carmilla | FIC: Marked (Final Fantasy VIII, Squall + Seifer, PG)

I stare at my scar in the mirror. A slash right across the bridge of my nose, starting at the eyebrow. It seems to have become a part of my face. When did that happen? When did it cease to be disfiguring and become a feature as natural as my eyes or lips? I don't know. So much has happened in these last few months... it's difficult to keep track of it all.

The Sorceress... I suppose the world really began to change on the day that she appeared. But to me, the change began earlier. The change began on the day I got my scar. Because this scar has a twin. And the one who wears it... he's the one who really changed my life. Because ever since we gave each other these scars, there's been unfinished business between us.

Our rivalry began much earlier, of course. Right back in early childhood, as a matter of fact. And in some ways it was a friendly one - far friendlier than either of us would like to admit. If I took one side of an arguement, he'd take the other simply to get the chance to fight me; but there was always a hint of amusement in his eyes, and the quirk of his lips. I suppose we both had our ridiculous notions of heroism, though I always felt that his were more dangerous than mine. I don't think that we ever really understood each other, but, in a strange way, we enjoyed each other's company. And there was always an unspoken understanding between us that, no matter how much we brawled, scrapped and bickered, we'd never really hurt each other. Maybe that's why it felt like a betrayal when, duelling in the middle of a storm, I suddenly realised that we were fighting for real.

I don't know which of us lost control first. By the time the storm had broken out we were far too carried away to stop; the battle was in deadly earnest, and 'deadly' is not an exaggeration - I knew the look on his face. And yet, I couldn't truly believe it would come to a blood-letting; not until it happened. I think the shock of seeing blood on his face was actually greater than the shock of the pain searing my own brow. That brought me to my senses enough to end the fight - to step back and away from his cold eyes, the blood blazing trails across his pale face. But from that day on, I was marked. Marked as his. And I had seen murder in those eyes.

And from then on, things were different between us. Our confrontations lost their playful edge - I could see it in the new set of his shoulders, feel it in his voice when he spoke to me. And I responded to that new aggression with plenty of my own - after all, I could never bear to let him outdo me.

Then came the Sorceress, and the world turned upside down. I thought I had lost him, that he was gone from my life forever. But wherever I went, sooner or later he'd be there too. Always there to hinder me, to stop me doing what I had to. And again and again we fought, but never reached a conclusion. For we were never alone. And whilst there were others there, the contest was never fair, and the outcome never final. I grew to need that battle as much as he did - the one that would decide which of us was the best once and for all. I need it still, though I know what the end will most likely be. I've seen him change over these past few months. I've seen him lose that faint sense of insecurity which allowed him to hold back. I've seen him become so dedicated to his cause that he can't tell whether it's right or wrong anymore. And I've seen how he feels about me now. Every time we met, that look grew stronger. I've seen my own death in his eyes.

And now, there are no distractions anymore. The world is saved, I suppose............ and it feels like there's nothing in it but us. Like the conflict, the tension, is building and building, and the whole of existance depends on what snaps first. It's our scars, you see. They bind us, no matter what. He's marked me, marked me down. Prey. His to kill. If he can - I'm not planning on going without a fight. The scar's part of me now. And that means the coming battle is inevitable.

I look away from the mirror to finish checking my equipment. I think I'm as prepared as I'm going to get. My gauntlets are slick with sweat - perhaps because my fists are clenched so tight. I just hope it won't affect my grip. My gunblade lies on the table beside my bed, dull and grey and menacing looking. The colour of clouds before a storm. I spent hours working on it last night. It's never been so well polished or so sharp. It's never looked so ugly or so alien. No sense in putting it off any longer. I pick the weapon up and head for the door.

It's early morning, and eerily still and quiet. We arranged to meet in the same place we did the last time we duelled, a few months and a million years ago. Symbolic, I guess. Here's where it started, here's where it will finish.

I wonder at the odd sense of calm which has settled over me. I'm under no illusions - I know there's a good chance I'm not going to survive. And yet... I'm glad to have this finally happen. To sort things out between us once and for all. No matter what it might mean. After all, I reflect, arriving on the outskirts of the training grounds - I chose to be a fighter. So I chose this. And I can think of no hands I'd rather die at than Squall Leonhart's.