WHO: The Figaros + Margery Redmane WHAT: The last day. WHERE: Around the Figaro Estate in Galbadia. WHEN: Starts the morning of August 30 and ends the morning of August 31 WARNINGS: N/A CODE: Liv
☼
Worms were a never ending problem at the desert. Even if the Figaros had lived in the land since the olden days, there will always be that one worm that will assert lordship over a patch of sand, daring human inhabitants to defy its relentless rise and reign of terror, no matter what century or decade it was. The past Figaros would have their guards dispatch it with harpoons then later with firearms at the event that they are unable to outrun it.
Or if Sabin Figaro was in the escort pool, it could take one of his flying fists to finish it.
This wasn’t the Sabin Stewart Figaro was used to. The Sabin he knew would, of course, make a valiant effort to undermine the enemy but it wouldn’t be long when the frail boy would lose breath and require some assistance. Notwithstanding the fact that the dust would clog his lungs, consigning the boy to weeks in his sterile room with the humidifier.
(Later when Stewart would have a tour of the room Sabin rarely visited except to sleep, he would find all respiratory equipment that almost cost a million have all been donated. Instead, there were items that hinted to his current lifestyle: a pair of gloves with retractable claws, spell stones and a random bonsai tree).
Now, with a full-grown beard, Sabin reentered the vehicle glistening with sweat and mouth stretched into a broad grin. “Some things will never change.”
But had Sabin? Stewart would wonder. The younger Figaro had reveled in his freedom and strength. What use did he have of the estate that once sheltered and protected him from harm when he could rely on himself? Stewart considered how that could be a reason why Sabin did not want to be tied down, because the estate reminded him of his days as a cloistered youth, reliant on his father and brother.
That morning, Sabin invited his father for a drive around the desert (while the worms were supposedly burrowed). Both father and son rose before the crack of dawn. Sabin said he had been practicing driving with Red. Stewart’s younger twin was full of stories, he would tell of his experiences in Trabia, mostly the good ones. Sabin shared how he received a late recorded message for his birthday. From friends who live and lived again.
“Here.” He handed his phone and played the video for his father, pointing out the faces. “That’s Ami, LJ, Gareth…” Sabin could still tell them by their names, their hobbies and their weapon expertise as though they were just starting in Garden. Their gleeful faces appeared on screen waving madly while laughing, squealing and shouting his name. (“I was Rene in Trabia”). What Sabin did not tell his father was that most of them were dead. It would have made sense if the footage was recorded from 10 years ago but it was not, as the renovated fountain in the background revealed.
At the final seconds of the message, Stewart would find his son taking deep intake of breaths. Any irregularities with Sabin’s breathing was a sign of alarm.
“I’m fine, I’m just…” The evidence had already started to blur his eyes, so Sabin laughed to make light of his tears and wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Got something in my eye.”
Stewart eyed his son like it was the first time he had seen the boy. “You really are Sabin.”
Sabin let out a loud guffaw, slapping the wheel. “Don’t let the beard and the biceps fool you, dad. I’m still the crybaby who looks up to you and Edgar. This is the same heart that is beating down here. The same strong heart.” He smiled.
That the boy suffered through Galbadia Garden was no secret to Stewart. But Sabin did not make a single peep to his father about his adjustment issues, even if he was prodded to be honest. Stewart could only dispense unsolicited advice, reminding him to look past his weaknesses, because he had a heart that could outlast all. One that was resilient against all odds, that he would dare to fight an abyss worm with stick and stones even if it was foolish. The boy was a natural fighter, and now the beating of his heart could translate to the beating of his fists...
But not all battles could be waged, it didn’t take a general or a strategist to know this.
“The tragedy of Trabia is incomprehensible,” Stewart mused, going back to their earlier subject matter. “Chancellor was showing me some footage.”
The topic effectively silenced the driver, his eyes stared straight ahead the road. “There are still no words dad…”
“When I enrolled you and your brother to Galbadia, it was not to expose you to such senseless acts of violence and loss of life.” Never mind if Stewart had nothing to do with Sabin’s enrollment to Trabia. His absence did compel the boy to go to that route. (When the boy could have stopped his training altogether. Was it perhaps Sabin’s way of honoring his father’s death wish?). “In fact I would not blame you if you choose to leave the organization.”
“I did for a bit…” Sabin said, tipping his head to the side. “But I guess it just called me back. It’s where I could be useful, it’s where Edgar is…”
It was a good hook as any to rope in an unfinished discussion that put both father and son adrift in a sea of uncertainty. And so amidst the roar of the engines and following the upward and downward motions of the buggy, Stewart broached the topic, “...If and when Edgar signs off from active duty and returns to the estate, will you continue on?”
It gave Sabin pause, “I don’t really know, dad.” He could have left it at that, but the mouth remained ajar. “And it’s not...it’s not because I don’t want to be in the estate.” He glanced at his father before going back to the road. While the sand seas remain vast and open Sabin was careful not to find themselves in another abyss worm hole or worse, a cactuar. “When I said I’m a Figaro by blood, I don’t mean it as a curse, and I don’t mean to reject it either. It’s a responsibility that I want to honor in ways that you might not expect, like doing work outside more often than I am here at the estate. I hope you know that even if I roam far out lands, I carry out your name and lessons. I’ll always look at you as a benevolent force…”
“This is not coercing you to move back to the estate to be with your brother.” Whatever good that conversation had done. “But Sabin, do you mean to possibly carry on fighting forever? Even you will tire, even your heart will tire. There is only so much suffering and strife one can take.”
“All the more reason why I can’t stop.” The side of his palm descended down on the wheel in a chopping action, “I’ve seen enough to know it can’t happen again. I’ve built myself to fight on.” Sabin reasoned. “There’s still so much more I have to do and learn, dad. That’s one thing I realized from Trabia. There will always be a stronger enemy and I just have to be stronger. I’ve proven it before.”
“You are not immortal, Sabin.” Stewart reminded gravely, “A wise soldier knows when to hold back and retreat. I’m sure your master will agree. Be mindful of your limitations or have you not learned from me?”
...That even the strongest man could fall from great heights. That Stewart Figaro with his tall, commanding and regal presence could be reduced to a withering bed-ridden state in his final days. Even the Lion of Galbadia was mortal too, even his father could be defeated. Sabin once rejected the reality, failing to come to terms with a life snatched away from his and his brother’s grasps.
Stewart continued, “Not all wars could be fought with fists, Sabin. Look above and beyond the battlefield, you will find the planet does not lack for conflicts. You had pointed this out to me before. Choose your battles wisely, son. Be mindful of the people looking up to you as you said to have done with me. Do not let these people down by risking yourself carelessly.”
These were words Sabin knew and had heard in several versions from several mouths. But the fact that they were spoken by his own father who was not supposed to have survived long enough to watch his progress, had a pull on him.
Sabin had not realized he had stopped the buggy in the middle, turning to his father’s side.
A hand clasped at his back, “Do not let me down by leaving this world early. Fight if you must, but you and your brother must also survive, longer than I have.”
When you are weary, remember that you can always find rest in the lowlands. The estate is also your home as the mountains were, Sabin.
Sabin wound down the hallway of portraits, stopping at a door, one hand at the handle. A brief thought seized his mind. What if the room was empty? Could he bear the thought of swinging the door open to find no one there but an empty chair?
“Come in.” His mother called from the inside, to his shoulder collapsing relief.
Crystale turned behind from her canvas, “You’re back.” She reached for her son’s hand which rested on her shoulder. An affectionate kiss planted on her head.
“Hey, it’s coming along.” Sabin referred to the painting of the herb garden. He had seen its progress from its pencil sketches and now Crystale was starting to add some color in.
“I’m giving you a head start so you’d know how to color the rest in. Greens look unnatural straight from the tube, so you have to mix your own. Mix it in blues and purples to make the undersides of leaves.” Crystale showed her palette. “Remember not to use blacks…”
“Yes ma’am…” Sabin stared down at the myriad of paint blobs. “...It’s a shame you won’t see the finished product.”
“I can imagine it.” Crystale said with confidence, adding highlights to give the visage of a shiny surface. “It’s enough to know I am entrusting it in safe hands…”
Crystale put the brush down so she could face Sabin, spatters of fresh acrylic surrounded her apron, “As well as this room Sabin. I should like you to use it. You don’t have to take the brush. You, Edgar and Red can just come in and talk. Say what you feel you can’t say out there. I would like this to be your sanctuary.”
Where Stewart had a mausoleum, Crystale had no tomb to speak of. But Sabin liked the idea of the salon room as his mother’s own shrine. They restored it since Crystale’s return, the lights changed, the furnishings switched around. It was less a storage room and more like a space where they could sit and dwell and be surrounded by the things Crystale loved, places and things real and imagined.
Crystale took Sabin’s hand, “You have spoken some things to me in confidence, and I regret I could not accompany you in the road ahead. This room would be here for you though, to make sense of your thoughts and feelings about the future, about your brother, your father and the friends at Garden you spoke to me about. About Elena.”
Sabin looked up from their clasped hands.
“You have a good heart Sabin, and I know you assured me that it only gets stronger through wear and tear. Like a working muscle, as you said.” Her clutch tightened, “But I sincerely wish you to be cared and loved openly. Live a good life, this is what you can do for me.”
Sabin has taken to chewing his lower lip. Crystale laughed and stood up to wrap her arms around her much-larger son.
“I’ve seen you cry, Sabin. You don’t need to hide it from me.”
For his part he could only reciprocate with a tight embrace around her waist and shoulder, nodding as he started sniffling.
Later on he would notice that his mother’s paints had transferred to his shirt. He would never wash or wear it again.
🌓
Red haunted the estate’s halls as the most ineffectual of spirits in her wish not to be seen. It wasn’t that she didn’t know where she was going, either. By now she could tell anyone who asked that a left turn would carry them straight to the pool, whereas a right would bring them to the kitchens. Ask Donald for a mug of his famous Galbadian spiced hot chocolate. He might look at you funny at first; he might even ask why you wanted one as summer clung desperately to its final days. Pointing out how it always felt like summer in the desert typically shut him up and scored you a delicious steaming cup …
But, she digressed.
Saying the first of her goodbyes to Crystale Figaro somehow felt natural. Red couldn’t say whether it was because they were both mages, both technically outside the Figaro bloodline, or if they were both women that made her experience a strong pull of solidarity. All of the above, perhaps. Red truly did wish to have daughters someday. She longed for estrogen to paint the walls pink with or without their father’s permission and, although she could already predict that day as a bad one for all the ensuing arguments, she would fight to hide the curve of an amused smirk behind one lifted palm.
Yet more tangents. Staying focused proved difficult when considering the gravity of what sadness lay in wait. Red had never said goodbye to anyone living or dead. There had been a time in her life where she deliberately abandoned friends just to avoid inevitably growing apart. If she had to guess, she would say it all rooted back to her own parents. Del, who said nothing if he didn’t see the importance of it, and Alma, who spoke on everything to pass through her mind while meaning practically nothing at all. They had never given her any of the major talks in life; never prepared her for life despite being quick to judge what she chose to do with it.
The Lunar Cry had provided a crash course in the subject of death. Many would consider her lucky to have come out of it unscathed, and perhaps she was. Standing there under the crying iris that had become the moon, she couldn’t find words to describe how simultaneously insignificant and so incredibly pinpointed she felt. Around her there were monsters and people dying, young and old, and somehow Red kept herself locked in an unblinking staring match with a part of the universe that had seen countless faces before her own, and would see that many more for centuries after she was gone.
For a child the realization that everything living would die, including herself, was startling. Her screaming at the sky on that day had very little to do with the rainfall of nightmare creatures.
It should come as no wonder that she was on the move ever since. Red didn’t always have the most detailed plan of what she was doing or where she ought to be going; she only cared that standing still wasn’t an option. Restlessly she marched from Esthar to Trabia; from Trabia to Balamb; from boy to boy to boy until Edgar. In spite of all the joy and excitement he brought into her life, he was a stunning experience in patience. Calm. Contentment.
She could see clearer with him what she wanted than ever before, and could also appreciate the phenomenon that was stopping to smell the roses along their way. It was for his sake that she told herself: there’s no point in rushing when they’ll get there eventually. Why not wait?
Crystale made her reevaluate that notion. Stewart made her reevaluate that notion. Everywhere she looked these days Red saw people come back and set to leave again, stirring the pot in place of gaining closure. Quite honestly, she was beginning to think no such thing existed. It was all a ploy to stall for just a little more time.
She felt like she wanted to scream at the moon again. She felt like she wanted to disappear for a little while. In the same breath, she felt like she wanted to stay and ask for her future like Oliver Twist begging,’Please, sir, I want some more.’
Her left ring finger itched …
Arriving outside of Crystale’s parlor at last, her fingers stilled just shy of knocking. From inside Red could faintly hear a masculine sobbing. By process of elimination -- she knew what Edgar’s crying sounded like and Stewart didn’t strike her as the type -- she figured it for being Sabin. Held back with only a quiet caress along the door, the same as she would brush his arm if he were standing right in front of her. Silently she excused herself without ever letting anyone know she was there.
The way Red sat on the front steps leading in was done as casually as one might perch on the outside stoop of a much smaller home. It was left up to the interpretation of Figaros past whether she was a good woman for regarding the property so casually or perhaps disrespectful in her lack of reverence. Those were ancestors she would never meet regardless of what they thought of her, and she couldn’t say that she cared in that precise moment. Red only sat and breathed deeply, pinching herself until it bruised in order to better illustrate how she was alive.
Minutes crawled together, dry and parched. They congregated into an hour that weighed heavy on her heart. While sitting alone she tried coming up with that one perfect thing she could do to save the day. Make it so nobody had to die and the brothers Figaro would get to know their parents as more than breaking fixtures. But, somewhere out there, a clock kept ticking. The world kept spinning. The planets kept revolving. None of which did so with her loved ones as their center axis.
There was no way of cherry picking the Figaros as exceptions to the rule of keeping nature's balance, she realized. All she could really aspire to do was make the pain easier, but that didn't seem like a lot. She could only hope that her efforts meant something to them.
If there was nothing else to be said for resigning herself to their collective fate, she had stopped her meddling. There would be no unsubtle hints for the elder Figaros to write each other one last letter declaring their undying love; there would be no steering the brothers this way and that to engineer the best possible scenarios for bonding. Red had long ceased pushing in favor of simply letting things be. She allowed herself to simply be, even if it meant sitting here and doing shit-all in place of creating memorable moments. Discussions with Edgar had already laid out her opinion on such things with relative clarity. She rather thought Stewart's pearls of wisdom shared via Loiregram validated it.
Memories were subjective in the end. Her boys could share the same exact moment with their parents and walk away from it holding onto something completely different. Red determined from hereon out to serve only as the objective third party among them; their record keeper. Someone they could look to in years to come and ask, ”Remember that time …?”
She would say yes. She would tell them what scent Crystale wore if it escaped their notice; she would tell them which tie Stewart had on. Little things they may have missed that would somehow mean the world at a later date.
In order to give them her paltry gift, though, she had to first go inside and be among them. She had to find a quiet spot to play an ever-watching sentinel as her mind dreadfully counted each tick of the nearest clock. Suddenly she felt a better appreciation of why Edgar’s younger self had broken the grandfather.
By the time she time she wandered back inside, finding her way to Stewart’s private study, she found it no easier to interject than she had some time before. When Edgar cried out from beyond the door, he did so with surprise. Indignation, but the sort that begets a cherished story or lesson about to be learned. Whatever he’d just deemed foul by his standards, raising his voice to his father in what would be the first and last time in Red’s memory, she imagined Stewart would be quick to correct him. Unlike herself, Edgar prized the criticism which came from his experience.
Her final lonely jaunt through estate halls that afternoon was pointedly done in a direction she knew would be deserted at this time of day. Edgar’s room. The return of his parents meant she pretended to know it as only a distant acquaintance, stealing in and out of it against the laws of propriety. And even when she was here with him, he was miles away. Red wouldn’t begrudge him. She wouldn’t complain. She only wished that Edgar could actually feel it as she poured her comforts into the void conspicuously shaped like his father.
When she curled into his bed, surrounded by once familiar sheets as well as his scent, she told herself to wish on every star once they were out. Red never wanted to have to miss anyone like Sabin and Edgar were able to miss the guiding presence of their parents. To date she had only let herself see where they might be all the better for their influence. Down to the wire now, she feared how much different things might become for living twice through their death.
How does one lose someone without losing a part of themselves? And would the shining light of Red’s persistence be enough to find them again?
She closed her eyes. She waited. She breathed. Just so long as she was living, she could do anything. She would keep on moving and drag them along with her if she had to. There was no other place for them to go but forward.
🌕
“Checkmate.”
“Foul!” Edgar had absolutely no respect for the rules of the silence that lingered between the walls. All he cared to do was to throw his seat back, an ugly scraping on the polished floor drawing its path as he rose to his feet, short of flipping the table over. “That came out of nowhere!”
Chuckling as he raised the white king piece, Stewart corrected him, “You weren’t watching closely.”
“I could rip four eyes open right this second and I highly doubt I would be in a much better position to catch that trickery.” Stewart was laughing when he reclaimed his seat and rearranged the pieces, gathering his fallen white soldiers back into the fold. After he was done, he took the liberty reform Stewart’s troops as his father picked up his cup of coffee and sipped from it.
With a sigh, he returned the china to his plate. “I think I shall miss this blend the most.”
“Yes, go on. Tell your son all about it.”
Stewart was chuckling. “For a man who’ll live on, you are in need of some lightening up.”
“Dad, please!” The brunt of his emotions, quiet though they were, caused the last black pawn to drop to its square. “Can we talk about something else? This night has weighed heavily at the back of my mind for too long and I am not in need of any constant reminders of what I should expect come the morning.”
“So you came here with the sole intent of playing an endless round of chess with me?”
“So I did,” Edgar half-sulked, washing down any traces of it from his mouth with a sip of his own coffee. “Whatever it takes to beat you.” Stewart chuckled again. “Don’t forget, I also came to bring you your favorite blend.”
“Ahh, yes,” Stewart raised his cup, “I’m in your debt.” He put it back in its place next to the board. “So then, your move.”
“A fine consolation prize for losers, how joyful,” Edgar muttered to his father’s amusement. He raised his knight and moved it beyond the ranks. Stewart raised his pawn follow. The door opened.
“Edgar!” Pushing gently, Crystale sealed it shut. “You’re up late...what time is it?”
“Just after three, Mom.” Stewart moved a piece. “I didn’t want to sleep...knowing what’s to happen. If what that Owzer claims is right. I wasn’t here when I saw you arrive...although we found each other in a different town but I wanted to be awake for when the time comes. It’s something I have to do. I want to see it to the end. But anyway!” Edgar raised his cup. “Some coffee, Mom?”
“Thank you.” Crystale raised a hand as she took her place next to her husband by the foot of the bed. Edgar had had a folding table brought in and a seat dragged in from the writing desk to meet his foe. “Are you sure that you want to do this, Edgar? I don’t know how it feels to be left behind…” Smiling shyly to Stewart, she asked, “It seems to be a task I am most unfit for, being always the one who leaves first,” she looked at Edgar with concern riding on her blue eyes, “but if it’s hard for you, I don’t want you to have to suffer through it. It’s needless, wouldn’t you say?”
“Perhaps, but necessary…” Brows arching, he glanced at his father who bounced his pawn on the head of another, deep in thought. “Is that something that’s valid? Needless but necessary?” With round eyes, Stewart shrugged. Edgar gave in with a breathy chuckle. “Even if we say that it will hurt to see you go...I think it has to be done. How can I be sure you’re not just hiding behind the walls, waiting to spring a trick on us when all this time, we believe you to be gone?”
“Are those the thoughts that keep you up at night?” Stewart chuckled, finally exposing his sorceress to Edgar’s army. The man took a bold sip of his coffee and shifted around, bracing himself for his father’s next blows. “Although I admit, the idea is not without its merits.”
“Do that and I might just be the one who would put you back to the grave myself.” Stewart burst out laughing. He put forward his summoner in a cautious move. “When I was young,” he shared, “I had a hope that that was what Sabin did. He said he’d gone but really, he was just hiding within our secret tunnels, a silent challenge to see how long he would last until I found him out. That wasn’t the case, of course.”
“For which you should be glad,” Crystale giggled despite her downcast eyes and bent head. “Otherwise, you would be the death of him.”
“What’s that, Mom?”
Bright eyes went up to meet Edgar’s curious versions. From under the table, she revealed a thick volume, her right thumb pinning down the last few pages of the book. “Draco and Maria?” he asked. She nodded. “Draco is preparing to duel with Ralse,” she shared, “Five pages have passed since and he’s still hemming and hawing about his shoulder brace.”
“Hyne preserve us.”
Crystale laughed. “It is a beautifully written prose, though. And it becomes interesting when something does happen. I’m racing to finish the book before the sun rises. It will be a shame, I think, if I left this undone before my time is up when I’m almost there…” The sharp crack of a piece on the board ripped her concentration away from the pages. For whatever reason, Stewart found it amusing. “Edgar?” She was looking at his dark face.
“Before you came in, he has expressly requested that we not talk about what to come.”
“But you seemed fine when we were talking about it?” Crystale directed the question to Edgar and his frown.
“Fine,” Edgar conceded grudgingly, “for the purposes of satisfying your inquiries! Being no longer a child, you can’t expect me to keep whining about...about what’s to come. Growing up to be a man doesn’t make me like it anymore and neither have your years of absence made me better prepared for what’s to come. Be it as it may that what few days we have spent together should have satisfied me…” He was shaking his head. “I think I am well within my rights to cling on to what we have, no matter what little of it we are left with! I’m your son, Mom, Dad.” He looked at his father. “No son should ever want to lose his parents, even if that’s what’s written in Hyne’s damn script! Assuming, of course, that there is no such inheritance to quarrel about but that’s irrelevant. I would have happily turned myself to a mouth waiting to be fed if the reason behind it is because you are still alive!”
“But the truth of the matter is…” Pieces were interchanged by the instructions of Stewart’s fingers. “In a few hours’ time...that will be the case.”
“Dad!”
“However,” he pulled his hands back, elbows rested against the edge of the playing table, “a mouth waiting to be fed is a look that doesn’t suit you.” Stewart directed a quick finger towards him. “You should do something about that.”
“Unfortunately, the condition of a mouth waiting to be fed hasn’t been met.”
“Looking at you, I find myself incapable of believing your words.”
Seemed as if that compelled Edgar to demonstrate the look with his jaw falling open.
“Edgar, listen to me.” The preparation for which involved the chessboard being moved aside to leave room for his arms. “In a few hours’ time, your world will be as it had always been before we came back. This estate will be left in your hands. You and Sabin must again pull together; you are all that will be left and you will only have each other. It will take some time before Margery will be able to step in and help the business…”
In spite of his sinking spirit, Edgar managed to squeeze a smile at the inclusion of his girlfriend.
“But you cannot wait for her to fit the shoe in your other foot. Edgar, the time for waiting has long passed!” Stewart’s voice begged Edgar to hear him through. “And you cannot delay any longer. Whatever it is this leader you must be looks like, you cannot sit on your hands until he materializes. With or without him, you must begin.”
“But Dad,” Edgar began to protest, confused, “Dad, I have begun! You’ve seen these walls, you’ve seen the stock indices and the boundary. I would never have gotten those if I sat on my hands, waiting for the right time!”
“But you wait on someone to tell you good job, son, you’ve done your father proud,” Stewart said. “Until then, you linger. You look at the time on your watch and when it doesn’t come, you decide to bring up a new wall thinking oh that’s fine,” he flung his hands up, “I will just make something bigger and better and come back. Surely he will be there. And if he isn’t, surely he would notice this,” he built the wall with his gestures, “grander wall which I have done! And then you stand and wait. You linger, you look at the time on your watch. And you think yes, perhaps something bigger.”
Too stunned to speak, Edgar could only make half-hearted noises, failed words that never made it out of his gaping mouth. Crystale urged Stewart to hold back with a whisper of his name and a hand on his arm but Stewart only turned a little towards her. “W, well, what do you expect me to do!” he asked, hands rising with his shrug. “Not build walls? Stop expanding?”
“Edgar,” he called to him, “walls cannot be built for recognition. You are calling danger to your doorstep if you do that!”
“I do not build these walls for praise!” was Edgar’s insistence. “Dad, you wouldn’t have--”
“There, see,” Stewart waved a finger at him. “Caught you.”
“What!” Edgar gasped. “Dad, I was just saying, you wouldn’t have done that!”
“Would I have liked that?”
“No!”
“And what would I have said if you’d stopped?”
Edgar looked at him in confusion. “Dad...you…” Unable to articulate a proper answer, he gave in to a snarl and a toss of his hands up. “Dad, stop this! I am done with these trick questions, I’ve outgrown them, I should have outgrown them by now.”
“And when this is all over, you will sit on the porch, your chin on your fist, and wish you would have more of these lessons.” Stewart aimed to take him by his arms but folded his hands onto each other again when he failed to reach him. “Edgar, I myself wish I could have grown old holding you by the hand as you took on the mantle, but we cannot let our circumstances get the best of us! Time is short, and time is fickle. It is a hard master, but we mustn’t fight it, neither should we lose to it,” he said. “Years pass, and walls crumble. Will you hang onto them? Will you wait for a storm to wipe out your house before you start building? Edgar?”
Sheepishly, he whispered, “No.”
“No…” Stewart shook his head. “No, you can’t.”
“But Dad,” Edgar’s was a voice wilted, “what do you want me to do?” he asked. His shoulders sunken, he sought for the answer in Stewart’s voice. “What kind of walls do you want me to build?”
This time, Stewart’s grip landed on its proper place. “Build the walls that Sabin needs. That Margery needs, and that your children and grandchildren need. In time, your walls may not be the kind of walls that will suit them...but that shouldn’t discourage you. Do not stop building the walls that they need.”
Cautious eyes sought to meet his. Glancing to his mother, he saw her nodding and smiling.
“Do this for the future, Edgar.” His fingers tightened around his shoulder. “For those who are counting on you.”
What else could he do but to nod? Closing his eyes, he promised his father that he would do as he was asked. “For them,” he croaked.
“For them,” Stewart said, smiling slightly. “As for us, I think,” he looked to his wife who looked up to him, blinking like a woman truly lost in a book, “it’s time. You wouldn’t want to miss the sunrise, would you? Are you done?”
She sighed, shaking her head. “In the end, I couldn’t finish this. What a shame, they’re just now getting down to the duel. Ah well, I know who won in the end anyway.” Looking around, she asked, “Could I ask for a slip of paper, please?”
They went together, hand in hand. Drying his eyes, Edgar summoned Sabin and Red and led them out to the front of the mansion where they would meet the new day. “When I die,” Stewart had said, “I want to die looking at the estate.”
Edgar couldn’t say whose hand he sought more desperately. He had two to give but he could not stop the tears from falling and so sought to hide it from the world, obscuring it from view or otherwise wiping it, if he was choking and sobbing, his shoulders quivering. Stewart and Crystale discussed certain aspects of the face in a private conversation. Fingers pointed up and traced archs. Crystale leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder. Stewart pressed his lips tenderly against her scalp.
“And when this is all over,” Edgar sighed, sniffling as he carried his chin higher and pushed his shoulders back, “when the dust has settled and all is said and done, what must we do? What are we expected to do?”
Sabin’s eyes must have dried out by then, but it didn’t make breathing any easier. One hand conformed itself around the ball of Edgar’s shoulder, his grip more solid than usual, the other hand had clamped around his brother’s arm that might have served as a living stress ball. His lips pressed against another but he steeled his face to reveal not a crease or a grimace. He would hold his own for himself and for his brother.
Red, meanwhile, looked to him almost aghast; her fears partly realized. Fingers laced through his squeezed almost painfully in place of saying, forward. We’ll keep moving forward.
They could demand, they could plead, but they could only watch the skies glow with the promise of tomorrow. As sunlight began to wake the land, Crystale parted from her husband to reach for her children. Edgar seized her arms first of all, bringing her flush against his body as he whispered his goodbyes. “I’ll never forget you,” he whispered in tears. “Thank you for finding us. I’m so glad I knew you!”
“Take heart, Edgar,” Crystale encouraged him. “The going will be rough but I know it will be worth it. Take heart. You’ve done us well and proud.”
He kissed his mother and surrendered her to Sabin and Red.
Tears were on the brink of falling again when he gathered the slim frame of his mother in his arms. A woman who Sabin was first acquainted as a lovely face on the wall and later as a friend, an artist and a person he trusts unconditionally.
“I'll finish your painting.” Sabin spoke to her ear.
“Make it good, Sabin.” Crystale touched him by his woolly chin, planting a peck on his cheek. She would reach to touch Edgar's own smoother chin and gasp to herself. “My boys!” Turning back to Stewart. “They are such radiant boys, Stewart…”
Jokingly Red assured Crystale that she would be plenty rough on them. When her laughter turned into a cough, into a cry, she had to stop for a moment and recollect herself before thanking Crystale for being an inspiration. She was proud to say that she no longer wished to be exactly like her -- better to just be herself -- but she wanted that much more to live to be a mother in honor of the woman who never got to raise her sons.
“Well dad…” Sabin shuffled his feet as he faced up to his father, “I guess I’ll see you.”
“No, you will not.” The stern tone had Sabin bursting in laughter, a tension breaker as his younger son pressed his father close to him.
More solemnly, Sabin spoke. “Thank you dad. I think I haven’t said that enough. The last time, I wasn’t able to say anything at all and I think I made it harder for you, because I wouldn’t let go. I wailed, I threw up while wailing. I was 15, acting like I was 5. If we only had our way, we would rather not...But you laid the foundations that made us the men that we are...Edgar and I are all the better for it. We’ll go on, till our hair turn grey, till our knees go wobbly, till…”
“Sabin,” Stewart interrupted. “The only people passing on are me and your mother. We would rather not hear about you and your brother’s, if you don’t mind. But I should hope so. I warn you I will be very cross if you go off wrestling armies and trains on your own.”
Sabin grinned, winking. “I won’t just yet.”
It was Stewart to receive her hug. Selfish, maybe, but she was a selfish person. An affectionate one, as well. In this way she took as she gave.
“You’re always going to be such a big part of their lives. I wish there was time for you to be a bigger part of mine.” She thought it best to acknowledge where they hadn’t entirely hit it off rather than pretending like everything had been a walk in the park. Desert, as it were. Red felt reasonably confident in her assumption that he would appreciate the honesty. She ended with, “Thanks for making them who they are today. I love them.”
“They made who they are,” was the low thrum of Stewart’s voice as he nodded, patting the slender woman gently on the back with her heavier hand. “I simply helped them walk. And you will help them stand.” When they parted, it was so he could tell Red to her eyes, “Be there for them. You have a good head and a good heart. Sometimes, too much,” his head bounced sideways, “but you have much to learn and you are willing. That’s where it all begins.”
Edgar watched them say their goodbyes but until his father had turned to find him, his arms felt empty and antsy. It seemed a shame that he couldn’t remember the last time he embraced his father in the same tightness, barring the first time they met in years. All those days where he could have hugged him, what had he been doing with them?
“Dad, you have to stay,” he choked, his arm shaking as he squeezed the still-corporeal form of his father. “Please, Dad, there wasn’t enough time, you have to stay!”
“Time is never enough, son,” Stewart sighed, nodding and patting his sobbing son at the back. “But you are. Edgar, listen to me: you are, you will be, and you must be.”
“Dad…!”
“There won’t be a better time for you to start than today, Edgar,” Stewart reminded him, pushing him back so he could look him in the eye, palms punished by years of hard work laying themselves flat on his wet cheeks. “And before I forget, look within my writing desk. There’s a leather folio there addressed to you. Remember to take a look at it.”
“Yes, Dad,” he sniffled, nodding.
Edgar would not let him go without one last embrace, but he had to surrender him to Crystale at the end of it. She placed a hand on Stewart’s sleeve, drawing him back with subtle encouragements. She smiled at him. Taking her hand, he smiled back.
“At least this time,” he said, “we’ll go together.”
Sunlight pierced through the top of the main dome that gave the Figaro Estate its character and its fame. They looked upon it, bold spirits hand in hand, watching for the inevitable. When the light blazed through their images, Edgar closed his eyes.
Red’s stayed wide open. She stared at them with the same pain as staring at the sun; something so bright and yet so fascinating she couldn’t look away. This was a sadness she wanted to try holding onto in Edgar’s place. As their self appointed keeper of records, she considered it her duty to watch until the very last.
Sabin found himself humming a tune, he couldn’t remember where he heard it. It must have been from a movie with nan, about a place over the rainbow. He raised his hand to wave as light hit their shapes. Then settling itself around Red’s shoulder, his other arm already fixed around his brother. An exhale expelled itself from his cavernous chest as he brought both brother and sister closer to him.
It would be some time before Edgar would open his eyes again, and when he did, he would see that morning had come to embrace them. Already, he missed the warmth that emanated from the arms of his own parents. Would that they could still surround him with that security.