![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
FFVI - Terra
Title: Metaphor
Fandom: Final Fantasy VI
Character: Terra
Length: 780 words
Notes: Theme #9, Fire, for 30_fantasies. Ties into my much earlier fic, "Sweetness Follows," and the Good Enough continuity.
She thinks Ifrit may have been a relative - maybe the Phoenix, as well. It's hard to know, beyond a faint sense of familiarity from certain magicite, and secondhand memories of a long-vanished woman with red hair and the form of a bird when she chose it, of a boy with dark hair and skin like his, childhood squabbles and jokes. Ifrit looked like her father when he was summoned, that was certain.
And it was certain she had an affinity for fire. At first it was the only spell she realized she knew; she hadn't discovered until later that she could heal herself. The task of building the group's campfire had fallen to her from the very first, when she was traveling to Figaro with Locke. She'd simply built the fires before he had a chance, and instinctively hidden from him the reason damp wood never troubled her. Even later, when everyone knew of her magic, she kept it unobtrusive. Once Edgar had given her a matchbook, forgetting she didn't need it, and she'd reflexively sparked a fire spell as she struck a match - the whole card of matches had caught along with the tinder and the hem of Banon's robe.
Fire meant memories, for her. It meant safety from small threats as you slept. It meant civilization, and home; when she'd been separated from the others in an unfamiliar world, she'd walked toward the smoke to find Mobliz in the end, still thinking despite the cataclysm she'd witnessed that the smoke meant chimneys, not smouldering ruins. Fire meant rest at the end of the day, friends complaining about the charred food even as they wolfed it down, a light to lead you back to the camp if you left it. It meant the darker memories she didn't want and couldn't escape; Kefka's laughter, suffocating smoke and the heat of the flames, the armor magnifying her own abilities beyond all control. It meant heat and a pot of soup in Mobliz, and light to read by once everyone else was abed, because they couldn't afford to waste candles. It meant charred marks on the walls of the homes still standing, and an angry, nagging pain when she burned her hand on the teakettle. In poems, fire seemed to mean things she didn't understand but longed to learn; eyes like the sun, burning hearts, love's fire, images she knew enough to realize weren't to be taken literally.
She'd asked Locke why, once, when they were on their way to Albrook to meet with General Leo. "It's... traditional," he'd said, sounding uncertain. "I never read much poetry. I guess... it's the source of life, but it's bad if it gets out of control, it's... sometimes you feel warm when you're happy— why were you reading poetry?"
"Edgar bought it for me," she said. "A going-away present."
"And here I thought you might be safe with him because he's just not that smooth," Locke said.
"Huh?" She didn't understand about that part at all until much later; she mentioned the poetry book to Katarin, who said "That's so romantic!" and asked if she still had it.
She didn't. She wished she did, now; not that the type of love the sonnets were about was one she knew, but maybe she was a bit closer to making sense of it. Fire had something to do with the way she'd felt when she saw Sabin and Celes crumpled before Phunbaba, Isabella and Charlie cowering by the wall, when she'd changed without even feeling it and charged at him snarling, barehanded, claws raking his face before she turned to grab Celes's blade.
Fire meant anger, and she'd cherished it the first time she'd realized she wanted to kill Kefka instead of wanting to hide from him. Fire meant a painful death she regretted once the spell was cast, but still used, reflexively. Fire was in her blood, the family she could only know as stones and memory and conjecture. Fire was the smudges of ash on her mother's face when her father found her, the hot red glow of the cave when they'd gone to the gate themselves, and the channels and streams of the cave where they'd searched for Locke and Locke had searched for the Phoenix. And maybe it was the way Locke had looked after they found him there, too; how happy he'd been on the way to Kohlingen even though he said he wasn't sure, it was damaged, it was a long shot, and later, when he'd gone to the deck to be away from all the others, when he'd looked miserable and angry even as he tried to smile.
Fandom: Final Fantasy VI
Character: Terra
Length: 780 words
Notes: Theme #9, Fire, for 30_fantasies. Ties into my much earlier fic, "Sweetness Follows," and the Good Enough continuity.
She thinks Ifrit may have been a relative - maybe the Phoenix, as well. It's hard to know, beyond a faint sense of familiarity from certain magicite, and secondhand memories of a long-vanished woman with red hair and the form of a bird when she chose it, of a boy with dark hair and skin like his, childhood squabbles and jokes. Ifrit looked like her father when he was summoned, that was certain.
And it was certain she had an affinity for fire. At first it was the only spell she realized she knew; she hadn't discovered until later that she could heal herself. The task of building the group's campfire had fallen to her from the very first, when she was traveling to Figaro with Locke. She'd simply built the fires before he had a chance, and instinctively hidden from him the reason damp wood never troubled her. Even later, when everyone knew of her magic, she kept it unobtrusive. Once Edgar had given her a matchbook, forgetting she didn't need it, and she'd reflexively sparked a fire spell as she struck a match - the whole card of matches had caught along with the tinder and the hem of Banon's robe.
Fire meant memories, for her. It meant safety from small threats as you slept. It meant civilization, and home; when she'd been separated from the others in an unfamiliar world, she'd walked toward the smoke to find Mobliz in the end, still thinking despite the cataclysm she'd witnessed that the smoke meant chimneys, not smouldering ruins. Fire meant rest at the end of the day, friends complaining about the charred food even as they wolfed it down, a light to lead you back to the camp if you left it. It meant the darker memories she didn't want and couldn't escape; Kefka's laughter, suffocating smoke and the heat of the flames, the armor magnifying her own abilities beyond all control. It meant heat and a pot of soup in Mobliz, and light to read by once everyone else was abed, because they couldn't afford to waste candles. It meant charred marks on the walls of the homes still standing, and an angry, nagging pain when she burned her hand on the teakettle. In poems, fire seemed to mean things she didn't understand but longed to learn; eyes like the sun, burning hearts, love's fire, images she knew enough to realize weren't to be taken literally.
She'd asked Locke why, once, when they were on their way to Albrook to meet with General Leo. "It's... traditional," he'd said, sounding uncertain. "I never read much poetry. I guess... it's the source of life, but it's bad if it gets out of control, it's... sometimes you feel warm when you're happy— why were you reading poetry?"
"Edgar bought it for me," she said. "A going-away present."
"And here I thought you might be safe with him because he's just not that smooth," Locke said.
"Huh?" She didn't understand about that part at all until much later; she mentioned the poetry book to Katarin, who said "That's so romantic!" and asked if she still had it.
She didn't. She wished she did, now; not that the type of love the sonnets were about was one she knew, but maybe she was a bit closer to making sense of it. Fire had something to do with the way she'd felt when she saw Sabin and Celes crumpled before Phunbaba, Isabella and Charlie cowering by the wall, when she'd changed without even feeling it and charged at him snarling, barehanded, claws raking his face before she turned to grab Celes's blade.
Fire meant anger, and she'd cherished it the first time she'd realized she wanted to kill Kefka instead of wanting to hide from him. Fire meant a painful death she regretted once the spell was cast, but still used, reflexively. Fire was in her blood, the family she could only know as stones and memory and conjecture. Fire was the smudges of ash on her mother's face when her father found her, the hot red glow of the cave when they'd gone to the gate themselves, and the channels and streams of the cave where they'd searched for Locke and Locke had searched for the Phoenix. And maybe it was the way Locke had looked after they found him there, too; how happy he'd been on the way to Kohlingen even though he said he wasn't sure, it was damaged, it was a long shot, and later, when he'd gone to the deck to be away from all the others, when he'd looked miserable and angry even as he tried to smile.