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Marche left Mewt standing in his room, some sort of dumfounded look on his face. He didn’t want to leave things on such a sour note, but he had another person to talk to and he didn’t have all the time in the world. His dream of Ritz was still fresh in his mind, still playing over and over; something Marche didn’t want, but reluctantly had to let happen.
He learned early on in life that his mind often wandered to things he didn’t want to see.
When Doned was born, their mother had to undergo a serious operation after the birth, one that took well over four hours. Marche’s grandparents were out of town that week and it was raining so hard that night that no one could come and watch over him as he sat alone in the hospital waiting room, staring worried at the big glass doors that led to the operating room. Above the doors was a lit sign, signifying that someone was under the knife, and that this someone was Marche’s mother.
Thus every day he would see that sign, glowing red and bright, in his mind, stuck there whether he liked it or not.
His dream efficiently suppressed those images, much to Marche’s dismay. As strange as it sounded, seeing that hospital sign was much more comforting: at least it was a real memory, not something fabricated, like the dream.
What the heck does it mean?
Ritz in Judge’s armor . . . the cliff, the fire . . . the utter lack of sound, save a few choice sentences. He creased his nose as he thought, trying to remember what she said. It was bothering him greatly because he could easily remember what he said to her, lying in the silent flames.
“Ritz, why?”
But after that was a blank. He could see her lips moving, her forest-green eyes dance in anger and her cherry-red hair blowing in the wind, but he couldn’t remember any noise. He could remember getting stabbed and falling, he could easily recall the smells on the air but he could not, for the life of him, remember what Ritz said.
Marche pulled his gloved hand out of his pocket and rubbed his chest with the heel of his palm, up and down the line where he remembered being stabbed. There, of course, was no wound, but the dream cycling in Marche’s mind kept telling him where it was. He put his hand back in his pocket and rounded a corner, the snow beneath his feet crunching softly. He glanced around, looking at the few cars rolling down the road and the group of kids talking to each other as they walked on the opposite sidewalk. St. Ivalice, real Ivalice, was really a nice place. It had great people, plenty of things to do and a good school. Sure, it snowed a lot, but it was far north in the world, so that was understandable. Marche truly liked living here--the hospital was close by for Doned and his mother’s job was closer still.
He stopped at a crosswalk and waited for the light to turn, still watching the people walk around, heading to wherever it was they were going at ten on a Saturday morning. He saw a pair of teenage girls laughing and chatting as they sat on a bench outside a local coffeehouse, an elderly man walking and laughing with his grandson, and a mother cooing playful at her baby in the carriage she was pushing.
Marche smiled, despite the anguish the dream was pushing at him. He was happy to be in St. Ivalice. He loved this town . . . it was almost paradise to him, the perfect place to live and peacefully exist with everything he cared for: his family and friends.
“You had no right to steal this from me.”
Ritz’s words hit him suddenly, sending chills down his spine and making the hairs on his arms stand on end. Suddenly something clicked in his mind and his eyes shot open.
What . . .
He took a step forward to cross the street, stepping off the curb to only be roughly pulled back onto the sidewalk and feel the passing breeze of a speeding truck. He fell onto the slick sidewalk and looked up at the person who saved him.
“Marche, what are you doing? Are you okay?”
It was Ritz, looking concerned with her hair as pure white as the snow drifting onto it. Her eyes were a mix of aggravation and concern, her hands reaching down to help Marche up.
“Ritz,” Marche said, voice shaky.
“You shouldn’t be spacing out while crossing the street, Marche. You’re lucky I was here to save you.”
Marche pulled himself up with Ritz’s help, grabbing her hands with one hand and pushing himself up with the other. Through his glove and through her mitten he felt the bones in her thin hand and he bit his lip. Once he was standing he looked at her eyes, the concern and aggravation gone and replaced with her normal friendly tone.
“Anyway . . .” she continued, “I was just heading over to your house. Doned said he wanted to talk to me. What are you up to?”
For a moment, Ritz’s white hair blinked to its former cherry red. Marche gasped under his breath then reached up and put his hand on her shoulder, much to her discomfort.
“Marche,” she said firmly, telling him to back off.
“Ritz, I’m sorry,” Marche said, ignoring her, “I think I understand what I did to you and . . . I’m sorry.”
“What are you talking about?”
Silence for a beat, then he moved his hand and frowned. “Tell Doned that I’ll be home later.”
And he looked up and down the street and then ran across, thinking about how clear the answer was now and what he had to do to fix it.
It wouldn’t be easy and he might have to sacrifice greatly . . . but running at full tilt to his destination, he decided that he would worry about sacrificing once he got there.
It also occurred to him that Ritz had said she was going to his house. That was okay . . . she and Doned had gotten friendlier since coming back. He often saw them together, talking about this and that in his living room.
Doned . . . and Mewt.
As Marche ran, he wondered if they ever talked about him. If they ever sat around and tried to analyze him. He hoped not, especially since he had just most likely spooked Ritz with his half-sentences and running off.
He would have to explain later . . . if he could.
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