Faithfully Remain

~o~

Beneath cracked, darkened windows, weathered wooden planter boxes overflowed with brittle, long-dead flowers that Squall only guessed were once petunias. Local newspapers, folded and encased in narrow plastic bags lay piled on the doormat. The mailbox hung askew on the wall, a pile of junk mail and letters scattered down over the steps and onto the sidewalk like the confetti Selphie adored so much. Taped to the wall was a yellowed flier for last year's annual Flower Festival.

The last tenant left more than a year ago. As far as Squall knew, the place sat vacant ever since. Laguna swore someone checked on it every now and then, but it looked as if no one set foot on the property for quite some time.

No one ever stayed long. Previous tenants reported strange sounds – the mournful moans and wails of a woman, bumps and thumps in the night, footsteps on the stairs when no one else was in the house. Some said they saw her in the bar and in the living room, wringing her hands and waiting for something.

Squall was a practical, logical man, but he believed in ghosts. It was one of the reasons he avoided the place until now.

He fished a set of keys from his pocket, slipped the ring over his index finger and weighed them in his palm. Laguna gave them to him three years ago, but never did Squall imagine himself ever using them. Nor did he imagine himself facing this on his own, but here he was.

Cid said he needed a break. Rinoa said it would give him closure. Laguna cried when Squall told him his plans.

He preferred to work, and the past was the past, but the bar belonged to him and he'd put this trip off for too long. With a three-month sabbatical ahead of him, and Rinoa too busy with Timber restoration negotiations in Deling City to take a vacation, Squall chose pragmatism over leisure.

The bar was a stone around his neck, with yearly property tax bills and repair invoices and notices from Winhill's town council about the state of the building. All of that fueled his decision to fix the place up and sell it. There was no point in owning a property that he didn't plan to use, or one that didn't at least pay for itself. Even if Laguna offered to foot the bill, Squall saw no reason to hold on to it.

Laguna couldn't bear to set foot inside, and there were too many bad memories for Ellone to stay long. What else was he supposed to do? Why keep it if no one could stand to be there?

Keys in hand, Squall was tempted to head to Deling City or Dollet instead.

He sensed the neighbors watched him loiter before the neglected bar and he pictured them peering from behind gaps in curtains. Winhill was never the most welcoming town, and its hostility toward strangers was almost legend. They might welcome him if they knew he was Raine's son, but Ellone's memories showed their mistrust and dislike of Laguna, something Laguna was either oblivious to or something he pointedly ignored. There was a good chance they would view Squall in the same light.

He was a stranger. An outsider. Their wariness of newcomers was understandable, but Squall didn't intend to make waves here, only air out the past and rid himself of the burden.

He cleaned up the spilled mail and discarded the half-dozen newspapers in the trash bin on the curb, then retrieved his bag from the trunk. As he shut the lid, the curtains at three separate windows across the street swished shut and he imagined the gossip mill of Winhill in overdrive as the old folk speculated about the stranger outside the bar.

"You the caretaker?" a gravelly voice demanded.

Squall spun around to face a frail-looking elderly man with a shock of white hair and a heavily lined face. The man hunched over his cane and eyed Squall with a sharp, suspicious gaze.

"Well? Are you?"

"Sort of," Squall said.

"You any relation to the lady who used to own this place?"

"She was my mother," Squall said.

"So I thought," the man said. "You got the look of her."

The man blinked a few times and switched his cane from one hand to the other with a soft, pained grunt.

"Didn't figure you'd wanna come back, after they way those old biddies did you and that little girl Raine was lookin' after."

Squall folded his arms over his chest and prepared for a request or demand to leave town, but the man only gazed at the bar with a sorrowful expression and shook his head.

"Shame," he muttered.

"Did you need something?" Squall asked.

"Nothin' in particular," the man said. "Jes makin' sure you' ain't robbin' the place."

Squall doubted there was anything to steal that the previous tenants hadn't already plundered in the years between then and now. By all accounts, Raine was a practical, working-class woman, and it was unlikely she owned piles of precious jewels or hid a stash of gold under the floorboards.

"Never agreed with them sendin' you away," the man said. "They thought the two of you invited trouble, what with that little girl bein' strange and you killing your Ma when you was bein' born."

A fist to the jaw could not have hurt more. He already harbored a great deal of guilt, knowing how his mother died. To hear it spoken aloud only added to his guilty conscience.

Squall lifted his bag from the step and slung the strap over his shoulder.

"Need to get cleaned up," he told the man. "It was a long trip."

"Sure, sure," he said. "Name's Jeremy, by the way. I knew your Ma well. You wanna know somethin', you jes ask me. These old biddies around here won't tell you nothin' that's true."

"I'll keep that in mind," Squall lied.

The man bid him good day and hobbled away. Squall watched his slow progress for a minute, then turned and unlocked the door.

The scent of stale air confronted him as he stepped inside the darkened bar and his sinuses burned in revolt. He dropped his bag on the floor and opened every window in the room to air it out.

A thick layer of dust coated every surface, including the crispy, grayish flowers left in vases on the tables. He touched one and the brittle leaves crumbled. Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling fans.

He certainly had his work cut out for him.

The upstairs was in no better shape than the bar. Someone left a window open, and bird droppings and down feathers littered the floor and dotted the dust cloths covering the furniture. A trio of cats lounged on the couch, and a squirrel chattered at him from the eaves. The dust was thicker here, everything coated in a fuzzy brown blanket that gave the room an antiqued, dull patina.

He shooed the four-legged squatters from the couch. Two of them fled through the open window, but a fat gray one narrowed its vibrant green eyes, flattened its ears, and hissed at him.

Squall hissed back.

Undaunted, the cat hopped from the couch to the coffee table to an armchair. It curled up and watched him with unblinking eyes.

Squall peeled back the dust cloth to reveal an aged but cared-for couch covered in a crocheted blanket. He set his bag down and opened the remaining windows. A cool breeze fluttered the curtains and carried with it the scent of grass and sunlight, but it only highlighted the filth around him.

He spent the better part of the day cleaning and scribbled a long list of repairs to complete during his stay. So involved was he in his project that he forgot to run to the grocery down the road to stock up on food and necessities before the store closed.

If he wanted to eat, he would have to get his meal from the small restaurant near the church. He debated whether or not he should face the locals just yet, but his last meal was on the train the night before. To expedite his trip, he skipped breakfast and worked through lunch.

A shower and a change of clothes later, he left the bar and walked the short distance to the restaurant. As before, curtains moved and faces peered out at him from behind glass, but no one came out to welcome him.

The restaurant was not busy, with only an elderly couple seated in the dining room. They stopped their conversation to stare as he made his way to the counter.

"What do you want?" the waitress demanded.

Squall read the menu board and selected the first special on the list.

"Meatloaf," he said. "To go, please."

"We're fresh out. Sorry."

Nonplussed, Squall chose the next item on the list.

"Baked chicken, then."

"Out of that, too."

Squall gritted his teeth. He suspected the problem was not a shortage of nightly specials.

"Why don't you tell me what you do have, and I'll get that."

"We're out of everything," the waitress said. "Sorry."

At that moment, a man in an apron brought out a tray laden with the aforementioned chicken and meatloaf and carried it to the elderly couple's table. Squall's stomach screamed in protest at the scent of gravy and garlic.

"This is a restaurant. How can you be out of everything?" he asked.

"You're disturbing the customers, sir," the waitress said. "Please leave."

"Is there anywhere else in town to buy food?" he asked, but he already knew her answer.

"Nope. Sorry."

Squall's temper flared, but there was no point in arguing. If these people were determined to give him a hard time, nothing would dissuade them, though it was tempting to drop his mother's name in hopes they might be fond enough of her to take pity on him.

He turned on his heel and headed for the door. Just as he reached the threshold, Jeremy hobbled in and called out to the waitress.

"Jane, gimmie a plate of that meatloaf and a Winhill Pale in a glass."

He nearly collided with Squall, who jumped back to avoid knocking the man down.

"Well, fancy meeting you here," Jeremy said, and there was real warmth in his tone. "Just finishing up dinner?"

"No," Squall said, testily. "Apparently, they're out of everything."

The old man frowned and cocked his head at the waitress.

"You givin' this young man a hard time?" Jeremy demanded.

The waitress feigned innocence and avoided his gaze.

"You damn fools is what's keepin' this town in the dark ages, you know," Jeremy said. He pointed his cane at Jane and snarled. "Turnin' away a payin' customer, for what? 'Cause you heard some strange man was in town and assumed he was gonna steal all your gil-store silverware?"

He turned to Squall and patted his arm.

"Jane, get the boy a plate of whatever he asked for," Jeremy said. "He's Raine's boy, and he don't mean no harm."

Squall's face colored as the pair at the table gaped at him over their plates of chicken and meat loaf.

"Thanks, but-" Squall began, but Jeremy waved him off.

"Damn stupid prejudiced folks in this town," Jeremy said. "Don't you pay them no mind. Come on, sit. My treat."

He considered walking out anyway, but his hunger won out. He followed Jeremy and sat as the reluctant waitress placed two beers on the table and paired them with glasses of ice water. The old man guzzled half his beer at once, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and peered at Squall with a watery, blue-eyed gaze.

"Your Ma was a real fine woman," Jeremy said. "People of this town loved her. Jes, no one one quite understood what she saw in that man she married."

"Laguna," Squall said. "His name's Laguna."

"So he's still alive."

Squall nodded.

"Well, then he ain't got no sympathy from me," Jeremy said. "He done got her pregnant and run off on her and never looked back, didn't he?"

"Is that what people around here think?" Squall asked.

"That's sure how it looked," Jeremy said.

Squall sipped his beer and wondered if it was worth it to correct the assumption. It was true he left, but that wasn't the full story, and though Laguna bore some of the responsibility, some circumstances were beyond his control.

In spite of himself, and aware that the elderly couple listened in and would report back to the gossip machine at work in this town, Squall gave a very abbreviated version of Laguna's tale.

Never before had he shared personal information with a stranger, nor would he under different circumstances, but there was something about Jeremy that disarmed him. Maybe it was that he was Squall's only ally in a hostile land and he was grateful for the meal, or maybe because in the years since he'd met Laguna, he'd come to understand his quirks, his flaws, and his reasons for doing what he did.

A plate of meatloaf and four beers later, Squall was drunk, his stomach was full, and his story was told.

"You mean to tell me that silly fool became the President of Esthar?" Jeremy cried. "It's a wonder the whole place hasn't gone up in flames."

"I'm as surprised as you are," Squall agreed. He laughed softly at his empty plate and leaned his elbows on the table. "He must be good at it, though. They keep re-electing him."

"Must be a country of morons, then," Jeremy said, but sighed. "Your Ma loved him, you know. Never thought she'd be one to fall head-over-heels, but she did. Lotsa young men in this town was interested, but she turned them all down. Picky's what the hens all said, but Raine? She was independent, smart, had a good thing going with that bar. She never needed a man to get by. Never seemed to want one, neither."

"Love does funny things to a person," Squall said, and thought of Rinoa. He owed her a call, to let her know he arrived safely. "I should get going."

"What happened to the little girl?"

"She lives on a ship," Squall said.

"She was a sweet kid," Jeremy said. "I remember the day she went missing. Wasn't but a month or so after she married your Pa..."

~o~

Tuesday, February 12, 1:30PM

Laguna was late.

He was always late, but today he was late when Raine really needed him to be on time. The Flower Festival Committee had reserved the bar for a meeting, and there was a lot to do to prepare.

Not that Laguna was a big help. He dropped things, couldn't cook to save his life, spilled drinks, broke glasses, tripped over his own feet, and got in the way more often than not, but Raine didn't feel so well today. Her stomach was upset and she lacked the energy needed to do everything on her own.

The meeting was always a big pay-day for the bar. This time would be no exception, as the committee head reserved six tables and pre-paid for catering and an open bar for members. And those members could drink. She would be busy until well after close.

She set aside a bowl of sliced limes and glanced at the clock. Laguna was now over an hour late. She didn't have time to go track him down. How a grown man could have no concept of time or responsibility was beyond her.

Yet, it was that carefree charm that drew her to him in the first place. It was what she loved most about him. He was the bright spot in her otherwise boring life, a whirlwind of chaos in her neat and ordered world and there was never a dull moment with him around.

She set aside her dish rag and pulled on a pair of rubber boots.

"Elle?" she called up the stairs. "Ellone? Come down here, please."

Raine waited for the girl's footsteps on the floorboards above, but there was nothing but silence. Perhaps Ellone took her nap early, or more worrisome, had fallen into one of her dream trances.

She climbed the stairs and found the living room empty. Ellone's bed was made. Her favorite yellow shoes were gone.

"Damn it," Raine swore. "The two of you are going to be the death of me."

Laguna was forbidden to take Ellone on a hunt with him, and Ellone was forbidden to leave the house without an adult. It wasn't just the monsters that occasionally found their way into the square, it was also because of what Ellone was. Though the occupation was less intrusive or aggressive these days, they were still around and still very interested in gifted little girls.

Raine pulled on a knit shawl to protect her from the chilly February wind and stepped out onto the front step. There was no sign of either in the square.

Reluctant though she was, Raine trekked to the house next door. There was a better than average chance Ellone was upstairs in her old bedroom. She sometimes sneaked from the house to play there or hurl water balloons from the windows at people on the sidewalk. Raine had Laguna to thank for that mischief.

Raine avoided looking at the bullet holes in the kitchen wall and pushed back the memory of how they came to be. Best not to think of that. It was too awful to dwell on for long.

"Ellone?" she called up the stairs. "If you're up there, you need to come down, right now."

The only sound was the wind at the windows and the rattle of the screen door in the draft.

As she returned to the front step, a red-faced Laguna raced toward her, his machine gun slung across his back. He came to a halt before her, looked up at her from the sidewalk.

"Where's Ellone?" she asked.

Laguna shook his head. The pain in his eyes told her everything she needed to know.

~o~

Squall returned to the bar slightly intoxicated but less anxious about being here, a stranger in a strange town. He'd given no thought as to where he would sleep until he flicked on the light and peered around at the still-dusty furniture.

The cat was still there, curled up on the couch again. It's stare offered him a challenge.

Cat or no cat, the couch was the cleanest thing in the place. If he'd known going into this how filthy the place would be, he would have brought camping gear and set up a tent in the back yard.

The cat yowled when Squall shooed it away, and this time it perched itself on the coffee table to glare at him. Squall ignored it, kicked off his boots and settled in for the night.

As he dozed off, something skittered on the roof. He sat up, glanced around, only half-sure he was safe. The skittering came again and a shadow passed over the open window.

Just the cat.

He got up and closed the window so his unwelcome visitor couldn't return in the middle of the night and attempt to reclaim its throne.

Without a breeze, the room became stifling.

Now that he was awake, it would be tough to go back to sleep.

Might as well be productive.

The closet was filled with a random assortment of items, left by previous tenants or packed up by the caretaker a decade ago. He dragged out boxes and battered suitcases and sporting equipment and old appliances and began to sort things into piles.

Most wound up in the discard pile. Squall had no need of deflated basketballs or roller skates without wheels or rusted toasters full of petrified crumbs.

At the very back of the closet, he found an old hat box with a faded floral print. He set it on the coffee table and lifted the lid. Inside was an assortment of sentimental items - a heart cut from construction paper so old, it was hard to tell what color it once was, a small stack of letters banded together with a brittle rubber band, envelopes full of photographs, ticket stubs, greeting cards.

Nothing of interest, nothing worth keeping.

From downstairs came the sound of breaking glass. Squall stood up, still a little tipsy from the beer, and crept down the stairs on silent, sock-clad feet.

When he reached the bottom, he dropped into a crouch, ready to fight if necessary. He imagined all sorts of threats as he surveyed the darkness beyond the landing. Rogue monsters. Burglars. A plague of mean, stubborn green-eyed cats. Black-clad elderly citizens of Winhill wielding two-by-fours and torches.

He saw nothing. Heard nothing.

He rose from his crouch and flicked on the light. The room was bathed in the amber mood-lighting typical of bars everywhere in the world, but due to the cobwebs and dust, the ambiance was more akin to a horror movie haunted house.

Nothing seemed out of order. The windows were all intact. Bud vases still stood on every table, full of their decaying flora.

Squall was about to turn around and go back upstairs when a woman's soft cry stopped him in his tracks. The lights flickered. Cobwebs danced on the breeze.

He was not easily spooked, but goosebumps rose on his arms and he backed away, sure there was someone in the room with him.

A sharp trill cut through the silence and Squall jumped nearly a foot into the air. Only then did he remember his phone was in his pocket.

"Get yourself together, Leonhart," he muttered and withdrew the phone from his pocket.

Rinoa. He forgot to call.

"Hey," he answered.

"Hey yourself," she said. "I thought you were going to call when you got there. I was starting to worry."

"I got distracted," he said. "I made it okay."

With Rinoa's voice in his ear, his courage returned. He used the boost to investigate the area behind the bar, but found nothing amiss. No glasses toppled over, no broken shards on the floor.

Maybe it was just his imagination.

"Are you working out?" she asked. "You sound winded."

"No," he said. He didn't want to tell her he was a little drunk, really creeped out, and questioning his reasons for being here. "It's in pretty bad shape. A lot of dust. It's getting to me."

At the top of the stairs, the green-eyed cat yowled.

"Goddamnit," he swore. "That was you, wasn't it?"

"Who?" Rinoa asked.

"This... cat," he said. "I can't get it to leave. I thought I chased it out."

Rinoa giggled. "Is there actually an adversary you can't best?"

"Possibly," he said. He picked up a paper coaster from the bar and pitched it at the offending feline. It took off into the living room. "The battle's not over yet."

"Well, you let me know how that turns out. Maybe you could just make friends with it," she said.

"In this town? Unlikely," he said. "I miss you."

"I miss you too. Wish I could be there with you. I know this is probably pretty hard."

He turned off the light and climbed the stairs. The cry came again, from below, and a chill ran down his spine.

"I'm fine," he said. "I just want this over with."

Back upstairs, the cat sat atop the hat box.

Staring.

Squall switched the phone to his other ear and glared back.

" As soon as possible," he added.

~o~

Tuesday, February 12, 14:17 PM

Raine sat on the edge of the bed as Laguna packed a bag. In his panic, he paid no attention to what went in the bag, and Raine plucked out random items, including her own socks and underwear from his hastily collected belongings.

On his temple, a deep cut still seeped, though most of it scabbed over. He still wore the same bloodstained shirt. Raine couldn't take her eyes off the dots of burgundy-brown on the fabric. Knocked him unconscious. Stole their child. As much as she didn't want Laguna to go, there was no other choice.

"I can't believe I let them get away," he said. "I can't believe they took her."

She balled her fists in her lap and took a calming breath. They tried before and left Ellone orphaned and traumatized. How much worse would it be this time? How much could they make a little girl suffer?

"I'm furious with you for taking her out without telling me," Raine said. "But they would have come to the house if they hadn't found you there. They would have taken her one way or another. It's not your fault."

Laguna dropped a handful of Ellone's stuffed animals and knelt before Raine. He took her face in his hands and brushed his thumbs over her tear-stained cheeks.

"I'll fix this," he promised. "I'll bring her back."

Raine wished she could beg him not to go. Something in her gut sensed if he walked out the door now, it would be the last time she laid eyes on him.

"You come back too," she said. "Promise me. You'll come back."

Laguna leaned in and kissed her lips. When he pulled back, his eyes glistened with unshed tears, eyes full of sorrow and love.

"I promise. I'll come back to you, Raine."

Notes:

There will be 3-4 parts to this. It isn't quite what I had in mind when I started it and I'm sure a variation of this has been done before, but I hope it's at least a little entertaining if not terribly original. Thanks for reading! :)