Squall sees their faces as they pass, each one sharp and cold as a dagger. They scowl and turn away, whisper and make warding signs. One woman spits on the ground as he and Rinoa stroll by. His jaw tightens and he turns toward the woman, but stops when he feels Rinoa's fingers dig into his arm.
She looks up at him and shakes her head, smiling as if she doesn't notice the hatred swirling around her. She pulls him over to a shop window and points to items in the display, talking and laughing until he relaxes beneath her grip. He tries his best to respond in kind, to let her voice dispel the anger building in his chest and remind him that none of these people really matter, that their thoughts alone could never hurt her.
She has chosen to live like this, open and unashamed, if not entirely unafraid. And he has chosen to remain by her side, intercepting those invisible slings and arrows, absorbing the hateful glares and drowning out the gossip. He has chosen to be her anchor, her shield. Her knight. To protect her person, of course, but moreover, to protect her spirit.
He hears the change in her voice before he sees it in her face. Looking down, he notices the color has drained from her cheeks, small beads of sweat gathering along her hairline and her upper lip. He places his hand on her back, feels the heat radiating through her shirt. Her brows draw together and she swallows hard, but manages to grin.
"It's starting," she whispers.
He nods, scanning their surroundings for someplace quiet. They are not far from the park, and he asks her if she can make it there. She says she thinks so and starts humming, swinging his arm in time with her tune. Overcompensating, he knows, for the turmoil inside her, trying her best not to let her façade crack.
They step off the gravel path into the grass, and he leads her behind a large tree, smiling and trying his best to make the action seem playful, to convince passersby that they are nothing more than a couple seeking a spontaneous romantic interlude.
Safely out of sight, she lets her breathing become ragged. Her hands tremble as she fumbles with her purse, tugging at the zipper and rummaging through its contents. He gently moves her hand aside and reaches into the purse, retrieving the object she seeks.
A nearby streetlight reflects off the silver filigree and glitters across the faceted blue stone set within. He takes hold of her wrist and slides her sleeve up, placing the bangle there. He does not fasten it; that is her job, and the one thing he still can't bring himself to do.
She understands and secures the clasp, then grimaces, sucking in air through clenched teeth and screwing her eyes shut as the multitude of tiny needles on the back of the blue stone shoot out, into her skin, injecting her with the antidote to the surge of powers she was experiencing. Moments later, she releases her breath, her shoulders relaxing, and slumps forward against him. He holds her, stroking her hair and whispering reassurances, until she straightens up to face him.
"I'm fine," she says, smiling and pulling down her sleeve to cover the bangle. He knows she is trying to be strong, but the tiredness in her eyes makes his heart clench. She shakes her head and chuckles, then pulls him in for a kiss.
* * *
He wakes before dawn, a remnant of a lifestyle otherwise long forgotten, and looks at her, sleeping soundly, far removed from judgment and pain. She gets warm easily, and the sheets are now bunched around her ankles, her nightgown gathered at her thighs. He smiles and rubs her arm tenderly. She doesn't stir. The back of her nightgown is cut low, and he can see the scars along her shoulder blades, reminders of the ephemeral wings that burn through her skin when her powers respond too strongly to fear and anxiety, to panic that can arise with no warning and no clear trigger.
She insists the wings don't hurt. She says they just feel extremely hot, like an extension of the adrenaline that runs through her prior to their eruption. He accepts her word – he learned long ago that it was useless to argue this point – but he can't see how it can be true.
He traces one of the scars with his thumb. In the beginning, they were only fine lines, fainter than the one across his face. But over time, while his healed, hers opened again and again, her skin splitting and closing around the wounds, until they became thick and rough, like two small, detached braids.
She sighs and mumbles something incoherent. He leans over and lightly kisses her cheek, watching her mouth twitch into a faint grin in response. He rises and walks to the window, looking out at the waking city and recalling, as he does every morning, something she'd said years ago.
She'd been standing in this spot, overlooking a city glittering in the night, a black ribbon hanging from her hand. They appreciated all she'd done, they'd told her. They couldn't have reclaimed their independence without her, they said. But Timber was in a precarious position now, newly autonomous, and they couldn't risk being associated with a known sorceress, not after that business with Deling and Edea.
She hadn't cried. Instead, she'd hugged them and wished them luck, then boarded the train back home. But as she stood at the window, she tensed. Her knuckles grew white around the ribbon, her tendons sharp against the skin on the back of her hand.
"There's only one thing for me to do now," she said, turning to face him. "Thrive. I refuse to hide anymore. I'll survive. I'll survive ... as a sorceress."
He nodded solemnly. "So will I ... as your knight."