Mystic: Because I absolutely refuse to believe that Kuja died at the end of the game, I'm back again for more Kuja/Hilda stockholm syndrome fun. Drama forever follows these two, and I can never write a strictly happy fic for them. Expect angst/drama/sappy crap from this new idea of mine.

To Conjure a Heart

The Last Sorcerer

My first broom was a gift from my mother. It wasn't for riding or flying yet, because I was only six years old and I had to learn how to sweep the floor. But she promised that if I swept the floor really, really well, than she'd wake me up at midnight for my very first lesson.

Ha, that floor didn't have one speck of dust on it. Father even checked by rubbing a white glove across the surface. I stood there with a smile, my hair falling out of its braid, before running off to take a quick nap so I'd be well-rested. (Those were the days before corsets; I miss those days quite a bit.)

If I could get the chance to speak to my former self, I'd tell her to run and run quickly. Take that broom, pluck out the loose straw, and fly far away to the forests. Live there amongst the trees, dance under the twin moons, don't bother yourself with boys. Become that weird old lady who drinks sassafras tea and sits on her front porch, always with a story to tell.

But traveling through all of time and space is nothing more than a fairy tale of my people. I don't have some magical blue ship and a quirky friend with a bow tie who knows how to pilot the thing. If given the chance again, I'll tell you about that fairy tale. It's for our children, a bedtime story, but us adults are fascinated by it just the same.

I have yet to become old, but many people do call me weird. I drink plenty of sassafras tea, but only in the springtime. And the only stories I have to tell now are more of a nightmare than a fairy tale. Most of it is my own doing; a poor choice here, another bad decision there. My six-year-old self would be so disappointed.

The beginning of the nightmare begins with a lie. And a cake. The cake was part of the lie. My favourite treat betrayed me, so now I like truffles. Every little girl dreams about her wedding, even the little girls who grow up to take religious vows. We'll kindly ignore the fact that choosing to take a religious veil is another form of wedding, but this nightmare of a tale is about myself and not my sister who became a Sister in Esto Gaza.

Many individuals believe that a wedding day is all about the bride; I personally think those people need a sound box about their ears. (My grandmother used to box my ears if I spoke with an attitude. The teenage years were a bit painful.) Father and mother taught me that a wedding is about a marriage, both bride and groom, the rest of their lives together. 'Til death do they part, better or for worse, sickness and in health. Honor, cherish, love, obediance (oh! don't cringe). You might realize I left an important one out - and you'd be right, because my chosen spouse believed it was optional.

Fidelity, faithfulness, whatever you may wish to call it. Regent Cid had no use for only one woman, and thus was the beginning of a horror story.

Consider adultery like a ladder; the first rung is a mistake, quickly consumed by guilt and steps are immediately taken to prevent it from ever happening again. Forgivable, so long as the fornicator is repentent. (Or not, I'm still not sure. Sex can be so complicated.) Other rungs may be hidden emotion for another person; again, forgivable, because sometimes physical betrayal doesn't even take place. More people are guilty of that than many even realize.

Myself included. Moving along.

But then, on the top rung of the adulterous, scarlet ladder, is the ongoing physical affair that remains behind closed doors or secret meetings. Notes are passed between third parties, waiting to be discovered by the innocent spouse. I didn't find any risque note that might make a virgin blush, but through the embarrassing grapevine of gossiping handmaidens. Cid had crawled up the ladder and jumped off the highest rung into the arms of a pub wench.

When confronted by an angry and jealous mage, the regent caved worse than a miner digging for golden treasure. He admitted his wrongdoing, his womanizing, but apologized out of fear of my power, not because he broke his wife's heart. Don't be stupid in believing otherwise.

So I showed him my power, everything that I was able to conjure. My anger, my jealousy, all of it erupted to fruition and I cared less about the cost to myself. Noble women are expected to tolerate the occasional mistress or random whore; men of rank require the extra bit of stress relief. Another group of people who deserve a sound box about their ears. It's nothing more than hypocrisy. It was beyond time for him to find out what's like to be disgusted and despised.

After I stared down at a beady-eyed oglop, toyed with the thought of squashing him under a table, did I almost faint to the floor like a maid hoping to be rescued by a champion knight. Maid, ha! There were so many nights when I blinked back tears for lost virtue. "Wait for a man of worth," my mother said. "He must earn it and appreciate what you are giving him."

Apologies mother. I threw that away.

There was one problem with what I had done to Cid: it cost all of my magical ability for a time. I had manipulated and contorted a human body, and that spell had left me weak and barely able to saunter away. Running to the broom closet and flying to safety was out of the question. Covered in sweat, trying to catch my breath, I ordered my bags packed and the airship -my airship- to depart Lindblum. I'd return to my parents and let Cid suffer ...for awhile, at least.

Then another nightmare began.

And my heart has never stitched itself back together.

"Lady Hilda!"

Artania -minister, politician, man of the council- ran down the palace hallway. "Lady Hilda!" he yelled again. He pushed open the cellar doors.

"Who's ill now?" she asked, face shadowed by candlelight. Glass jars of various sizes and colors swarmed her desk, some filled, others empty. Hilda stood on her feet, grinding a strongly scented herb with a mortar and pestle. Lately, in the past few weeks at least, the regent's wife was not her usual self.

Artania answered, "It's Freema. She started running a fever this morning."

A servant girl. "Quarantine her quarters. I'll be up presently." Dried specimens of yarrow, elder, and lime blossoms fell into a straw basket. Fresh garlic came next, followed by a sealed jar occupied by a single leech.

If it hadn't been for her status as a noble, Hilda would've been accused of witchcraft long ago. Well, maybe a few weeks ago. Some citizens still carried their suspicions. Hilda Fabool cast aside her fancy gowns and corsets, instead wore only a simple dress and apron. Blonde hair was kept under control by a snood, and not a fancy veil. The majority of her spare time found itself snared by gardening or organizing plants. She even took in a stray cat to sit by her side in the evenings.

Burnings at the stake had long been outlawed, thankfully. Hangings and beheading were another matter.

The feline indulged in a nap by a sunny window. Hilda gave her a quick scratch before hurrying to the servant quarters.

A red cross marked the young woman's bedchamber. "Freema?" whispered Hilda. She nudged open the chamber door. Two other servant girls stood beside the sickbed, their faces protected by a half-mask. The redhead, Catherine, spoke first.

"Oi! She's getting delirious!"

The blonde, Billie, agreed. "Chills, madam. And then the fever."

Freema, a young woman dark of skin and even darker hair, shivered under two blankets. Every few moments, Billie would sponge her forehead with a damp cloth. Pomanders filled with sweet spices hung about the room to cleanse the air; lanterns gave necessary light. Lady Hilda placed her basket down on the dresser table. "Freema," she said softly. "Have you vomited at all?"

The girl shook her head. "No."

"Any muscle soreness? Headaches?"

"No."

"Then it is in the early stages." Hilda felt along Freema's neck, noticed the red and swollen glands. "I'll perform a simple bloodletting to lower the swelling, then we'll work on your fever."

"So it's plague then?" Catherine shuddered when her mistress opened the leech jar. "Black Death?"

"It's everywhere, Cat; you know that."

Billie quietly folded down her fellow servant's nightshift. "I'll grab a bowl, madam."

"Thank you, dear."

Both of the young women left, Catherine wanting no part of any bloodletting. She decided to fetch some clear broth from the kitchens; Freema required extra fluids to replace those lost by the leech.

Hilda tried to smile, patted her trusted maid on the the hand. "Relax, Freema." Her skin was flushed hot. "We caught it quickly."

A couple of hours later, Hilda had given Catherine and Billie stern instructions to wake their patient every two hours for a hot cup of yarrow and elderflower tea, followed by several tablespoons of strong garlic juice. "If she begins to vomit or complain of headaches, call for me immediately."

"Yes, madam," they both replied. The leech was back in the jar, fat with sick blood.

Minister Artania met with the lady back in the cellar, the feline still in contented sleep. "We've quarantined the entire servant hall, madam. Will Ms. Freema live?"

"She should," answered Hilda, attempting to rub the stress out of her temples. "Have you closed the borders to the city?"

"We have, madam, though Zidane of Alexandria requests an audience."

Potions and elixirs found themselves placed back on the shelves lining the cellar walls. "Zidane told us in writing that he would bring help, did he not?"

"Yes, madam." Artania breathed in the earthy and herbal scent of the room. "Highly trained. Alexandria only lost a quarter of their population because of this man's expertise."

"Only a quarter?" Hilda gave a short laugh. "I suppose that's better than half. Who is this gentleman? Medicus, doctor, herbalist?" There were distinct differences among the three. One focused on plants and a healthy diet, another prescribed strong laxatives and bloodlet far more than ever necessary and left the victim half dead. The remaining practitioner combined knowledge of the earth with basic white magery.

Artania said, "He's a sorcerer."

Sorcery stood in a class all of its own. "There was only one sorcerer left on Gaia, Artania, and he's dead." Buried in the ruins of the Iifa Tree, or so the legend said.

"All I know, madam," he finally responded, "is what his highness wrote. Weather permitting, they will arrive tomorrow."

Sorcery; men didn't practice the art anymore. Those who did found themselves recorded in the history books. Stories and legends of powerful men abounded the library shelves; the most famous of them all assisted the lost king of Alexandria and his round table of noble knights. As a child, Hilda studied the sorcerer in gray who accompanied a band of warrior dwarves.

As for the most recent sorcerer on record ..."I highly doubt it's pretty boy."

Minister Artania raised an eyebrow. There was a story behind her choice of words, and it promised to be very interesting.