the
others. I don't even have that consolation."
There was another brief silence before Zidane replied.
"I wish I could look like you, Kuja." He spoke softly, tail slowly
sweeping across my leg. "I wish I could be like you. You're pretty and
smart and talented…. Father may have wanted me to be like you, but I'm
not. I can't be."
"And why do you say that?"
Zidane squirmed in my arms to look up at me, pressing his fist to his
chest. "I know it in here. Every time Father mentions this power, this
magic that I should have, I look for it inside of me and I can't find it.
There's something there, but it's not that, and it's not that powerful."
He smiled, reaching up to touch my cheek. "I don't know a whole lot
yet—not compared to Father, not compared to you—but I know you, Kuja. You
were the first person I saw when I opened my eyes, you know." Smile
becoming a cheeky grin, he added. "'Course, now that I see your face every
morning, I wonder why I felt so attracted to you in the first place."
We wrestled amongst the high grass, lunch forgotten as we pulled hair
and tails, tugged clothing and tickled bared skin. Never before had I felt
freedom such as this, freedom to abandon my worries and cares, freedom to
let go of everything and simply be.
By the time our tussle ended, I was breathless on my back, Zidane
straddling my hips as he grinned down at me in triumph. His hair had
escaped its ponytail, and his flowed around his face and over his
shoulders, highlighting him all over in gold.
"I win!" he crowed, wriggling in delight.
I gasped at the sudden contact, skin against skin friction that was
warm and shivery in a way I'd never experience before. My eyes fluttered
shut, heart racing, breath panting across dry lips.
"Kuja?"
That first time, it was pure accident. In my hast to sit up, I spilled
Zidane forward onto my chest, our foreheads bumping, noses rubbing…lips
touching. We stared at each other incredulously at first, both of us
wide-eyed with surprise and confusion, wondering why such a small contact
could cause such an astounding reaction.
The second time…was curiosity.
Which of us leaned forward first, I cannot say. All I know is that
when our lips touched again, it felt…right. Hesitant motion, the dry, warm
touch was foreign yet familiar. Breathless seconds later, Zidane licked my
lip and I gasped again, eyes fluttering closed. As it was with emotions, I
was willing to follow where he led.
Drowning in summer kisses, I learned true warmth for the first
time—and realised, much later, that I was also learning to love.
I dabbled my fingers in the water with a small smile, watching the
spreading ripples drift. The warm sun felt good upon my bare flesh, and
the playful wind teased my hair across my shoulders, neck, and cheeks.
"So pretty…"
"Hmmm?" I looked up from the water, blinking questioningly. Zidane was
crouched down a few feet away, eyes wide. "What did you say, my little
Zidane?"
He slowly crawled forward, eyes never leaving my face as he rustled
through the grass. Without ceremony, he dropped down beside me, wrapping
his arm through mine, pressing his cheek against my shoulder. "Kuja, how
old are you?"
"Eleven." I looked down at his bowed golden head, lips pursed; it was
hard to believe that so much time had passed in our relationship. "Why?"
"Well…I just turned three, and Father says I'm maturing too quickly.
But I'm still little, Kuja—you're bigger than me."
Zidane sounded troubled by this. "When Garland created me, I was born
this size," I said. "Well, I was a little bit smaller, but not much; as my
soul germinated, I grew as well. That you are smaller than I isn't a
problem; to compare, I have an adult body while you have the body of an
eleven or twelve year old human."
He continued to look pensive, almost unconsciously sucking on the tip
of his thumb, leaning against me even harder. "Is there something else
bothering you?" I asked.
Zidane started from his thoughts, turning to blink at me owlishly.
"Wh-what?"
I smiled, inwardly delighting his slightly abashed expression, the
faint blush on his golden cheeks. "I asked if there was something else
bothering you."
If anything the blush deepened, and my curiosity was piqued. What had
my little Zidane been thinking about?
"Weeellll…kinda," he said with a small stutter, eyes downcast.
His tail began to lash, brushing across the back of my bared thighs,
making me shiver. "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to try and read
your mind?"
My dry comment earned me a small giggle and a grin. "We're friends,
right, Kuja?" he asked, eyes glancing up hesitantly.
I thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I guess we are."
Hair had trailed over my shoulder, and Zidane began to run it through
his fingers. "And we're family too, right?"
"Well, you are my little brother," I pointed out. True, we
weren't related by blood, and we looked not a thing alike other than basic
body structure, but he was the brother of my heart and soul.
I must have given satisfactory answers; Zidane's tail became less
agitated, more languorous in its movement. The slow and steady sweep
across my skin, however, was beginning to make me tingle.
"Have you ever… Have you ever loved someone before, Kuja?"
His question caught me completely off-guard. "Loved…someone…?" I
blinked, mind racing. "I've never really thought about it before."
Absently I worried my lip between my teeth as I thought. Did I know what
"love" was, even after all this time with Zidane?
Slowly I turned my head to look at Zidane. My eyes swept over his
impish features, his wide and honest eyes, the sweep of golden hair that
curled against his jaw and over his brow. Was this love? I
wondered, gaze dropping down to where Zidane's bare arm coiled about my
own, warm gold over cool crème. This shivering, achy feel that hit in my
chest when I looked at him; the tingle of excitement that burned through
my veins, that made my body want—was this love? Or was I mistaking
physical desire for something else?
"What is love to you, my little Zidane?" I asked, dropping my head so
that my cheek rested against the top of his head.
He cuddled closer—most likely emboldened by the fact that I hadn't
left—ducking under my arm so that I was now holding him. "Love's like…like
flying," he said, wrapping my arm about his bare middle. His voice carried
overtones of awe, of delight. "It's kind of like jumping from the
rooftops. You don't know if you'll land safely at the bottom, if someone
will catch you at the end, but you hope and pray… And the fall is
exhilarating, so that even if no-one catches you and you get hurt, at
least it was pleasant on the way."
"Sounds painful."
"Sometimes," he spoke softly. "But it's addicting, like candy. Once
you know what it feels like, tastes like, you want it all the time."
Addicting… That described Zidane perfectly. Nothing was ever boring
with my little Zidane around—everything seemed new and bold and
breathtaking, as a matter of fact. When he smiled at me, or laughed, I
could feel that I wasn't a mistake, that he was the reason I had been
created.
So…so maybe this was love after all.
"Zidane, I…" I felt his fingers tighten about my arm, and I glanced
down sharply at his bowed head. "If…if that's what "love" is…then I think
I love you, my little Zidane."
Zidane was trembling, and for a moment I feared he was crying. And
when he looked up, there were tears in his wide sapphire eyes, but he was
smiling. "I'm glad, Kuja," he said.
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