Seeking

With the magic of fairy tales, you can see through walls.
See, now the triumphant hero, returned from the War. A good-looking young man,
delicately handsome, clad in black leathers and white furs, he is lying on his
bed, fully clothed, one arm over his eyes as if to shield them from the things
he’s seen.

The hero is not sleeping, or even resting. Instead, he seems
to be merely paused, thinking, waiting. A screen shot of a moment in time.

When the camera shutter reopens, he is gone.

Squall went to the Shumites. He played with the moombas and
posed for a statue that turned out entirely too much like him: a shy young man
looking more embarrassed than heroic. He walked quiet pathways and thought
about peace. Squall wondered if he’d know it when he found it. One day it came
to him, as it had to Laguna years before, that he couldn’t spend his life
waiting to turn into something else.

Next stop was Winhill. Squall harvested lilies until it
seemed the whole world was filled with their sweet scent; almost enough to
overpower the constant coppery scent of blood he could not escape. He stood by
his mother’s grave and thought about love. Squall wondered if he’d know it when
he found it.

Squall skirted Deling City and thought about power and glory
and how useless they seemed to be. He thought of a pretty, light hearted girl
and her quests for romance and adventure. Squall wondered if she knew exactly
what it was she was looking for. He wondered if she’d know it when she found
it. He wished her well, but had no desire to join her.

Squall stood outside of Esthar and thought about fame and
riches and wondered if he’d know what to do with them. He thought about family
and roots, but was too shy to allow a stranger to define him. Squall supposed
part of all this was that he was looking for himself. He wondered if he’d know
when he found him.

One day, walking along a muddy road, eyeing the abandoned
litter in the muck, Squall realized he was as useless as the other things
discarded by society. He pondered the concept of purpose. His wanderings,
mental and physical, eventually led him to the site of the old orphanage, and
the lighthouse.

Here were his roots, shallow though they were. He would
plant lilies and find peace. He would repair the great light and have purpose.
Squall would find himself along the shore, as he always had in the past.

As for love…

Squall walked through the gate and in a sudden rush of
burning disappointment, knew someone else had beaten him to the Sanctuary.
Someone was already living there: the rose bushes had been beaten back so the
path was open, clothes flapped in the sea breeze on a primitive clothes line,
and he could hear whistling as that intruding someone was working out of sight
behind the house. The weight of broken hopes made Squall weary, and he walked
like an old man around the shabby wall to face the interloper.

The blond man was pounding out dents in some brass fretwork,
probably from the lighthouse. He stopped when Squall’s shadow fell over him,
and looked up.

And blinked, and looked again. And smiled.

“Good timing,” the blond said. “The coffee is just ready.”

Maybe, Squall thought, he would know love, now that he’d
found it.