War
Disclaimer: I don't own
anything related to Final Fantasy VI. In addition, "War" is the title of a song
by Jonatha Brooke, which inspired this piece.
<<<< >>>>
Celes
Every morning is the same. I wake up, dress in an uncomfortable uniform, and go
to eat thin gruel at a table with forty-nine male trainees. My unique training
program occupies me until dinner, after which I retire to my cell of a chamber
to study. Finally, I sleep, and the next day, this cycle repeats.
This is my life, in the service of the Empire. I barely recall that anything
else exists, and cannot imagine anything more.
Leo
Every morning, on my way to the Imperial Palace, I stop to salute the rose
banners that hang beside its gates. Though most of the world’s population would
spit upon them, and many of those who hide behind the power they represent treat
them as an unpleasant necessity, I always execute this small token of reverence.
It is not the Imperial flag that I salute, but rather what it represents for me,
the crimson of the blood that I have seen spilt in its service by too-willing
soldiers. The ideal of the Empire was enough for them to lay down their lives
for its advancement, and it is their bravery, their faith, that I recall each
time my hand touches my brow.
For the rest of the day, I listen to Gestahl proclaim his philosophy of the new
world order, his dream of a world built on the foundation of the mysterious
power he calls ‘Magitek’. Sometimes, I am called upon to proclaim it myself,
though these occasions have become less frequent of late. It seems that there
are less people to convince.
Perhaps, like myself, they have come to hold the truth of Gestahl’s promises to
be self-evident.
Celes
We have been at war for as long as I can remember.
No matter how many victories we achieve, or how many nations sign treaties in
Gestahl’s conference room, there is always another opponent to our rule, another
ignorant hamlet that refuses to yield to the progress we offer.
I want to make the world a better place. I can think of no other reason to wield
power, much less to pursue it as intensely as I do each day: selflessly,
self-destructively. I want to become strong enough to change the world.
If I can only make that dream a reality, there will be no further reason to
fight.
Leo
Being a general is the hardest job I can imagine.
It’s not simply the responsibility, though that can be crushing; it’s not the
constant displacement, or the feeling of losing yourself in the gears of far
greater machinations. Rather, it is what comes once all the responsibility has
been satisfied, when there is no time left for thought on either side.
It is hardest when there is nothing left to do but watch.
More and more days seem to find me in a tent, somewhere far from Vector, with a
group of young men prepared to march to their deaths. Granted, since the advent
of Magitek weaponry, the casualties on our side have dwindled nearly far enough
to create the illusion of our invincibility, but the cost of this dubious mercy
has been the exponential increase in the horrifically-destroyed corpses that
trail in our wake.
During his speeches, Gestahl speaks of the many advantages that Magitek offers
to the common people. In practice, however, all Magitek has improved so far is
our ability to mete out death to those people, those whom we were supposed to
help.
I still believe in Gestahl, but each day, I see another facet of the Returners’
viewpoint.
Celes
During the first few days of my training, I was taken by my teachers to see a
jailed Returner captain. Looking back, he cannot have been more than thirty
years old, though I saw his face only through brief glimpses between the bars;
insanity had made him quite frantic by that time. My teachers had explained his
crime to me: they had told me that he would die for it, because he was a
dangerous criminal, and I had accepted their explanation as the absolute truth.
Of course, this man deserved nothing but death: one had only to look at him to
realize that he was but an animal, and from there it was logical that he should
be treated as a dog who has turned on its master.
Some nights, I dream of this memory, and each time I awaken from its clutches,
my teachers sound less believable.
I have begun to question, despite the warnings against such an activity. I have
begun to wonder just what that essential quality, which makes us superior and
them expendable, could be. No matter how deeply I ponder, however, or how many
books I read, I am no closer to an answer than I was before the question had
even crossed my mind, before I even thought of examining the moral codes that I
have been nursed on.
Still, I follow the Empire’s commands. I know nothing else.
Leo
Recently, I met the girl called Terra for the first time.
Gestahl introduced her to us at a banquet that he had held for just that
purpose, and to which every officer of higher rank than ‘Captain’ was invited.
Many commented on her green hair, so alien that it could not possibly be
natural: some even went so far as to mention the glazed look in her eyes, and
whisper rumours about the Slave Crown technology Kefka is supposedly developing.
I saw these things, certainly, but they are not what stood out for me: when I
looked at Terra, I saw only a frail girl, barely a teenager, and wondered what
she was doing in my world when she seemed barely strong enough to be a kitchen
maid.
It was only when the man beside me whispered the word “Esper” that I understood
the depth of Gestahl’s ruthlessness, and Kefka’s cruelty.
On a battlefield, no one is innocent. Anyone who holds a weapon is prepared to
kill, and you are faced with the choice of mirroring their goals or losing your
life to them. There is no pity among soldiers, and precious little sympathy.
Terra, on the other hand, is the closest thing to an innocent that I have seen
since I joined the Empire, and the thought that such a woman, for that is what
she will be forced to become, should be forced onto the frontlines sickens me.
As long as the image of her piloting Magitek armour remains in my mind, I find
myself unable to even think beyond the questions that fly through my mind as
quickly as lives are reaped by an Ice Beam.
And so, I do my best to forget her, and continue my servitude. I can do nothing
else.
Celes
Tomorrow, I go to destroy Maranda.
I have been appropriately briefed by a number of more experienced commanders. I
have been reassured that, even if I should make a grave mistake, the soldiers
who are being sent with me will perform their task flawlessly. I have been told
that I should attempt to sleep, as though this were any other night, as though
all that awaits me tomorrow is an extension of my usual existence.
Despite these admonitions, however, I am utterly incapable of rest.
I wonder why Maranda is such a threat, when the economic records state that they
can barely keep themselves fed. I wonder what resistance can be expected from
such a place. I wonder what they have done to incur Gestahl’s wrath, to earn the
privilege of staring into the glowing pit of a charged Magitek cannon.
I can answer none of these musings, and so I banish them from my mind. Surely,
if they cannot be answered, they are unworthy of consideration.
Surely, everything will be clear tomorrow.
Leo
I arrive at the palace balcony as Celes enters the gates of Vector, and take
stock of her forces automatically. By my rough estimate, she has not lost a
single man, and my mouth tenses into a horizontal line. At least she will not
have to face the consequences of a death incurred under her command just yet.
The moment she crosses the threshold, however, and I see her astride her white
chocobo, I know that she is changed. I will not pretend that I knew her
intimately before this, but the change in her is obvious. No… perhaps it is only
obvious to me, because I have seen it in myself far more often that I have cared
to recognize it.
She looks up, and her eyes scan the palace battlements, as though she is
searching for someone. Her gaze crosses mine briefly, but there is no
recognition there, and I know that she has not seen me. In that moment, however,
as she touches me across the distance that separates us, I can define the
quality that has taken root in her, and recognize its genesis within myself. It
is that most dangerous of metamorphoses, for which dozens have died at my hands,
and thousands at my command.
It is rebellion.
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