Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 6
Moving Mountains
0 reviewsThey both have nightmares about mountains. (Shadow/Sabin implied)
1Ambiance
They both have nightmares about mountains. The nightmares are very different, yet very similar. They do not talk about them.
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Shadow dreams of being buried alive. He is running once more, trying to escape a crumbling mountain, and he is not moving fast enough. Interceptor is lost behind him, crushed under some falling rubble, and the mouth of the cave before him is caving in, the bridge beneath him swaying and snapping, dumping him into darkness.
And then the earth comes, falling after him piling on top of him until he can't breathe tears the mask from his face can't BREATHE--
And then he wakes, coming up gasping and struggling, kicking blankets and the Prince of Figaro indiscriminately on his way to the window. He throws open the sash and shutters, and the desert night air washes over him, shockingly cold on sweat-dampened skin. Like breathing ice. Breathing.
There is muttering behind him. The slither of warm blankets and the heavy padding of feet, moving closer and then...waiting.
Waiting until Shadow's breathing slows, until the tension flows out of him, until he is shaking with mere cold and not adrenaline and it is safe to move closer, to wrap arms around him and be a solid weight at his back.
A different type of mountain.
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Sabin dreams of falling. Out of everything terrible and painful and terrifying that had happened, he dreams of the mountains of Narshe, of biting cold and swirling snow, of Tritoch awakening. Of a flash of light, an explosion felt more than heard that ripples the ground, throwing him backwards and over the edge of the mountain.
He scrambles for purchase, his cold-numb hands clutching at nothing as he crashes onto a ledge, slowing his fall but tumbling him ass over teakettle, fingers sliding over icy rock and snow and more ice and he's got no leverage and the world turns before his eyes as gravity takes him, showing him the long, long fall down to the mine cart tracks below, where he'll hit and shatter like an egg, and no phoenix down is going to reach him in time and--
--and then the dream differs, depending on the night. Some nights, as happened in reality, Shadow appears, black cloak billowing after him like angel wings, to grab Sabin's hand, to wedge one foot against a boulder and one hand into an ice crack and fight gravity for one crystal-clear, suspended moment before they both...stop. That is the best ending, really.
Some nights, Shadow's hand catches his, but he misses his footing, and they both tumble over the edge.
Some nights, Shadow's hand misses his, and Sabin falls alone.
He falls, gravity snatching his breath away and darkness descending and he is terrified because he can't see how far away the ground is, can't see how long he has before he hits, and his skin feels scoured raw and fragile by the wind and then he turns and the ground is RIGHT THERE--
And then he wakes, startling, arms flailing, hands scrabbling, clutching for purchase on pillows, blankets, Shadow's shoulder. The first time this happened had almost been the last, since Shadow had gone to bed armed and was not used to being attacked in the night by FRIENDS. But usually now Shadow just tenses, hand twitching towards his knives on the bedside chair. Then he relaxes, grumbling, as Sabin pulls himself closer, grounding himself in Shadow's still, steady, STATIONARY warmth.
Shadow's hands slide warm over Sabin's sides, around his back, and Sabin's heart slowly comes down out of his throat, the horrible sense of vertigo receding, the mountain and the ground below fading away.
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They never talk about the dreams. But then, they never need to.
-----------
Shadow dreams of being buried alive. He is running once more, trying to escape a crumbling mountain, and he is not moving fast enough. Interceptor is lost behind him, crushed under some falling rubble, and the mouth of the cave before him is caving in, the bridge beneath him swaying and snapping, dumping him into darkness.
And then the earth comes, falling after him piling on top of him until he can't breathe tears the mask from his face can't BREATHE--
And then he wakes, coming up gasping and struggling, kicking blankets and the Prince of Figaro indiscriminately on his way to the window. He throws open the sash and shutters, and the desert night air washes over him, shockingly cold on sweat-dampened skin. Like breathing ice. Breathing.
There is muttering behind him. The slither of warm blankets and the heavy padding of feet, moving closer and then...waiting.
Waiting until Shadow's breathing slows, until the tension flows out of him, until he is shaking with mere cold and not adrenaline and it is safe to move closer, to wrap arms around him and be a solid weight at his back.
A different type of mountain.
-----------
Sabin dreams of falling. Out of everything terrible and painful and terrifying that had happened, he dreams of the mountains of Narshe, of biting cold and swirling snow, of Tritoch awakening. Of a flash of light, an explosion felt more than heard that ripples the ground, throwing him backwards and over the edge of the mountain.
He scrambles for purchase, his cold-numb hands clutching at nothing as he crashes onto a ledge, slowing his fall but tumbling him ass over teakettle, fingers sliding over icy rock and snow and more ice and he's got no leverage and the world turns before his eyes as gravity takes him, showing him the long, long fall down to the mine cart tracks below, where he'll hit and shatter like an egg, and no phoenix down is going to reach him in time and--
--and then the dream differs, depending on the night. Some nights, as happened in reality, Shadow appears, black cloak billowing after him like angel wings, to grab Sabin's hand, to wedge one foot against a boulder and one hand into an ice crack and fight gravity for one crystal-clear, suspended moment before they both...stop. That is the best ending, really.
Some nights, Shadow's hand catches his, but he misses his footing, and they both tumble over the edge.
Some nights, Shadow's hand misses his, and Sabin falls alone.
He falls, gravity snatching his breath away and darkness descending and he is terrified because he can't see how far away the ground is, can't see how long he has before he hits, and his skin feels scoured raw and fragile by the wind and then he turns and the ground is RIGHT THERE--
And then he wakes, startling, arms flailing, hands scrabbling, clutching for purchase on pillows, blankets, Shadow's shoulder. The first time this happened had almost been the last, since Shadow had gone to bed armed and was not used to being attacked in the night by FRIENDS. But usually now Shadow just tenses, hand twitching towards his knives on the bedside chair. Then he relaxes, grumbling, as Sabin pulls himself closer, grounding himself in Shadow's still, steady, STATIONARY warmth.
Shadow's hands slide warm over Sabin's sides, around his back, and Sabin's heart slowly comes down out of his throat, the horrible sense of vertigo receding, the mountain and the ground below fading away.
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They never talk about the dreams. But then, they never need to.
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