(no subject)
Hey all! I was poking through the latest debate and I started speculating on Squall and Seifer's rivalry - so, if this is allowed, i've got a couple of fics for you - the first is on their rivalry and the second is sort of what I imagined Seifer to be as a child. Also - the mandatory disclaimer: Not mine, all Square-Enix's.
1 . Sun and Storm
2.
[
will delete if this isn't okay!
1. s p a r k]
“Back again, boy? You’re in luck - I saved a book for you. Wait a minute - I’ll go and get it.”
Seifer stands with his hands in his pockets, looking around him. The shop smells nice; it is filled with the scent of ink and paper. He comes down here often enough, even though the Garden Faculty doesn’t know that. He scrimps and saves, forcing himself to down the awful cafeteria food until he has sufficient Gil to purchase another book.
Balamb Town proper is not that far away, after all.
He has a small room to himself, with a tiny bookcase next to his bed - this bookcase is crammed near filling with copies of all the books he’s bought. The Once and Future King, Tales of the Centra People, Legends of the Sorceresses…
“Here, boy.”
“My name’s Seifer,” he says, looking up at the old man with the twinkling blue eyes and the grey hair. “I’m thirteen, and no longer a child.”
He states this with the pride of a child-just-turned-teenager; and indeed his voice is breaking. He’d like it to become an even, deep baritone, the kind knights and commanders always have in the stories.
“Well, then, young Seifer,” says the old man, smiling at him, “here’s the book I saved for you.” He pushes a volume over to the blond child. “It’s Le Morte d’Arthur. You’ve heard of him, right?”
Seifer nods. “How much will that be - sir?” The last is said with a quick smile of respect; Seifer hardly calls anyone Sir. Matron is Matron, and the Instructors and Garden Faculty are just people to be ignored. Older SeeD cadets are just annoyances, but this kindly old man with the fairytale blue eyes he feels he can trust and respect.
“Oh, none, none at all. It’s hard to find someone who likes the old legends nowadays.”
“But -“
“I insist. It’s a gift.”
And Seifer returns the smile that the old man gives him.
[2. f l a r e]
“Cadet Almasy, look at me when I am talking to you.”
Seifer’s glance remains firmly rooted to the floor, his green gaze refusing to alight on the Instructor addressing him.
“Cadet Almasy. Why did you punch Cadet Strife in the face?”
He mumbles an answer.
“Speak up!”
“He was disturbing my friend.”
“If Cadet Strife was disturbing your friend, then she should have complained. You were not in the right, when you punched him.”
“She was upset. She was crying.” Fists clenched at his side.
“Nevertheless, there are things you cannot do. We will decide on your punishment later. You may go.”
“It’s not fair.”
“What was that, Cadet Almasy?”
“I said, IT’S NOT BLOODY FAIR!” He whirls, and is screaming at the Faculty member, who stumbles back in shock. “Isn’t it wrong to make someone cry? Is it wrong if my friend is upset and I defend her?”
A pause.
“Cadet Almasy, we must speak about your use of language. You are only fourteen and -“
“- And Strife gets away scot free despite the fact that he was bullying my friend.”
“You have chivalrous notions, do you? Defending your friends, protecting them - Cadet Almasy… You will become a SeeD. A mercenary. You have to learn to follow protocol, not act on some misplaced chivalry.”
[3. c o n f l a g r a t i o n]
“Cadet Almasy…”
“Yes?”
“You did not pass.”
He thumps one fist into the wall angrily and stalks back to his dormitory, refusing to talk to anyone for the rest of the day.
[4. i n f e r n o]
He is callous, hard as steel, and there is no pity in his green-glass gaze, only ambition and possessiveness. He wields his gunblade easily; that much is evident - in gunblade training he is artlessly graceful, moving with the sinuous, easy grace given to the gifted warrior. He is a conflagration, an inferno ready to devour a city whole, and he is, if anything, barely contained; all sun-bright and beautiful, simmering heat.
And he dreams; he dreams like a little child alone and awake in bed when the bogeymen prowl bedrooms. He dreams of swords and steel and fire, the glory of being the knight, standing tall on a pedestal built of honour and chivalry. And his words burn, sharp daggers of fire and acid, cruel weapons meant to kill.
He was not like that once. He was a beautiful child, once, sun-drenched gold hair, rich in stories and tales; now his voice is a rich deep baritone and his eyes are steel and fire; he cannot remember any more.
Still, he cannot bear to touch the books that cram his little bookshelf, cannot bear to throw them away. Le Morte d’Arthur. The Once and Future King. Tales of the Centra People, pristine and perfect as the day he bought them.
And he keeps it that way.
1 . Sun and Storm
2.
[
will delete if this isn't okay!
1. s p a r k]
“Back again, boy? You’re in luck - I saved a book for you. Wait a minute - I’ll go and get it.”
Seifer stands with his hands in his pockets, looking around him. The shop smells nice; it is filled with the scent of ink and paper. He comes down here often enough, even though the Garden Faculty doesn’t know that. He scrimps and saves, forcing himself to down the awful cafeteria food until he has sufficient Gil to purchase another book.
Balamb Town proper is not that far away, after all.
He has a small room to himself, with a tiny bookcase next to his bed - this bookcase is crammed near filling with copies of all the books he’s bought. The Once and Future King, Tales of the Centra People, Legends of the Sorceresses…
“Here, boy.”
“My name’s Seifer,” he says, looking up at the old man with the twinkling blue eyes and the grey hair. “I’m thirteen, and no longer a child.”
He states this with the pride of a child-just-turned-teenager; and indeed his voice is breaking. He’d like it to become an even, deep baritone, the kind knights and commanders always have in the stories.
“Well, then, young Seifer,” says the old man, smiling at him, “here’s the book I saved for you.” He pushes a volume over to the blond child. “It’s Le Morte d’Arthur. You’ve heard of him, right?”
Seifer nods. “How much will that be - sir?” The last is said with a quick smile of respect; Seifer hardly calls anyone Sir. Matron is Matron, and the Instructors and Garden Faculty are just people to be ignored. Older SeeD cadets are just annoyances, but this kindly old man with the fairytale blue eyes he feels he can trust and respect.
“Oh, none, none at all. It’s hard to find someone who likes the old legends nowadays.”
“But -“
“I insist. It’s a gift.”
And Seifer returns the smile that the old man gives him.
[2. f l a r e]
“Cadet Almasy, look at me when I am talking to you.”
Seifer’s glance remains firmly rooted to the floor, his green gaze refusing to alight on the Instructor addressing him.
“Cadet Almasy. Why did you punch Cadet Strife in the face?”
He mumbles an answer.
“Speak up!”
“He was disturbing my friend.”
“If Cadet Strife was disturbing your friend, then she should have complained. You were not in the right, when you punched him.”
“She was upset. She was crying.” Fists clenched at his side.
“Nevertheless, there are things you cannot do. We will decide on your punishment later. You may go.”
“It’s not fair.”
“What was that, Cadet Almasy?”
“I said, IT’S NOT BLOODY FAIR!” He whirls, and is screaming at the Faculty member, who stumbles back in shock. “Isn’t it wrong to make someone cry? Is it wrong if my friend is upset and I defend her?”
A pause.
“Cadet Almasy, we must speak about your use of language. You are only fourteen and -“
“- And Strife gets away scot free despite the fact that he was bullying my friend.”
“You have chivalrous notions, do you? Defending your friends, protecting them - Cadet Almasy… You will become a SeeD. A mercenary. You have to learn to follow protocol, not act on some misplaced chivalry.”
[3. c o n f l a g r a t i o n]
“Cadet Almasy…”
“Yes?”
“You did not pass.”
He thumps one fist into the wall angrily and stalks back to his dormitory, refusing to talk to anyone for the rest of the day.
[4. i n f e r n o]
He is callous, hard as steel, and there is no pity in his green-glass gaze, only ambition and possessiveness. He wields his gunblade easily; that much is evident - in gunblade training he is artlessly graceful, moving with the sinuous, easy grace given to the gifted warrior. He is a conflagration, an inferno ready to devour a city whole, and he is, if anything, barely contained; all sun-bright and beautiful, simmering heat.
And he dreams; he dreams like a little child alone and awake in bed when the bogeymen prowl bedrooms. He dreams of swords and steel and fire, the glory of being the knight, standing tall on a pedestal built of honour and chivalry. And his words burn, sharp daggers of fire and acid, cruel weapons meant to kill.
He was not like that once. He was a beautiful child, once, sun-drenched gold hair, rich in stories and tales; now his voice is a rich deep baritone and his eyes are steel and fire; he cannot remember any more.
Still, he cannot bear to touch the books that cram his little bookshelf, cannot bear to throw them away. Le Morte d’Arthur. The Once and Future King. Tales of the Centra People, pristine and perfect as the day he bought them.
And he keeps it that way.