The World Needs None of This, Final Fantasy VI, Locke/Celes
Title: The World Needs None of This Author: amphigories Rating: G Warnings: None Word count: ~450 Summary: Her armor is heavier now that the war is over. Prompt: July 19--Armor, battered shields and tarnished greaves
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The war is over, but she stands apart from the others.
"Well fought, former General."
She doesn't turn. She doesn't need to.
"Well, fought, treasure hunter," she replies. She smiles a little at his chuckle. He is alive. And so is she. The disgraced Magitek Knight and the thief.
He's talking to her now, but she can't hear him. The magic is leaving, shaking her bones a little as it fades from her body.
Because it is over.
Part of her cannot believe it. She was raised and trained to fight. And so she has fought, killed, destroyed all for the empire without question or mercy. There was no other world but the battlefield. She was the Empire's shining weapon of war, bloody sword in one hand, the icy heavens in the other. And she remembers the joyful irony of hurling that finely honed instinct and skill back at the empire that created her, and then at the self-made god whom she once respected as a fellow general and comrade.
Her deadly hands are unsteady now in their worn gauntlets as the magic that was never really hers evaporates and the desperate energy of the final fight drains away. She doesn't need those gauntlets now, she thinks. The world needs none of it, not these battered shields or tarnished greaves. There is no glory here. There never was.
"Celes--"
Something in that voice startles her into action. She suddenly wants to rid herself of the weight of all that armor, her war-worn second skin. She shakes her hands free of their gauntlets and pulls the helm from her head.
"Celes--"
Maybe she could cast away these battle-scarred trappings and so shed the weight of blighted ambitions and broken worlds. She would stand free and face a fresh life with the same energy she once faced down an enemy.
But her body shakes, and her fingers fumble stiffly, impatiently at the buckles. Ah. Perhaps it is justice then that will not let her duck her head and leave her past behind. She yanks at the straps in frustration.
And then hands cover her hands. Warm hands. Nimble fingers. A treasure hunter's fingers, carefully working buckles free the way they once picked locks in a basement in South Figaro.
She watches his face, just as she did then. But instead of looking away quickly when he sneaks a glance at her, she catches his eye and holds his gaze until he smiles. Not the usual cocky smirk or eager grin she has come to know. Just a simple smile, kind and familiar. This time he looks away first, back to her armor.