force passing through
Sep. 7th, 2024 12:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasTitle: force passing through
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Jill & Cid
Rating: gen
Word Count: 951
Notes: In the church above Moore, Jill tries to understand something still out of reach.
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Jill & Cid
Rating: gen
Word Count: 951
Notes: In the church above Moore, Jill tries to understand something still out of reach.
-
The gate is open when Jill reaches the top of the hill. Crushed grasses and yarrow curve around the building to its old peeling doors and nods against them. Cool air pours out where the board barring her entry lays propped. She imagines it will only be Cid.
Jill steps into a pool of light then back through darkness as she walks down the aisle toward the nave. The gold of the evening is dampened from old smoke stains against the windows. No icons are housed in this place anymore save a lonely smashed pillar of Greagor. It doesn’t seem like the villagers of Moore would care if there were trespassers in their sacred space, but perhaps they would if they knew what they were planning, and who would suffer for it — if they could suspend their disbelief. Jill finds she cannot.
“Praying?” Jill asks.
A pew creaks as Cid turns and waves. He’s smoking. “Not to the Empire’s bloodthirsty lot.”
“Well, I’m starting to think they don’t either.”
Cid laughs then stands, dropping his smoke to the ground and grinding it with his heel.
He’s not old, but weathered to a fine point, and his palms chafe in the hollow quiet when he rubs them together. He’s her leader in this, but Jill still wonders if he knows that he can’t truly show them where they’re going. “Glad you’re here, Jill. Come on out, if you’d like. We might spot the lad in the field. I don’t think he’ll come quietly.”
“Clive will be fine,” Jill says, firm. “If he doesn’t stop to talk.”
“If so, we’ll just follow the smoke.”
Jill scoffs, but Cid is smiling.
They step out into the colored din. From here, the Sea of Grace is a flickering sheet in the distance, winds far from them rolling across the surface. The lovely crown of Oriflamme is not much further away. Drake’s Head pierces the sky like a pillar, casting the city below into blue dyed shadows. She admires it for what it is then looks away when that pleasure burns up. That Cid should be right and the rulers of this realm lift only higher the prison that crowns them — this world is incomprehensibly shameful. She still wants to believe it’s only ignorance, not evil. But she’s seen that wretchedness first hand.
No. The crux of the matter is that she’s only felt a part of it. He’s torn off the whole veil. Of course she’s paralyzed.
Cid draws to the balls of his feet and sways. “Did you see the field hands on yer way up?” he asks casually. “Plucking the wheat?”
Jill laces her fingers together, quiet. Her skin is too dry and itches. “I did, but they did not see me.”
“Aye. Infuriating, isn’t it? Poor sods don’t even remember how to react.”
“They won’t thank us either when they do,” she retorts.
“No, I don’t think so. But won’t it be nice for them to decide that instead of having the choice beaten out of them.”
Cid’s under no illusion and neither is she. Bearers can run, go under Tarja’s knife to maybe walk free, or live in an honorable shelter among friends. This is the part she struggles to believe: that it may need not be just that. How does one imagine something that doesn’t exist?
“And is that what Clive wanted, when he went with you?” It prickles her skin, the way he can get under hers, make her doubt. But Cid only smiles broadly as if humbled, cheeks pinching some, then laughs.
“No Jill, I reckon he was far more concerned about your well being than his own. But since you’re both still here, I’ve no doubts he’s made up his mind about our little plan. But I’m not sure about you.”
“It’s a lot to take in,” Jill says, quiet. “It’s heavy.”
“Mm. And I appreciate your calm head for considering it. You’ll always be welcome to share what you like.”
“I know.”
Jill touches the stone railing where it’s fallen away, and it mirrors what grim future awaits her if she goes on like she has. What Cid perceives as bravery in her is only old fears holding her once more.
She wants to be cautious; she can’t look away. She walked here alone and no man looked twice at her; they will always look at Clive and see what he can be used for first.
“There’s work that needs doing, so I’ll be staying.”
“Then I reckon we’ll be just fine, Jill. Thank you.”
She nods. They share water and a small meal and it’s only an hour of waiting before Clive trudges up from Moore with great, long strides, the sun lighting his hair with red like it did when he was a boy, and he looks exactly the same and completely different from how she remembers him when he spots her then, something vulnerable and unnamed in his expression. She’d seen it in the wasteland of Phoenix Gate too as their shadows grew long and their conversations turned sparse; grief took him then. Their lives are nothing like they’d been choreographed to be.
He nods at Cid and smiles pleasantly at her, pleased to be in their company. It stuns her to momentary disbelief once more that she can feel joy at the foot of the road before them, and the impossible weight of what will come teetering steadily above their heads.
Jill considers Cid more carefully when she lays herself to rest in the dark of the church, breathing in the stone dust. Their hero is a modest one.
What matters now is seeing what they all become is only ever better.
The gate is open when Jill reaches the top of the hill. Crushed grasses and yarrow curve around the building to its old peeling doors and nods against them. Cool air pours out where the board barring her entry lays propped. She imagines it will only be Cid.
Jill steps into a pool of light then back through darkness as she walks down the aisle toward the nave. The gold of the evening is dampened from old smoke stains against the windows. No icons are housed in this place anymore save a lonely smashed pillar of Greagor. It doesn’t seem like the villagers of Moore would care if there were trespassers in their sacred space, but perhaps they would if they knew what they were planning, and who would suffer for it — if they could suspend their disbelief. Jill finds she cannot.
“Praying?” Jill asks.
A pew creaks as Cid turns and waves. He’s smoking. “Not to the Empire’s bloodthirsty lot.”
“Well, I’m starting to think they don’t either.”
Cid laughs then stands, dropping his smoke to the ground and grinding it with his heel.
He’s not old, but weathered to a fine point, and his palms chafe in the hollow quiet when he rubs them together. He’s her leader in this, but Jill still wonders if he knows that he can’t truly show them where they’re going. “Glad you’re here, Jill. Come on out, if you’d like. We might spot the lad in the field. I don’t think he’ll come quietly.”
“Clive will be fine,” Jill says, firm. “If he doesn’t stop to talk.”
“If so, we’ll just follow the smoke.”
Jill scoffs, but Cid is smiling.
They step out into the colored din. From here, the Sea of Grace is a flickering sheet in the distance, winds far from them rolling across the surface. The lovely crown of Oriflamme is not much further away. Drake’s Head pierces the sky like a pillar, casting the city below into blue dyed shadows. She admires it for what it is then looks away when that pleasure burns up. That Cid should be right and the rulers of this realm lift only higher the prison that crowns them — this world is incomprehensibly shameful. She still wants to believe it’s only ignorance, not evil. But she’s seen that wretchedness first hand.
No. The crux of the matter is that she’s only felt a part of it. He’s torn off the whole veil. Of course she’s paralyzed.
Cid draws to the balls of his feet and sways. “Did you see the field hands on yer way up?” he asks casually. “Plucking the wheat?”
Jill laces her fingers together, quiet. Her skin is too dry and itches. “I did, but they did not see me.”
“Aye. Infuriating, isn’t it? Poor sods don’t even remember how to react.”
“They won’t thank us either when they do,” she retorts.
“No, I don’t think so. But won’t it be nice for them to decide that instead of having the choice beaten out of them.”
Cid’s under no illusion and neither is she. Bearers can run, go under Tarja’s knife to maybe walk free, or live in an honorable shelter among friends. This is the part she struggles to believe: that it may need not be just that. How does one imagine something that doesn’t exist?
“And is that what Clive wanted, when he went with you?” It prickles her skin, the way he can get under hers, make her doubt. But Cid only smiles broadly as if humbled, cheeks pinching some, then laughs.
“No Jill, I reckon he was far more concerned about your well being than his own. But since you’re both still here, I’ve no doubts he’s made up his mind about our little plan. But I’m not sure about you.”
“It’s a lot to take in,” Jill says, quiet. “It’s heavy.”
“Mm. And I appreciate your calm head for considering it. You’ll always be welcome to share what you like.”
“I know.”
Jill touches the stone railing where it’s fallen away, and it mirrors what grim future awaits her if she goes on like she has. What Cid perceives as bravery in her is only old fears holding her once more.
She wants to be cautious; she can’t look away. She walked here alone and no man looked twice at her; they will always look at Clive and see what he can be used for first.
“There’s work that needs doing, so I’ll be staying.”
“Then I reckon we’ll be just fine, Jill. Thank you.”
She nods. They share water and a small meal and it’s only an hour of waiting before Clive trudges up from Moore with great, long strides, the sun lighting his hair with red like it did when he was a boy, and he looks exactly the same and completely different from how she remembers him when he spots her then, something vulnerable and unnamed in his expression. She’d seen it in the wasteland of Phoenix Gate too as their shadows grew long and their conversations turned sparse; grief took him then. Their lives are nothing like they’d been choreographed to be.
He nods at Cid and smiles pleasantly at her, pleased to be in their company. It stuns her to momentary disbelief once more that she can feel joy at the foot of the road before them, and the impossible weight of what will come teetering steadily above their heads.
Jill considers Cid more carefully when she lays herself to rest in the dark of the church, breathing in the stone dust. Their hero is a modest one.
What matters now is seeing what they all become is only ever better.
