Author's Notes before beginning:

I've always wondered where exactly Griever came into the story. Was he real, some sort of undiscovered GF? or did Ultimecia just make him up out of pure imagination? Hell, did Squall actually have a GF for an imaginary friend? So I decided to write something on him/it.

Please note that characters may be slightly (or massively in selected cases) OOC. This is mostly (I hope) courtesy of the thirty-odd years which have elapsed since the events of FFVIII.

A note on pairings herein: this fic is not intended for shipping, per se. But many of the characters are paired. Some are standard, some aren't. If you really must know before you read, then here you are: Selphie X Irvine, Zell X Miss Pigtail, Quistis X Zone, Fujin X Nida, Seifer X (virtually anything with the correct anatomy) and Squall X Rinoa. The fic isn't intended to be a Squalphie, but you could probably mistake it for one if you squinted hard enough.

A note on genres: honestly, this contains elements of a fair few of them. Certainly it has spiritual/supernatural overtones, it could probably fit into 'suspense', and there are a few romantic undertones too - and I suspect that just about anything I write will end up being humourous in one way or another. I will say, though, that the 'tragedy' aspect doesn't really kick in until closer to the end.

And a note on updates (added 20th February, 2011): The method by which this story is being updated is in blocks of three chapters per update. There is no real reason for this, apart from some twisted sense of time-organisation, which I otherwise tend to suck at. Readers who wish to head straight for the newest update should keep this in mind - unless you wish to reread from the start, as I tend to clean up any minor problems/mistakes noticed after initial posting. (The trick, of course, is not making any MAJOR ones in the first place...)

The world and all of its characters are copyright Square Enix. The story is mine.

Chapter 1 – What Windstorm?

Not a sound, not even a whispered scrape of boot-sole on rocky, thinly iced soil to betray his presence. Not a twitch out of place to alert the prey ahead. Not even his weapon, its long blade caked and stained dull over the years in the blood of literally countless monsters, could by an untimely glimmer give the hunter away.

This was not something he actually thought of, any more than he thought of being downwind from his targets, or the guttural, indistinct mutterings which always buzzed through his mind during such moments of stillness. It just came part-and-parcel with the hunt, inculcated into his being at a level beyond even instinct. And in any case, the hunter rarely thought anything. It wasn't as if he couldn't, or at least not exactly. But the rhythms of his life did not, as a rule, demand it. He hunted, he stalked, he fought. He killed monsters. And the reason for killing them… well, he never bothered to think about that, either.

Whatever his reason, it likely wasn't greed. If he needed something from a carcass, he took it. Meat for sustenance, fur to blood the traps he'd set up if the prey's hunting patterns called for it, the occasional magicked stone or more esoteric spoils which occasionally spilled out of their innards. More often, the carcass would just be left there, its slow decay luring more predators for him to kill in turn.

Much like the one he'd left yesterday. Snow lions had no problem eating carrion, even the remains of other snow lions. And so the dead snow lion had drawn two more to scrap over the carcass; these ones, unlike the elderly beast he'd eviscerated for that purpose the previous evening, appeared by their behaviour to be in their prime. Dangerous enemies, despite their current inattention to outside threat; well worth killing. The darkly-clad figure tensed imperceptibly, poised to make his move…

A deep roar off to his left brought the hunter's advance to a halt before it had begun. The pride alpha had arrived at the scene of the trap. Hidden under his snow-encrusted pine, his lips stretched for a moment. Disregarding for the moment the massive alpha lion charging forward to engage the intruders into his territory, the hunter's attention scanned the area it had approached from.

Sure enough – the rest of the pride was fast approaching. Four lionesses, three cubs. The toughest enemy for kilometres around. The enemy he had ultimately been stalking for over a week now. The target he had successfully lured out.

In a fair fight, a pride of that size might have been able to fell him, if he was unlucky. But this time, the odds told against the pride. Surprise was virtually total; his first strike bisected a cub grouped in the centre of the pride's formation. The follow-through lashed through its mother's snout with an arc of gore, causing the blinded beast to strike out frantically in all directions. Its panicked, unaimed snow-breath only increased the confusion of the pride as he danced through the chaotic clearing.

Adamantine plate carved its way through trunk-thick spines, dismembered white-furred limbs; gouts of molten magic ripped into steaming entrails with each stroke.

The fight was over inside of fifteen seconds.

One last pull of the trigger served to dislodge the gunblade from the broad skull of its last victim, a mewling cub which had been hopefully nuzzling its mother's ruby-spattered corpse. The hunter perfunctorily whipped his blade to shake off the larger chunks of aftermath from his blade. His figure glowed dimly for a moment; released, the cleansing mantra sloughed away the several litres of blood and other internal liquids which had drenched his worn clothes, his grizzled face, his unruly mane and beard.

He did not linger. Hefting his sword, ignoring the growling mindborne susurrations which had (as always) returned with the end of the fight, he retraced his steps to his original place of concealment. His gaze bent once more upon the three snow lions he had left squabbling over their carrion.

By this point, it had advanced beyond mere squabbling. The pride alpha had likely attempted to return to the commotion which it had left behind, only to be dragged back by the combined efforts of the two interlopers; the proud alpha had not taken kindly to this, and now was in the process of attempting to tear apart his current foes. However, the massive lion remained distracted by the absence of his pack, and the other lions, allied for the moment, pushed their advantage for all it was worth.

The hunter briefly considered simply ending it; but when it came down to it, what was most important was that the monsters were dead. Why go to the extra effort? He would simply kill the survivors, and track down any that attempted escape.

Then his eyes darted again, this time to the right.

For a long, tense moment, the forest fell absolutely silent, still. The snow lions, each sporting a collection of long, seeping wounds, whirled in their tracks to stare incredulously at the short, slim figure which stood just ten metres away. Of all things, the figure was clad in a bright yellow dress, leaning on an intricately carved staff. She stared at the lions in turn.

The elderly woman raised her staff, her hands gripping each end. The audible snick as she twisted its length seemed to echo through the frozen forest like an exploding tree-trunk.

He moved, discarding silence for speed.

Gravel and ice crunched under his pounding feet; his blade sheared through obstructionist branches. His abrupt passage brought the undivided attention of two lions upon his advance. As he angled slightly towards them, he noted absently that the woman had dropped into a combat stance, her 'staff' now divided into linked segments. She flicked one end squarely into the third snow lion's nose, following up with a ball of magical fire which hissed and spluttered in its maw; the lion gargled and pawed at its throat in pain, its snow-breath forgotten for the moment.

Satisfied that she could hold off the third lion, he veered right and slammed his boot onto a large fallen log. Using this as an impromptu platform, the hunter's bounding leap sent him somersaulting over the snow-breath of his targets. Landing to the side of one lion, his sword swung down like a woodsman's axe, chopping through its spinal cord just behind the withers. Wrenching the blade towards himself, he angled it downwards to stab deep into the ribcage. Pulling the trigger reduced its heart to a sodden pulp.

Ducking behind its corpse to shelter from the second lion's elemental breath, his gaze was drawn to the woman. Wreathed now in a golden aura, she cast another spell…

And both of the giant cats began to roll around, purring with unabashed pleasure. The hunter stared as gossamer wings sprouted from their backs, fluttering in graceful strokes as they rose in unison. Dragged high into the air, dangling under their glowing pinions, it struck him that they looked like nothing so much as kittens dangling from their mothers' mouths.

'…Rapture…'

He jerked, stunned. In all the time uncounted that his internal whispers had disturbed the hunter's rest, he had never understood what they had said… The hunter frowned. True enough, the snow lions did look to be happy. Well, up to the point where they dissipated into thin air, in any case…

The hunter shrugged. If it was important, he'd find out. If it wasn't – which was far more likely – he would just forget it. He eventually forgot most things which did not involve hunting in some fashion.

Straightening with a grunt, his eyes fell once more on the woman who had fought at his side. She was staring at his chest for some reason. It was probably something to do with his appearance and manner, he reflected. Other humans tended to put great store in things which he had long forgotten, if indeed he had ever known of them. He scrutinised her in turn.

She did not seem as physically decrepit as she had initially appeared. She stood straight under his gaze, betraying no sign of a stoop – it seemed she just happened to be a short woman. Her hair, curling outwards in a neat ring hovering just over her neckline, was greying but still predominantly a rich oaken colour. Her face was lined with the wrinkles of advancing age, but she was no crone. (Probably; he was not the best judge of such things.) Her fair limbs, much of which were bared to the open, remained well-toned, showing no obvious signs of the sagging skin which he associated with elderly humans. Her breasts weren't particularly large, but they seemed to sit high on her—

He stopped looking at her chest. Women were sensitive about that sort of thing. At least, that's what he seemed to recall.

All in all, she did not look particularly old; certainly in the latter stages of her life, but far from her deathbed. So why had he thought she was an elderly woman? Had it just been that 'staff'? or was there something else? Looking into her face once more, he noticed the dark swelling under her eyes, the spidering veins across their whites, the—

Her eyes. Wary, curious… shadowed with a pain which had no bearing on her physical health. An answering snarl reverberated through his mind. …That was why I thought she was old. He cleared his throat.

"I am sorry for intruding into your fight." His voice, unused for…a really long time now that he happened to think of it, croaked and rasped in his throat. Digging out a battered canteen, the hunter took a swig of icemelt and tried again. The woman held up a hand, her nunchaku dangling from the other.

"I heard you the first time. Hehe, sorry about that…" High-pitched, almost like a bird's call, the voice didn't sound particularly decrepit, either. Her voice increased another notch in cheeriness, her mouth widened in a sweet smile, and her acorn eyes brightened. If she was trying to convince him that she was fine, however, she was failing. "I just wanted to train a bit. I think THREE Snow Lions may have been a little too much for me… so like, thanks!" A healthy set of lungs too, he mused, wondering absently when she ever drew breath. "Ooh! I think there's some loot, do you want it?"

He shook his head. A hind haunch from the impaled lion which still twitched intermittently at his feet would serve for his dinner later on. He had no use for the rest. She thanked him effusively, stowing the spoils about her person. A brief time fiddling with her weapon put it back together in one long piece, which she promptly used as a staff to amble closer.

"Anyway, I'm Selphie…Kinneas…" She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowed. And also drew a breath, thus demonstrating that she did need to do so occasionally. When her eyes opened, they were cheerful in such a determined, feverish way that the voice inside his mind growled louder. "I live at Trabia Garden." She gave him a big grin. "Actually, I'm the Headmistress!"

He shrugged. This place could be Trabia, he supposed. He rarely paid attention to that sort of thing. Presumably, if she lived in a garden, it was relatively close to where they were now. He made a mental note to avoid it, provided she needed no further assistance.

Strangely, his taciturn response had her staring at him again. "Heeey… You know, you look kinda familiar… Do I know you from somewhere…?" He shrugged again. How would he know?

"Do you need any more help, Selphie Kinneas?"

She eventually stopped staring. "Nah, I'll be fine… Unless! Have you seen any mine entrances around here?"

He shook his head. Mines were of no interest to him unless there were monsters in them.

Selphie Kinneas slumped for a moment before she could paste her big smile back on. "Then I'll be fine! Are YOU going to be alright out here? It looks like it's gonna snow again…" He didn't bother with a response. With the only truly dangerous enemies for several kilometres around safely dead, he had no intention of lingering in the area; he briefly performed an inventory check. "HEEEY! Are you listening?" The hunter sighed, realising this human was one of those who seemed to require responses to everything; he shrugged again. If she didn't need his help, then there was nothing to stop him from leaving.

Reaching down to the hilt of his sword, he slid it back out of the dead lion's chest. A powerful sweep – this time, without the added effect of a gunblast – sheared through the animal's thigh, severing the selected haunch. He would skin it later. As before, he shook the blade clean, and utilised the cleansing-spell; for good measure, he cast an esuna on the haunch to sterilise it.

Picking up the furry paw, he looked over to the woman, ready to bid her farewell.

Selphie Kinneas's eyes bulged, wider and wider. There wasn't any grief in them now; there was nothing but shock in those green orbs, flitting between his gunblade and his face. Her own face was paper-white. Her voice was a trembling whisper.

"…Squall…?"

And she fainted dead away, eyes rolled back in her head, the icy gravel cracking and crunching in protest under her descending form.

—ox-oxo-xo—

The hunter looked down at the prone form of Selphie Kinneas.

He looked around. Sniffed the air. Studied the clouds. Listened for distant disturbances. Looked down at her again. Insofar as his face held any expression, it could best be described as 'mild puzzlement'.

"…What windstorm…?"