The Grace of God

Chapter Seven

"Returner."

Well, that was a strange thing to be called, true. But it was far too early to try to puzzle out any whos or whys about it -- better to consider such mysteries after a nice long rest.

He had just settled back into comfortable numbness when something cracked hard against his head. Lights burst behind his eyelids in a brief, colorful display.

"Returner," said the voice again, cloying this time.

"What," he tried to answer, irritably; but his tongue, dry and swollen, stuck in his mouth, and all that came out was a sort of garbled grunt. He tried to open his eyes, just in time to see a dim, blurred rush of motion. Reflexively he shied back; but something held him in place, and the blow hit his collarbone with a jarring sting.

"Ow," he mumbled. "Cut it out."

For a second there was silence, then raucous, guffawing laughter.

The noise made his head hurt even more, but at least it gave him a minute to concentrate on opening his eyes. They refused to go any further than a squint, but he could still make out three fuzzy shapes in front of him: two brown, one a garish chartreuse. It took him only a second to recognize them as the uniforms of three Imperial soldiers.

"Wonderful," Locke groaned.

There was surely a good reason why he had ended up here when he'd planned to be home with the Illumina instead, although it escaped him at the moment. He did remember something of a morning mission, a crowd, of noise and violence. There had been that woman who looked like Celes, a burning pain through his chest, and Terra crying somewhere far away -- but everything afterward was a complete blank.

Still more than enough to send a shiver down his spine.

It was then that he realized his arms were strained uncomfortably above his head, chained to an eyebolt on the wall; and when he glanced down, he saw, with some shock, that his shirt was dyed through with a livid stain of blood. But there was no pain -- his face, in fact, felt a good deal worse. And he was still alive, somehow.

A slap across his face brought him back to the present.

"Wake up, dog piss." The soldier in green -- the field trooper -- was talking to him. "You'll miss all the fun."

"God forbid," said Locke with difficulty, through a swollen lip.

As if in reply, the trooper struck him again, on the jaw this time, and Locke tasted blood as his head banged against the cinderblock wall.

It was going to be interesting, getting out of this one.

"All right, Wallace, good job, good job," one of the marshals was saying. "Stand aside, please."

The trooper scowled, but stepped back.

"Here's the story, you sack of shit," the marshal continued lazily as he approached Locke. "There's only one reason why you're not feeding the flies right now, and that's 'cause they think you might want to talk to us a while."

"Who wouldn't?" Locke discreetly spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva. "You seem like such great conversationalists."

At that, the marshal turned back to his friends. "You hear that?" He laughed with great exaggeration. "Guy thinks he's funny." On the last word, he wheeled around and slammed his fist into Locke's stomach.

Though Locke had tried to tense his stomach muscles in anticipation, the blow was strong enough to knock the wind out of him, and he dry-retched. But he had only a second to catch his breath before the soldier struck again, and again, on the jaw, on the cheekbone, in the eye.

At last there was a brief pause, as the two marshals switched positions. Locke dizzily tried to keep standing upright, though his legs felt about to give out. He'd be damned if he'd ever let these bastards see him stumble.

He caught only a glimpse of a grinning face and a drawn-back fist before the second marshal smashed him across the face with what felt, and tasted, like brass knuckles. Then Locke must have blacked out for a minute, because he next thing he knew the air was cool on his swollen face, and the soldiers had their backs to him. They were no longer laughing, either. They were talking to someone.

"Of course, Your Excellency," one of the marshals was saying, hesitantly, "but the General assigned us to --"

"General Rurik ordered you to guard the prisoner, not to beat him to unconsciousness."

The voice was an icy touch on Locke's skin; he froze, the pain of his battered body forgotten, the second he heard it. It was familiar, but wrong. Celes, but not. And then he saw the woman who had spoken.

What was making him tremble like this? It couldn't be that she resembled Celes so much. No, now that he had time to look at her, he wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for the Celes he knew. They shared the same appearance, yes -- the same lovely chiseled features, the same strong and supple body -- but there was something about this woman, something lifeless in her expression, empty in her speech, that made her seem more like a moving marble statue than a flesh-and-blood human being.

In fact, outfitted in that flawless white uniform of hers, she reminded Locke of how he'd once thought of Celes, back before he'd ever met her, back when he'd only ever heard of her. General Celes Chere, the military prodigy, the ruthless soldier, the White Witch. All just ideas of a person. Just shadows.

She was still talking to the soldiers -- reprimanding them, though her expression betrayed neither anger nor annoyance.

"You may leave," she said now. "Expect a court summons in the morning."

"Yes, your Excellency," they chorused, and, suddenly subdued, crept out the door with heads bowed.

As they passed, Locke had the strangest urge to ask them to stay.

His friends snickered at this, but quietly.

"Nah. She likes to lock you up in one of those boxes downstairs, if she really thinks you're being insub," the burly marshal replied. "You're lucky we got off with just a warning, Wallace."

"Yeah, yeah, okay." The trooper glanced back again. "She's a sight, though, isn't she? Would have liked to get off in more way than one."

At that, one of his friends yanked him backward while the other cuffed him on the ear.

"Shut up, Wallace. Goddamn, you make me sick."

"You really don't know anything, do you, Wallace? She's a bloody witch."

"All pumped up with Esper juice like a runny boil."

"Get it straight now, Wallace. Chere has a fancy enough face, sure, but she's got icewater for blood."

"Even Rurik says it."

"Your boyo'd freeze soon as she touched it."

"And break off like an icicle."

They had to struggle to keep their laughter muffled.

But when the shadows lengthened, and the evening grew cooler, so did the blind driving urgency that had been keeping her going. By sundown, after she had walked all the way to the eighth precinct, Celes came to herself with a start, like someone waking from a nightmare. But of course, here it was the nightmare itself that she had woken to.

And where had she searched; what had she found? Factories, markets, upper-class neighborhoods. Nowhere that a suspected insurgent would be held, and she knew it. But where else could she go from here -- the Palace itself? Ridiculous; to try to break in there would be suicide. Locke had tried, and he...

But she wouldn't allow herself to finish that thought. Not when she was still needed.

At last Celes found a tree, its branches still bare despite the season, and sank into the cast-iron bench beside it. She pulled down her muffler to breathe the cold air -- she hadn't been able to properly breathe all day -- and covered her eyes with wool-gloved fingers. She felt hollow, dangerously weak, unable to make her mind work. It was this city: this city that kept going, carelessly, cruelly, even when the world was collapsing around her feet.

Something, a strange little tickle at the back of her neck, made Celes jerk her head upright. A passerby had paused next to her bench, his eyebrows furrowed, as if he weren't quite sure what he was seeing.

As soon as he noticed Celes watching him, he started. Then he gave her a strange little nod and continued on his way, his eyes downcast.

Soon it became clear he was not the only one; more people were slowing as they passed by her, taking furtive glances in her direction, hurrying along before she could respond. One, she recognized too late, was an Imperial trooper; his nod was brisk and smart and accompanied by a single, barely audible word: General.

So. They thought she was that woman. They thought she was that woman with Celes's face, Celes's past, that creature Celes could barely remember without her head going light from an acute, white-hot rage. The woman who was like a parasite, who was bound to Celes's life as with a chain. Without a doubt, wherever she was, Locke would also be.

Which meant Celes knew exactly what had to be done. And she knew, all at once, how to do it.

It was almost like a dream as Celes made her way back to the Grand Boulevard, her muffler gone, her face bared like a war banner, the townspeople she passed jumping out of her path with wide eyes. Like a dream, and almost parodic, as she walked up two hundred stairs to the Imperial Palace, to the fortress of the enemy, with her sword sheathed, her magic nonexistent.

Dozens of guards were watching as she stepped up to the doors. But she had long gone past fear.

"General," said one of the sentries at the door, surprised and trying to hide it, his eyes unsure in the shadow of his helmet. "Welcome back. We had thought --"

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

If she were going to do this, she must have no hesitation, no doubt in the absolute truth that she belonged here.

"I'm sorry; I only thought you were still in the Palace, occupied with the, um, situation. I wasn't aware you'd left."

For a second Celes's heart leapt dangerously. A political prisoner could certainly qualify as a "situation." But now was not the time to pry out further information, not when the entire sentry regiment had its eyes on her back.

"I had an errand, Lieutenant," she said. "If you'll excuse me?"

It must have been the tone of her voice, that cool disdain that was only too easy to remember and emulate, that finally made up the sentry's mind. "Of course, your Excellency," he said hastily.

He and his partner unbarred and opened the doors for her, and snapped to attention, their halberds at their sides. Celes walked between them.

It was as though she had stepped back ten years in time. The gleaming metal interior, the humming rows of electric lights, the sound of the doors clanging shut behind her; and most of all, the echo and murmur of hundreds, of thousands, of Imperials within. But Celes would pay them no attention. She couldn't, now that she knew where she was going.

Really, it was remarkable how much she resembled Celes. Locke found it difficult to look at her for too long. At times, she seemed more like Celes than a twin could ever be, in the furrow of her brow, the straightness of her back, her intense concentration on the task at hand. But more often she seemed like a poorly-made copy, and that was easier to take. Though it was bizarre, perverse even, to see that coldly efficient manner in Celes's body, that hard, closed expression on Celes's face, it did help Locke remember she was someone entirely different.

Still, she couldn't be a complete stranger, could she? There had to be something Locke could reach in her. Time was running out; he felt it as keenly as the ticking of a watch against his palm. If he could somehow get a response out of this woman, even just a few words, maybe he could learn something to help him get out of here.

It was worth a try, at least.

"They're very enthusiastic with their welcomes here," he spoke up experimentally. Her back was to him, and Locke watched for her reaction carefully. But there was none. It was if he hadn't even spoken.

"A little too big on the physical contact, though," he continued. "I never was very comfortable with that sort of thing. Do you mind if I ask where I am?"

The General didn't answer him. Besides a tiny, barely perceptible tilt of her head, she didn't react at all.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," Locke went on, as he watched her pull over a high-backed cabriolet chair. "Well, maybe not a misunderstanding, exactly. To be honest, I don't remember exactly what happened" -- although he did remember, more and more with every minute -- "but I can tell you for sure, whatever it was, no offense was meant." Hard to smile with a bleeding lip, but Locke managed it.

Seated now, her legs crossed at the knee, the General opened the notebook in her lap.

"What is your name?" she said.

She had spoken to the book, not to him, and with a sinking feeling Locke realized his one-sided repartee wasn't accomplishing much besides hurting his swollen jaw.

It had been a long time since he'd had to think of torture and how to resist it. All Returner agents went through some training, of course, learned the basic techniques, but that had been years ago. Still, he was older now -- hell, he'd been a kid then, practically -- and he had more to lose.

And with what was at stake here? She'd be lucky to get a grunt out of him.

Grimly, he stayed silent, bracing himself. But the General didn't move; she didn't even repeat herself. All she did was write something in her book, and go on to the next question.

"Who sent you to assassinate the Emperor?"

That was unfair -- accused of a crime he actually hadn't tried to commit for once. But it would be useless to try to convince her of that. Again Locke said nothing, and again she didn't press him, vocally or otherwise, merely made a small note. Unreasonably, her non-action made Locke far more uneasy than if she had reacted angrily, or violently.

"What is your connection to the Esper that attacked the Imperial Palace at seven-fifteen this morning?"

This time she did look up.

Strange, that it should be so hard for him to look into her eyes. Locke dropped his gaze to the floor.

There was the soft scratch of pen on paper, then the scraping sound of a chair being pushed back. When Locke glanced up again, the General was approaching him.

Everything suddenly seemed intensified, magnified by a hundred: the ache of his arms, the heartbeat in his ears, the sharp taste of blood in his mouth. As the General drew closer, a slight fragrance reached him. Locke couldn't quite place it, until he realized it was the lemon-scented soap that Celes sometimes used. He had to close his eyes briefly.

"What is your name?" the General said, and placed three magic-hot fingers on his neck, almost gently. Locke swallowed, his mouth dry, and said nothing.

When the first shock of pain hit him, it was almost a relief.

But Providence, for once, was with her. Her chambers were where they had always been: eighth floor, East Wing, overlooking the Emperor's Courtyard. Her way there had been via back staircases and abandoned delivery routes; she would take no chances, whether she had the perfect disguise or not.

The eighth floor was strangely devoid of life. Besides the lethargic breezeway sentries who had jumped at her passing, Celes had seen no one: no bureaucrats talking in the corridors, no staff or servants, no pages carrying messages from one end of the palace to the other. Fortunate, certainly -- the fewer people who saw her, the better. And yet a part of her would have welcomed the sound of voices in this empty echoing hallway, which felt almost, in its silence, like a tomb.

The door to her rooms was, as it had always been, unlocked.

Celes passed through the antechamber, the chilly room bare but for a narrow bookcase, wood chair, and a matching table that held a small bowl of fruit. She walked past the library, past the chrome-and-porcelain bathroom with its hot and cold taps, and made her way through the bedroom, with its dove-gray carpet and immaculately made sheets, to the walk-in wardrobe.

Briskly she pulled off her clothes and began, working from memory. First the thick cotton undershirt, then the coat of mail. It was Minerva, heavier than she remembered, its tiny overlapping plates shining diamantine in the gaslight. Next came the black leggings of a thin, strong weft, then the green thigh-length surcoat woven with unbreakable threads of emerald -- a miracle of craftsmanship and magic.

Then came the white. White knee-boots with green trim, white frock coat with green and gold watercolor accents. Pure white epaulets, gauntlets, boots, cape.

A wisp of memory flickered through her mind: the hushed murmur of voices as she walked by. The same words they whispered each time. The White Witch.

No -- now wasn't the time for that. Firmly Celes pulled on her gloves and the silver circlet set with emeralds. Her own pearl earrings, she kept; they had been a parting gift from her birth mother, or so Cid had once told her. Finally she rebuckled her own sword-belt -- a perfect double of the ones in the wardrobe -- and turned off the lights.

On her way back, Celes dropped her old clothes in the incinerator chute with only a twinge of hesitation and doubt. There was, she reminded herself, no time for second guesses.

"What is your name?" the General asked yet again. Unlike before, she seemed completely fixated on that one question, as if to hear the answer would mean a full confession.

Too bad for her, because she was in for a disappointment. Sure, Locke's current situation was far from pleasant, but he'd been in much worse ones. Probably. And though all his cuts and hurts burned and throbbed with each of the General's magical shocks, the pain had been bearable so far -- more than bearable, really. He could even pretend to crack in a few hours, let slip some "vital" piece of information for them to puzzle over for a bit, to give Celes and the others as much time as he could.

Bad idea to think of Celes. Locke had only a second to prepare himself before the General's fingers flared white again, and his body convulsed with stinging energy.

He took slow, deep breaths when it was over, trying to pace his endurance.

But then it seemed he wouldn't have to. The General took her hand from his neck abruptly. She returned to the desk, and flipped through a report for a few minutes, long enough for Locke to consider trying to talk to her again.

Just then there was the soft pop of something being uncorked, and light reflected briefly as the General placed a rose-glass vial to her lips and drank. Locke smelled something medicinal and strong, something that made his eyes water. Ether.

He knew from firsthand experience how it burned the throat worse than any liquor, but the General didn't so much as grimace. She replaced the stopper and bottle, then drew off her gloves. Only then did she walk back.

Her skin was very white, her eyes bright and clear, intelligent. The fingers against Locke's neck were smooth.

"What is your name?" she said.

Locke set his jaw, and braced himself, and then -- then pain exploded, through him, around him, everywhere, and he was screaming, writhing in his bonds, his back arched impossibly far. Every nerve, every vein was on fire; he had no breath to scream again -- and then it was over, and he slumped, trembling, in his chains.

He couldn't exactly remember what had just happened. His brain didn't seem to be working right. Everything in his head hissed, like radio static amplified to a bellow. Aftershocks coursed through him, cruel little stabs in his fingers and joints.

What spell could -- he had never felt --

"What is your name?"

The woman was going to do it again. That was all he knew.

"Henry Rourke," he whispered hoarsely. A boy he had known once in school, the first name that had entered his mind.

A lock of hair had come loose from the General's tiara, and she brushed it aside, studying Locke with those brilliantly shining eyes.

"What is your name?" she said, after a minute.

"I... Henry Rourke," he tried to say. But it was on him again, stronger this time, ripping him open, slicing under his skin -- and his brain would not even shut down, as it should have in such agony; he was aware, fully aware of every second. His leg began to hum with his scream, like a tuning fork; the vibration grew stronger and stronger until at last something there splintered.

When it ended, Locke slammed up against the wall and back down again. His leg had twisted to an impossible angle, the flesh there broken and bleeding.

"What is your name?"

"No," he said in a sob. "No, please don't."

It seized him beneath his skin, beneath his tongue, beneath his eyes; it was everything he knew. His bones quivered, bleeding from the marrow, his cells alight and shrieking. There was no strength left in him, nothing left at all, and he would tell her everything, everything, if only it would stop --

"Stop, please!" he screamed. "Please, Celes, please!"

All at once it was over.

Locke collapsed, shoulder dislocating from the sudden dead weight of his body. A tiny whisper of a cry escaped him. He was breathing wetly; there was something wrong with his lungs, something broken.

The General was still there, still with a hand to his throat, but she seemed somehow frozen in place. At last she spoke, very quietly.

"What?"

Locke barely heard her. The room was growing dim.

"What did you say?" More loudly this time.

Locke must have passed out then, briefly, because when next he opened his eyes it was to see the General, only inches away, studying him. Her eyes were narrowed, her lips parted. She looked angry, or maybe something else.

But Locke couldn't think any farther than that. Though he tried to answer her, to try to salvage something -- anything -- from his failure, his mouth wouldn't work, and his eyes refused to focus. The last thing he saw before he blacked out were her white boots, walking away from him.

She realized just in time, and, gripping the banister, heaved herself back into the shadows of the stairwell. For a minute she waited there, listening. Perhaps she had nothing to fear, now that she was a General in body as well as face, but she'd managed to avoid any potentially disastrous small talk thus far, and wanted to keep it that way.

But whoever it was walked past the stairwell without so much as a pause. Celes waited until the footsteps grew faint, then silently stepped down the last few stairs. She leaned out into the corridor, very slightly -- just far enough to see a glint of blonde hair and a flash of white cape rounding the corner.

Celes's first reaction, before hatred, or even shock, was a sudden impulse to follow. To go after the woman with sword withdrawn, to slash her through with a quick flash of metal, to stand over her and watch as she died. Battle rage -- Celes had heard of it, but never in her life experienced it.

The desire was so strong that it was almost overpowering. For a minute Celes was paralyzed, half in the stairwell, half out, a muscle in her thigh twitching as if urging her to pursue. But she didn't.

Because it would be the most foolish thing she could possibly do. And because she was here for a reason more important than revenge.

Celes glanced down the corridor. The General had come from one of the administrative wings: a narrow hall with nothing but the numerous, cramped offices of the lower bureaucrats. This late in the evening, it was empty, the electric lights in their steel sconces dimmed for the night. At any other time, she wouldn't have given it a second look.

Slowly she stept into the hall. Though the floor was carpeted, and the soft pad of her boots almost silent, Celes walked lightly. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for, but there was a strange sensation, a pull in her chest, that made her keep going.

Halfway down the hall, she paused, and stepped back a few paces. There. A thin line of orange light, beneath the door to a room that should have been empty and locked.

Carefully Celes pressed her ear to the wood.

At first, she could hear only her own heartbeat. But when she closed her eyes and strained hard to listen, she could just barely hear something else. Breaths -- soft, ragged breaths, the kind of breaths that might make whoever heard them wince in sympathy. But Celes heard something else in them, and it was with a trembling hand that she opened the door.

The first instant she saw him, she was certain he was dead. It was as if everything she'd done to get here, every second in the chain of events that had begun at the party in Figaro, had been leading, inevitably, to this: the abrupt and utter slaughter of everything she knew. It had only ever really been a question of when.

It was only when Celes got closer -- she had been walking toward him without knowing it -- that she finally saw the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. He was still alive; the breathing she'd heard had been his.

Slowly, Celes sank to her knees.

Locke's face was battered and bruised, twisted in pain. He hung slack in his bonds, his right arm contorted at the shoulder, his left leg twisted at the knee. Celes catalogued it all in detail, in some far-away, detached office of her mind.

Her body, it seemed, was acting under another authority altogether.

Gently she rested her fingertips on his cheek. She could almost feel the hurt radiating from his skin, dark heat in his breaths and in his blood. It was almost as if she felt it too -- ached with him.

Without even thinking, Celes began to murmur a cure spell. Then she remembered; her magic no longer worked. The one time, the only time, she had ever wanted it --

Enough. Celes willed her hand to stop shaking. There was no time for this.

"Locke," she whispered, then cleared her throat. "Locke."

He inhaled in his sleep, and winced, mumbling something. When at last his eyelids fluttered open, his expression was hazy and unsure, confused -- until he saw Celes's face. He recoiled suddenly, clattering against the wall.

"Wait. No, wait. Locke." She had to speak, to keep her heart from splintering. "It's me, Locke, it's Celes. Don't move. You're badly hurt."

Locke's reaction had sapped any energy he might have had left. His eyes were unfocused and glassy, and he seemed unable to lift his head all the way. But he managed to look at her again. "Celes?"

"Yes. Shh, don't move. I'm going to get you out of here. But I'm sorry -- I'm so sorry, Locke, but I need to know how to open these things."

His eyes closed, and for a minute Celes was afraid he had passed out. She could not have possibly brought herself to rouse him again. Then she heard his voice, weak but clear.

"My -- bandanna. Above the left ear. Two picks."

She found them. Both silver, both slightly curved at the end. One was thicker than the other.

"The big one," Locke whispered. "Put it in the lock. Near the top. Turn it to the right, just a little."

Tense with concentration, she did as he told her.

"A little -- a little more. Listen for the click. That's it, right there. Hold it there. Take the other one and," he paused to breathe, "and push up."

He walked her through it, step by step. When she finally lifted the last pin, and freed his right hand, he let out a cry of pain as his dislocated arm fell to his side.

At once Celes knelt back down to him, but he just shook his head vaguely, blinking back tears.

Celes had to manage his left hand more or less on her own, since Locke was now slipping in and out of consciousness. But she didn't fumble, didn't hesitate. As the cuff clicked open, she wrapped an arm around his good side and lowered him gently to the floor.

"All right," she whispered, leaning his weight against her shoulder. "You're going to be fine. Just, stand you up -- I'm sorry. Like that, good."

Celes was too focused on what she was doing: she didn't hear the door open, or the footsteps behind her. It was only when Locke inhaled suddenly that she glanced up and over her shoulder.

General Chere, white-clad, immaculate, stood in the doorway. In her right hand, the gleaming crimson blade of Ragnarok was unsheathed and ready; her left flickered with the unfathomable shadows of some black magic spell. Indeed, she would have already cast it, had she had not been frozen into immobility upon seeing Celes's face.

Time, and everything in it, had stopped. Or perhaps it was simply just the two women who had stopped. It didn't matter: for a moment, the universe held only them.

"What," the General whispered, still frozen. "What is..."

Before she could finish, Celes reached into her belt and, with an abrupt and violent motion, flung something to the floor. There was a sudden, blinding flash, and the room was filled with a thick, opaque black smoke.

The General coughed, taking a step back. Eyes tearing, suddenly blind, she fumbled to reach the wall behind her -- but then, with one last spiraling plume, the smoke faded, and the room cleared.

The man and woman were gone. All that remained was a shining shape on the floor: a small, half-broken silver sphere, as delicate as a cracked eggshell, its surface exquisitely etched. When the General reached down to pick it up, it crumbled into tiny pieces which fell, glittering, through her fingers.

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