Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em...
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Even monsters dreamt.
When his eyes finally snapped open, it was because of his dreams; thick red crimson nightmares that spilled like syrup across the blank white tiles of his mind. Pain; agony, rose up, rearing its ugly head, jaws snapping, teeth slick with blood. It was bitter irony, the pain, when he had always been the one to cause it. He would hurt, and hurt, and hurt, and never give a second thought to the people; real people, who had dreams, and could feel pain, just like he could. Never a care to who they were, sisters, sons, fathers, husbands, lovers, children.
And now the tables were turned. Now he truly regretted.
He threw back his head, throat working as he swallowed the cry that tried to force its way out of him. Him! Reduced to such a state, when once he had been the very epitome of graceful death, languorous power, feared, and at the same time, revered. He scrabbled at the floor, at fractured cement and cold marble tiles and metal warped by the passing of time and power. It was hopeless. He couldn’t get out. He was trapped.
Seemingly a lifetime of servitude...and he wished this was how it ended.
Hell looked so much more appealing now, with the view he had from rock bottom.
It seemed like an eternity in chains, and at first it didn’t seem so bad, to serve, when he always deluded himself into believing that he was his own master. But he couldn’t remember when he started to wish for freedom, when what had once been love festered, rotted, into an emotion far worse than hate: boredom, monotony, a dull “I don’t care...”
Hate was fire. Hate was passion. Hate was feeling.
And tedium was not.
Freedom. Something he once had, but it had been so long, he could not remember how it felt like to go about knowing there was no one watching him, no one who could tear into his mind at a whim. But he knew even if he had, it would not last. He was too valuable, too goddamn powerful, to be let loose upon an unsuspecting world.
His limbs protested and creaked with strain, his lips peeled back in a growl as he felt his trembling muscles threatening to collapse. He pushed at the ground, trying to heave himself off because it was so cold, and the tiles were nearly frozen his skin. Muscles that had been neglected for so long now were withered and thin and dying.
But he got back onto his feet; if slowly, and painfully. Eyes still bleary from a prolonged sleep, he waited patiently as everything refocused. The gunmetal blurs shrank and sharpened. Once his home, now his prison, and so familiar, he knew which piece of broken concrete, twisted metal belonged where, all the way down to the shattered glass that spilled like a jagged stream of water across one corner of the room.
No, it was no longer a room. It was a twisted hulk of what it used to be, deformed by unnatural magic, the whims of a Sorceress. Just a shelter, where he came for peace. Peace from the invisible demons that plagued the place, silent clamoring in his mind that alternately whispered, screamed, assaulted his mind like an off-key opera singer would pierce and tear at sensitive eardrums. Something about it, perhaps the white marble floors, so cold to rest on, or the rows of cracked pillars that held up a collapsing roof, soothed him. Or maybe it was the dazzling display of crystal, cracked and broken, but still shining with a harsh brilliance that brought him momentary quiet.
It hurt his eyes to look at it, the blinding, multi-hued light. He thought, with a vague, distant feeling, that it was so much more beautiful now, after what it had gone through. It was as if Time Compression had changed it, purified it. Before, it had been a solid rocky wall, smooth to touch, lit with a glowing blue from within that was so similar to the core of a flame, the center that flares an electric blue.
Now it was just rock. Beautiful, but no longer a storehouse for corrupted power.
So much more dazzling in this innocent display that seared colors into his eyelids, ultraviolet with a tinge of silver, aureolin yellow, edged with fiery red, painful scarlets and velvet blacks.
He turned away from it, turned his back on it. Was it his imagination, or did the shattered remains of what had been a fearsome power still beat across his mind like a wave of heat?
He reached out to it, tried to sense it, but there was nothing there. And he thanked Hyne.
The edges of his frayed consciousness hurt, but he needed to go and complete his daily rounds, all the while hoping against hope, that perhaps he would find a way out. There was another flare of heat at his back.
Whipping around, he had a split second before his eyes were blinded, and he gave a roar that echoed around the Lunatic Pandora, covered his aching head. A spread of warmth engulfed him, before it turned into a freezing slice of ice that seemed to chill the blood in his veins. Still he kept his head covered, not wanting to look up, not wanting to see. The colors licked at his tightly closed eyelids, and he wanted to scream, but old pride did not let him.
So he held it, tightly bottled in, while breath wheezed in and out painfully of a constricted chest. He felt the ice encrust on his body, freezing rivulets crystallizing into long icicles. His body was shutting down, perhaps returning, once again, to hibernation. There was some part of him that welcomed it, wanted to feel the numbness of sleep. Some part that wanted to sleep, and forget.
He knew he wouldn’t die. It was not to be allowed.
Abruptly, he was released from its grasp, and he fell, gasping, onto the floor. He lay there facedown, eyes closed. The weakness enveloped his mind, and the whisperings came again, softly at first, but growing more and more persistent.
And they were different.
He struggled back onto his feet for the second time in as many hours, and his limbs trembled. His mind trembled along with it, balanced on the fine edge of a sheer drop, down into nothingness and insanity.
A whirlwind of emotion tore across his consciousness, and he clenched his jaws against the mental onslaught.
I know how to get out.
He was racing down shattered halls of crystal and glass before he knew what he was doing, breath coming out in ragged gasps, willing his tired body to go on. The floor was precariously smooth in some places, but he nimbly dodged and turned in the labyrinth of tunnels. He leapt over a pile of the twisted, burnt metal that had once been the iron skeleton of Lunatic Pandora, but came down on the wrong foot, slipped as ice melted and ran down into puddles on the floor. Regaining his balance, he stopped and smiled, an unfamiliar twisting of his face. He could almost taste it, the sense of freedom, just beyond his grasp.
Not quite.
Pain caught in his throat, made his breath hitch out. Surprised, he felt the tears pool in his eyes. It had been too long, and he thought he had lost his capacity for human feelings. But they gathered, until his vision was a swimming mess, and he hit the wall, slamming large fists into the weakness that his mind had sensed.
It broke open, the magic barrier that was slicked on over the gigantic ship. He felt the tear in the smooth, metaphorical walls, walls he had pored over endlessly. A rush of triumph burned in his veins, left a giddy, sweet aftertaste in his mouth.
The world spread out around him, and he roared, slamming down the sledgehammer of his power, until the tear ripped further open into a wide, gaping hole. His energy, before draining away, now came rushing back with the immediacy of his torn prison. Concrete and blasted steel splayed out into the dark, velvety night.
He laughed, a deep rumble that echoed across the vast, Estharian desert.
And if he noticed the small flickering of regret in the back of his mind, he paid no heed to it; because now he was free, to do as he pleased.
Not quite...
The clear brilliance of stars spilled across the desert, and off in the distance, there came the answering roar of a Behemoth.
The whispers mocked him inside his head.
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AN: Loved it? Hated it! Tell me!
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Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, blah, blah, and blah. You get the general idea! ; P
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A white rose.
That was the first thing he saw as he came out of Time Compression and back into his own head. Back into his own dreams.
A white rose, with snowy pedals, and a lovely, subtle perfume. Long stemmed, elegantly suspended in the air, held up by invisible vines of wind that brushed past his senses like a caress of moth wings.
Knight. Protector of your Lady.
The sudden yearning in his chest took his breath away. He was unprepared for it. It had been a long time he had felt anything as passionate as the wanting that now caught him unawares. He reached for the rose, but it seemed to hover just beyond his fingertips.
All around him there was a white silence. It was a place devoid of everything: life, death, all the things in between, and as he tried to take a step forward, tried to move, he found that he couldn’t. Frozen, trapped in his own mind.
He knew this wasn’t time compression. He didn’t know why or how. There had been nothing to tell him that he had made it out of that hellish place, nothing except the feeling in his gut. But he knew.
Just like he knew that he had to have it.
Why?
Arms and legs straining, feet rooted to the ground, stretching, stretching, and the muscles in his back, in his arms, screamed their protest--
Silky white pedals brushed passed his fingertips teasingly, seductively, like a beautiful woman holding out on that one last piece of herself, and it would have made new fallen snow look tainted.
Tainted.
It was a direct contrast to himself. He was dirt, filth, a broken man with nothing to offer. He had nothing left but his pride. Come to think of it, that was all that he had had in the first place. That, and Balamb Garden. The place that he had once considered home. Now he doubted that same home would ever want to see his face again, much less welcome him back.
And whose fault was that?
No use feeling guilty.
He had told himself that so many times before.
Too bad it did shit for his conscience.
Memories, everything that he tried to force down into the dark, dank basement at the back of his mind, came rushing back to the man in a sullied gray trench coat with crosses emblazoned upon its sleeves.
Matron, her beautiful face wreathed in smiles as she accepted the drooping wildflowers the little blonde boy had
picked for her...
He watched, unable to tear his eyes away, as the pedals of the rose lost its velvet shine, and the edges curled inward. Its purity marred as diseased, sickly veins of black crept, and twined, and choked, black blood beaded on prickly thorns.
Rinoa, and the familiar scent of her ebony hair as he breathed in her warmth...
The rose started bleeding.
Matron, her beautiful face wreathed in frowns as she watched him lose...to fucking Leonhart, no less.
It was dying, and there was nothing he could do to save it. Once again, he was powerless; once again, he had failed everyone: Rinoa, Balamb Garden, Matron, himself. Most importantly himself, he would’ve said, once upon a time.
Rinoa...the look on her face and the pleading in her voice as she asked, quietly, “Haven’t you done enough damage, Seifer?”
He had nearly sacrificed her to Adel. If it wasn’t for Squall,
(always Squall)
she would be worse than dead right now.
Her innocent, trusting voice echoed inside his aching head. “You’ll always take care of me, won’t you Seifer?”
It burst, like a balloon that had been filled with too much air. The rose burst.
He had comforted himself with the thought that the promise didn’t count. He had been young and naive then, giving away his word of honor like he would give a few gil to the poor. He had wanted to please her, would’ve done anything to please her. It seemed like a special charm of Rinoa’s; the ability to wrap men around her little finger came as easily as breathing to her. And he had gone to her willingly. Never in a million years would he have thought to see himself a slave to anyone. He had cursed himself for being so weak, but damn her, he had enjoyed it while it lasted.
He could feel a warm wetness on his cheek. He raised his hand to touch it, and came away with blood and the scent of lilacs clinging to his hand.
Was it just the way she had made him feel? Like he was the chivalrous knight, with his own shining armor and loyal steed, always ready to ride to her rescue? It pissed him off to think that he had only gotten into a relationship with Rinoa to bolster his ego. Contrary to popular belief, Seifer Almasy didn’t care to be thought of as shallow. Irritating, arrogant, and an asshole maybe, but he wasn’t shallow.
It didn’t matter anymore. Why waste time thinking about a foolish, clinging girl, and the foolish, meaningless puppy love that they had shared, when his mistress was in danger?
He had sworn he would protect Ultimecia, but how could he protect her when he was lost in his own mind?
Lilacs...
When it had begun, when the magic in the Lunatic Pandora had built and built and built until it had reached its shattering crescendo, it had taken Squall and the rest of them to the future, and he had been left to wander around in some Hyneforsaken place (not that he believed in Hyne) for who knew how long. Now he was back in his own head, with no idea what the fuck was going on, and hell, he didn’t even know how to wake up from his own fucking dreams so he could do something about this, anything-
If there was anything that he hated, it was feeling weak, helpless. Small.
He felt his ghostly connection with her awakening-the connection that was the lifeline between every knight and his lady. A note of surprise twisted in his mind, because she hadn’t beckoned for so long, before the sudden stab of pain knocked into his gut, and he doubled over, clutching his stomach. The wave of agony receded slightly, barely enough time for a choked breath, before it came back, twice as strong.
Damnit. Only a dream!
There was no blood on his stomach, only the hideous burning that ripped into him, gnawing and shredding and hurting.
Hyne, it hurt. It hurt like nothing had ever hurt before, not when he had faced off with Squall all those different times, not when the he had both his arms fractured in a training accident with a T-rex, not even when he had taken bullets in his fucking kneecap from the cowboy’s gun.
He gritted his teeth, tried to force it down. He was no stranger to pain. The lessons learned from harsh training sessions with Hyperion only made it a little less durable, and he slowly straightened, trying to ignore the fire still constricting his sides. Taking short, sharp breaths (become one with the pain pain is not your enemy your enemy is the one causing pain), he tried to recover himself.
Still the red-hot needles jabbed and prodded unmercifully.
Matron? Is she all right?
He looked up, and she filled his vision, his mind.
(Edea Matron Ultimecia Adel Edea Matron)
The tight midnight dress clung lovingly, like a second skin, and she reached out delicately long hands
(claws)
to cup his cheek, but her fingers tightened painfully; he felt the sharp sting, then warmth running down his face, and tasted a foreign saltiness on his lips. Burnished gold eyes held him spellbound
(frozen bird and the snake)
and the tattoos on the left side of her face writhed, serpent-like, as her soft violet lips curved upwards in a small, secret smile.
With her came the overwhelming stench of lilacs that made him want to heave.
She’s alive!
And that was all that mattered to Seifer Almasy.
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AN: This is not a one shot, and I’ll post as soon as I’m done editing Ch.2. Ah, the disadvantages of self-editing, when you dunno where to get beta editors...
Thanks to all the wonderful Seiftis authors out there, who have dumped gasoline on the proverbial fire of my addiction to anything Seifer/Quistis-related. And, of course, to my good friend Quisty Almasy. I owe it to them in getting my lazy butt off the couch and actually posting something!
Well, if you’ve made it this far, you probably have some sort of opinion about this, so kindly leave a review as you go, yes? Criticism is always appreciated! Thanks! ; P
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Disclaimer: Don’t own them. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it.
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Downtown Fishermen’s Horizon was a place of perpetual dark. The buildings were old, crumbling, decrepit with age; the streets were cracked concrete that had given up hope of a repaving long, long ago.
Fujin wasn’t going to let some landlord toss her and Raijin out onto those same streets. The indignity of it!
So now here they were.
Fishing wasn’t an alternative she had ever considered before, but anything had to be better than their previous brief stint as bodyguards-for-hire. Especially their last job, when Raijin had punched Mr. Big-Shot-Executive in the face. When she had asked later (“RAGE! EXPLAIN!”), he had meekly muttered something about overhearing a conversation.
“They were talkin’ bad stuff ‘bout Seifer, Fuj!”
Apparently, Raijin had decided to teach the poor man a lesson. Never mind the fact that they descperately needed the money the job paid.
Fujin shook her head with a half-smile. Raijin was an idiot, but a lovable idiot.
The air was alive with the scent of summer; clean, smelling of cotton sheets and freshly done laundry. The cool breeze ruffled her platinum hair, stirred the nape of her neck. There was peace in this place, this quaint white cottage with its rose garden and plentiful sunshine and twittering birds.
It was a peace that Fujin had rarely known in her life. It had always been Garden, Garden, Garden. The hectic life of a SeeD cadet: the training sessions, tough classes, tougher missions. Everything she had done, everything everybody had done, had been for the good of Garden. And in the end, they hadn’t even made it in.
Raijin followed behind her, unusually quiet. She supposed he was wrapped up in his own thoughts. Briefly, she wondered at what he was thinking. It was probably something important if it could keep his mouth shut for so long.
They strode up the path towards Mrs. Hannil’s cozy little home, passing under clusters of fragrant roses. Thick vines wound their way through the white picket fence, and the blooming flowers, heavy with morning dew, turned their white faces up into a clear blue sky. There were roses overhanging the entrance of the house, draped over a delicate wooden arch, home to birds--hummingbirds, darting from one flower to the next, tiny throats a deep red, and delicate wings a blur.
Fujin rung the doorbell; leaning tiredly against a white pillar, she watched as a tiny squirrel the size of a baby cactuar bounded in front of her, its nose twitching and bushy tail twirling acrobatically. It froze, and then suddenly exploded away for shelter, as if it had sensed something.
And perhaps it had.
A shifting of clothes, a stifled moan.
“Hey Fuj, you think Old Lady Hannil will sell us that boat if--”
“Sh!” She cut him off sharply, gesturing for him to be quiet.
She had heard something; she was sure of it. SeeD training was the best in the world, after all.
Again, the noise, this time a pained hiss.
A flash of gray and gold, among the leafy foliage?
No.
It couldn’t be possible.
But she was running, running towards it (him?), before she could tell herself not to get her hopes too high.
(The harder they fall)
A cold wash of fear, excitement, hope flooded through her, and she thrust aside thorny bushes, white pedals bursting and falling to the ground in a fragrant shower, and it was like a
(gift from the faeries)
Raining down, soft velvet caressing her cheek, barely noticed stings as thorns bit into exposed skin, the rush of blood in her ears, and then
Fujin was on her knees beside him, checking for pulse, for injury, for all the things they taught you to check for in training. She could barely feel his heartbeat, it was so weak and thready, and his eyes were closed. Instead of his usual healthy glow, his face was pallid, almost as white as a statue carved of alabaster: still, perfect, and dead.
Not dead. Not yet.
The shallow rise and fall of his chest was enough, and she felt relief, an overwhelming relief, then the protective love of a mother, or a sister, but not of a lover.
She wondered about that, about her sudden shift of her feelings.
Dimly, in the background, she could hear Raijin reassuring a dazed Mrs. Hannil, who had been home after all, and who had been just as shocked as they had been upon discovering Seifer Almasy in her front yard.
“Oh my,” she said, and her voice seemed to come from so far away. “Oh my lord! Frank! Frank, call the ambulance!”
She murmured a Curaga, and the warmth of the healing spell glowed an intense spring green in the center of her palm. She felt the power flow from her veins into Seifer, her supply of magical energy straining, rusty and unused to such high level magic.
It had been a while, to say the least.
His breathing seemed a little less labored, although that may have been a figment of Fujin’s hopeful imagination. It was odd, really. There was not a sign of physical harm on him, not a single cut, or scrape, or broken bone. But then, magic was a strange mistress.
“Seifer?”she whispered.
He had made it back. From Time Compression. From Ultimecia.
Thank Hyne.
She made a mental note to herself to mail a thank-you note to B.Garden--to Squall and the rest of the darlings of the media, more specifically, for getting rid of that power hungry bitch in the first place.
Fujin stroked his cheek, reassuring herself with the reality of the beard, however dirty and bristly, beneath her hands. “Seifer,”she whispered again.
Distant sirens split the air, angry wails that punctuated the serenity of the rose garden.
“You’re safe from her now.”
The tiny squirrel was nowhere to be seen.
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It was Ultimecia’s bond. She died, and nearly dragged me down into hell with her.
“So we took you back here, and you had this terrible fever, ya know? We thought we lost ya for sure, man! But you’re a survivor!”
My ultimate curse.
They had never really talked about how they had found him before; he had only gleaned the basic details, that he had been found in a rose garden, and that he had been near death.
A fucking rose garden. It was too ironic for words.
“MORNING!”Fujin said, carrying in breakfast, which consisted of pancakes and blueberry muffins. The heavenly smell wafted through the small bedroom, and Seifer’s stomach gave a protesting grumble.
“Hey man, I heard you tossin’and turnin’last night.”
There was a short silence, and Seifer scowled.
It was a strange dream, as his dreams went, and stranger still was the fact that he could not get it out of his head, no matter how many times he told himself all it was was a product of his overworked imagination and paranoia.
Damn Galbaldia. They put a price on my head, and now I gotta look over my shoulder every time I go ten steps out of this goddamn apartment...
He wished he had never had it in the first place, so that he could live out the rest of his life in peace, with Fujin and Raijin keeping him company. That was all he wanted now. Just a place, for himself, for his friends. A little corner, away from the hell the rest of the world loved putting him through.
But he of all people knew just how futile wishing and hoping and dreaming was. The only thing that came of dreams was the agony of failure.
And the only thing worse than being a fuckup was being a fuckup that the whole world knew, and scorned, and hated.
But the dream had also brought back memories of Balamb Garden, and just the other day, when the three of them were fishing, Garden had passed over them, its majestic rings of light glowing blue, yellow, gold as the mid-afternoon light struck it at odd angles.
Seifer had never remembered feeling so nostalgic in his entire life.
Then again, what was there to feel nostalgic about with a past like his?
“It was nothing.”
“A man has his needs, ya know. You ever have trouble with anything, just ask me!” Raijin looked proud of what he probably imagined as his subtle advice.
Fujin, being too far away to kick him, instead opted to chuck a muffin at him. “TACT!” she yelled.
She turned back to Seifer, the feral look in her eye fading. “NIGHTMARE??”
He hesitated, shaking his head, concentrating on the taste of the pancakes instead.
Fujin just looked at him. If she was standing, she would’ve been tapping her foot impatiently.
He looked back at her, watched as her crimson eye gentled, from an amused irritation to a motherly concern, and felt unease. Scared, even--of the dream, of wanting to go back, of what they would say if he did.
Who was he kidding? Balamb Garden would sooner lock him up in some jail cell and throw away the key than take him back. He was, after all, Seifer Almasy--the dull black spot that marred their squeaky clean reputation.
The morning light streamed into the small apartment they had rented, a somewhat homey place, with its seashells, windchimes, and freshly sanded floor. The walls, so recently repainted, smelled only faintly of the sea now, and the sounds of a new day filtered in through the half-drawn curtains: seagulls squawking, fishermen yelling, the muffled roars of boat motors.
His voice was soft, an uncertain tone that was rarely heard by anyone outside their little circle. He told them, trying to fish out the important bits and pieces buried within a confusing pile of images, like a fisherman sifting through the junk of a shipwreck.
“A white rose...and lilacs. She smelled like lilacs.”
“Hey Fuj, weren’t the roses in Mrs. Hannil’s garden white too?”
Fujin slowly turned towards him. “WHAT?”
“White, Fuj, the roses were white. Ya know?”he said.
“COINCIDENCE,” she said, then threw another muffin at him. “Don’t scare me like that.”
Everybody concentrated on their pancakes, and their thoughts.
Seifer felt disturbed.
It was a white rose. And then it burst. And there was blood, and lilacs.
He didn’t want the damn dream. What he wanted was to live out his life without worrying about death, and people hunting him, and white roses, and what they could possibly mean.
Liar. What is life without death? What is life without death--to you? And what was it to them? Those poor, poor people who were all in the wrong place at the wrong time. The innocents you slaughtered. For her.
Shut up! He yelled at the jabbering voices, the corner of hell of his head. More than once he had jolted awake, sweating at night, plagued by dreams, nightmares, of the blood Hyperion had shed, and it was always blood, and her eyes, the golden eyes, with an unholy light burning behind them, that would laugh, and spit venom, and curse him. For being a failure, for being weak, for not being there when she needed him the most.
“Seifer,” Fujin said, and he started at her serious tone. “Ultimecia...she controlled you right? All the things you did...they weren’t you.”
“No,”he shook his head. It wasn’t me. “It was her.”
I only killed
Slaughtered, butchered, murdered
them
(the pregnant lady the eleven year old with the rag doll the old man with a cane)
because she told me to. She had me under her control.
Liar.
Hyne, if Fujin and Raijin knew that he was arguing with disembodied voices inside his head, they would dump him in the nearest mental hospital and that would be the end of freedom. Going from Ultimecia to a loony bin was an improvement, but it was a small one at that.
“Well, when we going back to Garden, Seifer?”asked Raijin.
They both turned to look at him.
“Why you staring at me like that? Makes a man uncomfortable, ya know,” he said a touch defensively.
“What gave you the idea that I wanted to go back?”
“Well man, the other day, we were fishing, ya know? And B-Garden passes by, n’I saw you n’ you had this look on your face. N’ you could just tell that you really wanted to go back and...ya know...” he trailed off lamely.
Raijin was a lot more perceptive than most people gave him credit for.
He gave a bitter laugh. “You guys forget the minor problem that Garden sees me as traitor, failure, ex-lapdog, etc, etc?”
Wordlessly, Fujin pulled out an old copy of Horizon Times from underneath a stack of magazine. She handed it to him, and an article caught his eye.
War Criminal Pardoned
In a statement today, Headmaster Cid of Balamb Garden declared Seifer Almasy, one time promising SeeD cadet, officially pardoned for all crimes committed during the Sorceress Wars. Citing reasons like “mind control”and “instability”, the headmaster...
Seifer tried to conceal the whirlwind of emotions—regret, anger, shock—that welled up inside him.
Just like that. My life takes another turn—if I want it to.
But all he said was,“ ‘One time promising SeeD’?” and made a halfhearted attempt at a smirk.
“And there’s this one lady, Matron, who was really supportive of Garden’s decision. Ya know her?”
Matron. “Yeah, I know her,”he said.
A pause. Fujin and Raijin looked at him expectantly.
“Well then...”He stood up from his half eaten muffin, stretching luxuriously.
Screw it. Who the fuck cares what they think? They offer you a place back. Be a shame not to take it.
Puberty Boy, Chicken Wuss, the instructor, Rinoa...
A second chance...
“So where’s Garden’s next docking point?”
He had been accused of being many things, but never of being a coward.
Damn if he would give them an excuse to start now.
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AN: Thanks to everyone who reviewed before! Love ya all! *Hugs and kisses*
Currently working on Chapter 6, but haven’t gone over (re: edit) the previous chapters. How tough is it to edit your own work? So forgive me if there are any grammar/tense/etc. mistakes...
To Ani: Yes, I’m also Blu/Jadie/Jade at the Seiftis Board. Btw, if you have time, you should go visit!
Http.www.pub18.ezboard.com/bseiftisforever
Well, you know the drill. Read and review, tell me what you think, but this time, anyone want to give some criticism? I’m just wondering at how good I am at accepting the good with the bad. Don’t get me wrong here, the praise is nice too, but I would be very grateful. So maybe, if you have the time...?
LOL, can you tell I am sadly lacking for an editor?
Anyway, sorry for this exceedingly long rant. Next chapter coming up!