The genome was quiet.
Above the streets, he sat on the red tiled roof of the highest building he could find and stared into the distance. She could see him from below, just barely, hanging off the edge of the roof like a mournful gargoyle. Freya stood below, her nose turned towards him. He hadn't moved at all. Hadn't kicked or shifted, hadn't swung his feet over the edge.
From below, she could see his eyes though. The darkest cobalt they had ever been in her memory, lit from lights below, were holding back oceans from her. She held out a clawed paw and lifted it skyward, waiting under him for a signal. Freya stood alone like that, looking upward with her hand stretched out as if for a God to come and take her skyward, waiting for the wordless signal. Waiting for a tear.
Nothing fell.
Zidane felt empty.
It was all he could really feel, at this point in time. He didn't know who to direct it at either. It was cold up here on the roof, looking out across the valleys of this world. Crystaline speckles of light wriggled through the night view, mapping the planet ahead of him. The cities that had been destroyed, gutted apart by the stupid war that had swam over the planet in a tidal wave...they were rebuilding long into the night.
So he'd helped save the planet. That was what they could tell him. So what. Anyone could have done it...Any given person in the right place at the wrong time. Maybe none of it would have even happened, if he had kept his nose out of it.
You helped them, he thought to himself. And somehow that just isn't good enough. Deep in his chest, there was a tightening sensation. He knew it, could identify it, and could feel as his body instinctively reacted towards it. The edges of his eyes began to shake, his stomach became suddenly empty and his throat itched. He tried to distract himself from this, to pull his knees up against his chest and latch hands around them. Feel the tiles underneith you, Zidane, feel the air on your face. Be glad you're not inside, where you couldn't even feel the air...
He was avoiding moving around in daylight now. People didn't really seem to notice the change, or if they did they didn't say anything about it. Zidane could still smile to them, though. Still fake the cheerfulness he'd grown up on.
That was the part he was begining to have problems with...
What happened on Terra wasn't just a moment of weakness...it was only a moment without the mask. A little sliver of time where he was being truthful with himself, and not just the others. For once in his life, he'd admitted to his internal thoughts and feelings. It had almost gotten him killed...and he hadn't cared. Of course the others came to his aid. Zidane wasn't a bad person, which was why they were even remotely willing to save him.
He wasn't a bad person...He was just under a guise. Maybe it was just Garland tormenting him that let him admit...He hadn't been able to do it after then. Or maybe it was simply that he couldn't affourd to fall apart. Who knew...Who could tell. His tail scraped against the rooftops and curled around Zidane's boots, tight as he put his head on his knees and stared into the open night.
A low scrabbling sound on the rooftop tiles was hard to ignore, and half a year ago would have sent the genome scrambling for purchase and a fighting stance. Now he didn't care. If someone ended his life now by pushing him off a rooftop, he wouldn't have objected. It would probably have been better, anyway, for people to remember him as the cheerful happy-go-lucky savior he was in their minds. Because now...
"Is this spot taken?" Freya's clawed hand decended onto the tiles beside him, Zidane turning his head slightly to watch her through the blonde curtain of his hair that seperated the them.
"I was saving it just for you," His smile was weak now, he didn't feel like he could put the same amount of energy into it as before. Everything was sunken in a mile deep lethargy that permiated his mind. Even his voice sounded different, weighted down.
Freya's hind legs scraped against the tiles as she eased herself down into a sitting position on the slanted roof. The Dragoon had abandoned her armor these days...Now she wore a simple lightly coloured tunic and a long skirt, hemmed for her height and build. Zidane had commented before on how odd it was to see her in anything besides her battle atire, but in truth it suited the Rat Person. For her, the smile wasn't forced, but genuine.
She pulled one knee to her chest, bare white arms lacing about her ankles as the Dragoon turned her muzzle starward. For a moment, they sat in silence only. Zidane watched the lights over the horizon change, bit by bit, hovering like will o' wisps. Through the filmy silence, Freya's voice began to softly filter, carried high and away. Zidane lifted his head, watching as the Rat Warrior's muzzle parted in ways unconsidered to him or any of the others. Was it the shape of her face itself that gave the voice such an ethereal quality?
He listened, capitaved, her song like a slow opening of something inside of him that had been closed up tight for many years.
Moments passed, unnoticed and unmarked, and Zidane found himself hoping with each enunciation in the foreign tongue that the music would not end. But little by little, the whispy sound seemed to drift back downwards, closing in and fading away into nothing, Freya's muzzle gently tilting downwards as her song reached its end. When the last note had drifted away into the darkness, Zidane was aware of himself again, and felt tears on his face. He made a slight movement as if to touch them, but as he did, the Dragoon climbed to her feet and faced the far off horizon.
The night breezes which had chilled him moments before now moved the Rat Woman's dress and hair with nearly invisable changes. Zidane lowered his hand, his cheeks untouched, and looked up at her. When had he begun to cry? When had he let those prior feelings come apart and undo him? When-?
With a long sigh, Freya looked down to where he sat, her tail coiling up against her back as she spoke. "We are all still your friends, Zidane, and we will care about you no matter what happens."
He wanted to make an excuse, refuse her, rebutt that phrase, but nothing substantial came to mind. So instead, he uncurled himself and stood. She was still taller than he was, even on the uneven footing of the roofs. He stood shaking, his body in shock from the foreign act of crying, to face her. The wind whistled against them, ruffling his hair and stinging his face where the tears were growing cold.
"The people like me-"
"We're individuals, Zidane," Freya's voice was soft, comforting. It hurt to hear. "But that doesn't mean we're alone. In this whole world, there isn't another like you. Or like me," She looked down, a claw clutching absently at the hem of her jerkin. "But you'll learn to see that isn't a reason to feel pain."
"Freya," Zidane looked away into the horizon, far away from the streets of Treno that encircled them like a moat. "I believe I know why I went to see Kuja die." He didn't wait for a response, it didn't matter if he got one. "I went to see him die, because I envied him. Kuja was honest with his feelings. They weren't the best, but at least he was honest with them."
Another whipping gust of wind brought up from the streets buffeted the two warriors as they stood in silence. It was hours before daybreak, but quiet was comfort. The very threat of noise seemed miles away, and terriable, like the coming of a tiger. And the longer they waited, the easier it would become for that creature to find them and destroy what little peace was being had.
And so Zidane took it upon himself to leave. His footsteps fell without sound, something unintentional that his depression left him with. The theif moved silently to the ladder leaned against the rooftop and took the edges in his hands, one foot sinking over the ledge and out of view. He looked down to check for people below, the thin vice grip on his heart still lying tightly.
"Zidane."
He looked up. Freya hadn't turned or moved, and stood with her back to him facing the world at night. In his eyes, he could feel an internal tide begining to move.
"Nobody will blame you for feeling."
Looking down, the tears trickled in a thin flow from the edges of his eyes. He could count them, if he wanted to...His throat was constricting now, his body without substance- a ghost. Without responding to her, he began to climb down the ladder with shaking steps that both scraped and clacked on the aged wood.
Above, he knew she hadn't moved, and now he could hear her begin to sing again. The spirit of her voice lifting itself up, a message into the stars, a message in a bottle, for anyone to find.
Above the streets, he sat on the red tiled roof of the highest building he could find and stared into the distance. She could see him from below, just barely, hanging off the edge of the roof like a mournful gargoyle. Freya stood below, her nose turned towards him. He hadn't moved at all. Hadn't kicked or shifted, hadn't swung his feet over the edge.
From below, she could see his eyes though. The darkest cobalt they had ever been in her memory, lit from lights below, were holding back oceans from her. She held out a clawed paw and lifted it skyward, waiting under him for a signal. Freya stood alone like that, looking upward with her hand stretched out as if for a God to come and take her skyward, waiting for the wordless signal. Waiting for a tear.
Nothing fell.
Zidane felt empty.
It was all he could really feel, at this point in time. He didn't know who to direct it at either. It was cold up here on the roof, looking out across the valleys of this world. Crystaline speckles of light wriggled through the night view, mapping the planet ahead of him. The cities that had been destroyed, gutted apart by the stupid war that had swam over the planet in a tidal wave...they were rebuilding long into the night.
So he'd helped save the planet. That was what they could tell him. So what. Anyone could have done it...Any given person in the right place at the wrong time. Maybe none of it would have even happened, if he had kept his nose out of it.
You helped them, he thought to himself. And somehow that just isn't good enough. Deep in his chest, there was a tightening sensation. He knew it, could identify it, and could feel as his body instinctively reacted towards it. The edges of his eyes began to shake, his stomach became suddenly empty and his throat itched. He tried to distract himself from this, to pull his knees up against his chest and latch hands around them. Feel the tiles underneith you, Zidane, feel the air on your face. Be glad you're not inside, where you couldn't even feel the air...
He was avoiding moving around in daylight now. People didn't really seem to notice the change, or if they did they didn't say anything about it. Zidane could still smile to them, though. Still fake the cheerfulness he'd grown up on.
That was the part he was begining to have problems with...
What happened on Terra wasn't just a moment of weakness...it was only a moment without the mask. A little sliver of time where he was being truthful with himself, and not just the others. For once in his life, he'd admitted to his internal thoughts and feelings. It had almost gotten him killed...and he hadn't cared. Of course the others came to his aid. Zidane wasn't a bad person, which was why they were even remotely willing to save him.
He wasn't a bad person...He was just under a guise. Maybe it was just Garland tormenting him that let him admit...He hadn't been able to do it after then. Or maybe it was simply that he couldn't affourd to fall apart. Who knew...Who could tell. His tail scraped against the rooftops and curled around Zidane's boots, tight as he put his head on his knees and stared into the open night.
A low scrabbling sound on the rooftop tiles was hard to ignore, and half a year ago would have sent the genome scrambling for purchase and a fighting stance. Now he didn't care. If someone ended his life now by pushing him off a rooftop, he wouldn't have objected. It would probably have been better, anyway, for people to remember him as the cheerful happy-go-lucky savior he was in their minds. Because now...
"Is this spot taken?" Freya's clawed hand decended onto the tiles beside him, Zidane turning his head slightly to watch her through the blonde curtain of his hair that seperated the them.
"I was saving it just for you," His smile was weak now, he didn't feel like he could put the same amount of energy into it as before. Everything was sunken in a mile deep lethargy that permiated his mind. Even his voice sounded different, weighted down.
Freya's hind legs scraped against the tiles as she eased herself down into a sitting position on the slanted roof. The Dragoon had abandoned her armor these days...Now she wore a simple lightly coloured tunic and a long skirt, hemmed for her height and build. Zidane had commented before on how odd it was to see her in anything besides her battle atire, but in truth it suited the Rat Person. For her, the smile wasn't forced, but genuine.
She pulled one knee to her chest, bare white arms lacing about her ankles as the Dragoon turned her muzzle starward. For a moment, they sat in silence only. Zidane watched the lights over the horizon change, bit by bit, hovering like will o' wisps. Through the filmy silence, Freya's voice began to softly filter, carried high and away. Zidane lifted his head, watching as the Rat Warrior's muzzle parted in ways unconsidered to him or any of the others. Was it the shape of her face itself that gave the voice such an ethereal quality?
He listened, capitaved, her song like a slow opening of something inside of him that had been closed up tight for many years.
Moments passed, unnoticed and unmarked, and Zidane found himself hoping with each enunciation in the foreign tongue that the music would not end. But little by little, the whispy sound seemed to drift back downwards, closing in and fading away into nothing, Freya's muzzle gently tilting downwards as her song reached its end. When the last note had drifted away into the darkness, Zidane was aware of himself again, and felt tears on his face. He made a slight movement as if to touch them, but as he did, the Dragoon climbed to her feet and faced the far off horizon.
The night breezes which had chilled him moments before now moved the Rat Woman's dress and hair with nearly invisable changes. Zidane lowered his hand, his cheeks untouched, and looked up at her. When had he begun to cry? When had he let those prior feelings come apart and undo him? When-?
With a long sigh, Freya looked down to where he sat, her tail coiling up against her back as she spoke. "We are all still your friends, Zidane, and we will care about you no matter what happens."
He wanted to make an excuse, refuse her, rebutt that phrase, but nothing substantial came to mind. So instead, he uncurled himself and stood. She was still taller than he was, even on the uneven footing of the roofs. He stood shaking, his body in shock from the foreign act of crying, to face her. The wind whistled against them, ruffling his hair and stinging his face where the tears were growing cold.
"The people like me-"
"We're individuals, Zidane," Freya's voice was soft, comforting. It hurt to hear. "But that doesn't mean we're alone. In this whole world, there isn't another like you. Or like me," She looked down, a claw clutching absently at the hem of her jerkin. "But you'll learn to see that isn't a reason to feel pain."
"Freya," Zidane looked away into the horizon, far away from the streets of Treno that encircled them like a moat. "I believe I know why I went to see Kuja die." He didn't wait for a response, it didn't matter if he got one. "I went to see him die, because I envied him. Kuja was honest with his feelings. They weren't the best, but at least he was honest with them."
Another whipping gust of wind brought up from the streets buffeted the two warriors as they stood in silence. It was hours before daybreak, but quiet was comfort. The very threat of noise seemed miles away, and terriable, like the coming of a tiger. And the longer they waited, the easier it would become for that creature to find them and destroy what little peace was being had.
And so Zidane took it upon himself to leave. His footsteps fell without sound, something unintentional that his depression left him with. The theif moved silently to the ladder leaned against the rooftop and took the edges in his hands, one foot sinking over the ledge and out of view. He looked down to check for people below, the thin vice grip on his heart still lying tightly.
"Zidane."
He looked up. Freya hadn't turned or moved, and stood with her back to him facing the world at night. In his eyes, he could feel an internal tide begining to move.
"Nobody will blame you for feeling."
Looking down, the tears trickled in a thin flow from the edges of his eyes. He could count them, if he wanted to...His throat was constricting now, his body without substance- a ghost. Without responding to her, he began to climb down the ladder with shaking steps that both scraped and clacked on the aged wood.
Above, he knew she hadn't moved, and now he could hear her begin to sing again. The spirit of her voice lifting itself up, a message into the stars, a message in a bottle, for anyone to find.