redux (FFVIII)
Title: Redux
Fandom: FFVIII
Characters: Squall, Rinoa
Rating: PG
Summary: He has been here before. Time Compression, a second time.
Notes: FFnet mirror
I know why you've come here.
She is lost in the mist, and her voice is louder than the thundering waterfall, crashing down around him until it is the only sound that he has ever heard.
His gunblade is slick with blood and stinking of paramagic, the unique bitter scent that only poison bullets and Fira spells can leave behind. It is heavy in his hand; he has carried it a hundred thousand million miles, leaving carnage and ruin in his wake. She has brought him here, to nowhere, to this time beyond time, to carry out a promise.
My knight, my knight, my loyal, foolish knight.
Her voice is silken, seductive, no hint of girlish nerves anymore. She is beyond that, beyond clumsiness and delicacy and sheer stubborn will. Her manifestation has burned away all of that-- she is a stranger wearing a familiar face.
Shall we dance this traitorous dance?
It is cold here, at the end of nowhere, the wind whipping around him, ruffling the fur at his throat, tearing through leather as if it were never there at all. He tightens his grip on the trigger. There is one round left in the chamber, one glimmering silver bullet. Patience, patience, an instructor's voice reminds him, but he has never had any trouble with waiting, even for an eternity.
He clutches the hilt of his gunblade more tightly, feeling the worn grip through his gloves. When he steps forward, closer to the edge, trying to find her through the shadow and fog, the wind threatens to grab him and drag him over the edge.
The river rushes by his boots, plunging down, down, down, and when he looks, Squall cannot see where it ends.
Fandom: FFVIII
Characters: Squall, Rinoa
Rating: PG
Summary: He has been here before. Time Compression, a second time.
Notes: FFnet mirror
I know why you've come here.
She is lost in the mist, and her voice is louder than the thundering waterfall, crashing down around him until it is the only sound that he has ever heard.
His gunblade is slick with blood and stinking of paramagic, the unique bitter scent that only poison bullets and Fira spells can leave behind. It is heavy in his hand; he has carried it a hundred thousand million miles, leaving carnage and ruin in his wake. She has brought him here, to nowhere, to this time beyond time, to carry out a promise.
My knight, my knight, my loyal, foolish knight.
Her voice is silken, seductive, no hint of girlish nerves anymore. She is beyond that, beyond clumsiness and delicacy and sheer stubborn will. Her manifestation has burned away all of that-- she is a stranger wearing a familiar face.
Shall we dance this traitorous dance?
It is cold here, at the end of nowhere, the wind whipping around him, ruffling the fur at his throat, tearing through leather as if it were never there at all. He tightens his grip on the trigger. There is one round left in the chamber, one glimmering silver bullet. Patience, patience, an instructor's voice reminds him, but he has never had any trouble with waiting, even for an eternity.
He clutches the hilt of his gunblade more tightly, feeling the worn grip through his gloves. When he steps forward, closer to the edge, trying to find her through the shadow and fog, the wind threatens to grab him and drag him over the edge.
The river rushes by his boots, plunging down, down, down, and when he looks, Squall cannot see where it ends.