Fan Fiction Love Her and Despair

[Auronlu]

[FFX Fanfic] Love Her and Despair

Nominated for best AU, best action/adventure by the 2009 Genesis Awards, this saga is a dark anti-sequel to Final Fantasy X with Auron, Isaaru, the Crimson Squad, Yuna's surviving guardians, and a Sin like none before.

See the Fanvid Prologue / Teaser on Youtube, or jump right in!
​

"In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair!" (J.R.R. Tolkien, Fellowship of the Ring)

Chapter 1: Schism
​

Burgundy sails snapped in a fitful wind that set the sailors muttering. The sea-witch had her ways, they said, and owned both sea and sky. Ships plied the waves by her permission, or not at all. There had been frost at sunrise, great spears of rime coating the rails and ropes. The tropical sun had banished it quickly, but it was yet another sign of Sin's proximity. That, and the lightning's balefire dancing on the mast at midnight.

"Land ho!" The call was hardly needed; all eyes not bent to shipboard tasks were fixed on the wisps of smoke billowing on the horizon, fading now like the last breath of a dying fire. The rising column veiled half the sky in a grayish-pink fume that stretched clear back to Luca, and who knew how far beyond. They had come under its shadow as they skirted the Djose shore. For six disquieting days the SS Korra had sailed under ruddy light cast by a flat orange smudge where the sun should be. A stark whiff of something burning masked the usual tang of salt, and now and then white flecks of ash came spiralling down.

One of the harpooners in the bow began to sing the Hymn of the Fayth under his breath. The subdued refrain spread out in ripples. Roughened sailors' voices took up the chorus. A red-haired man in priestly robes standing on the raised deck over the wheelhouse smiled and cupped his hands in the sign of Yevon's prayer. However, neither he nor the pair of guards flanking him joined in the singing.

Sea-boots clattered up the ladder behind them. A woman stepped onto the observation deck and raised her arm in salute. "Your Grace. We shall reach Besaid before sunset."

"Very good, Captain." The man leaned against the forward rail and did not turn. "Tell your crew the danger is past. Sin is at least a day from here by now."

"With all due respect, my Lord—" she began. Suddenly, she swung round to stare at a sailor keeping watch before the mast with the exaggeratedly diligent air of an eavesdropper. "Tatts, what

The sailor's hands flew to the bone pendant that had slipped out from the bib of his overalls. "It's... ah... it's nothin' cap'n. Just a carvin' of a pretty lady, y'know, that caught me fancy." His wind-scoured cheeks reddened.

"Sin!" she spat. Heads turned as the petite woman stalked towards him, sea-boots drumming against the planks. "The Grand Maester of Yevon sails with us, and I have an idol-worshipper who wears Sin over his heart! Give it to me. If it's not overboard in one minute, you will be."

The sailor blanched. Torn between duty and devotion, the wretched man drew the thong over his neck and dropped the pendant into her waiting palm. The captain drew her arm back to fling it far out over the waves.

"Let me see it," the maester said quietly.

For a moment it seemed that Kiyuri might feign deafness: Grand Maester Isaaru was a soft-spoken man, and the rush of the wind drummed loudly in the sails overhead. But his shorter bodyguard, a blocky, broad-shouldered youth who looked too green for such an important post, had planted himself at the maester's elbow, and was squarely blocking her throw. Scowling, the captain handed it over. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. Sailors are too far from the temples, too close to the sea. And that

"He survived a Sin attack?" the other guard asked sharply.

The maester took the amulet and examined it intently. Its triangular silhouette could easily be mistaken for a shark's tooth at a distance. With economy of line, the stylized carving captured the shape of a woman's head and shoulders, square jaw and fine features. There was a haughty arch to the brows— or rather, brow, since the left side of the face was cut away at a slant. Empty space showed where the hair should be.

"The same face," he mused. "Always the same."

Kiyuri stiffened when the maester slipped the sacrilegious amulet into his robes. He chuckled at her expression. "Have no fear, Captain. A scrap of whale-bone the size of a thumb is hardly likely to draw Sin's attention...or mercy," he added to the anxious sailor. "If it returns, we are all in equal peril."

"But, Your Grace—"

"Look after your ship, Kiyuri, and let the maesters look after Yevon, no?"

"My lord." The woman gave a jerky salute, glared at the watchman and went below.

"Now," he said gently, turning to Tatts. "Perhaps you can tell us what you saw. We need to know all we can, since Sin has changed."

"Aye, it has, me lord," the sailor stammered. "That is, She don't bother any ship that leaves her waters in peace. Stray not west o' Besaid if ye sail under Yevon's seal. The Al Bhed go free of Sin's wrath, they say, all around the western isles. Me last ship, me captain tried to make the old run from Luca to Bevelle the short way 'round. Three days northwest o' Luca, the Lady put the ice to us till every sail and line were coated with it and men couldna walk the deck. Then the gale-winds came up and shattered the sheets. At th' last, lighnting struck the mast and split the hull right down into the water like roots o' tree."

"How did you escape?"

"Al Bhed ship picked me up, then, didn't it? Me and a few other souls. Dropped us off near the ruins o' Guadosalam."

"And you saw Sin? What did it—"

"Your Grace," the shorter guard interrupted, "With all due respect, can't we finish this later? You're too exposed up here. There may be sinspawn in the harbor."

"Just a moment, Pacce—"

His other bodyguard cut in. "No, Isaaru, he's right. Yevon's your job, but ours is keeping you safe...and you don't make it easy for us! Get under cover. I'll stay up here with Tatts and find out what else he knows."

"All right, Maroda, all right," Isaaru shook his head. "One would think we were still on pilgrimage. Tatts, for Spira's sake—" he would have said Yevon, but this man clearly followed a different allegiance— "please answer my brother's questions as well as you can. May Lady Yuna bless you."

"Th-thank you, Your Grace."

A melancholy smile played across the maester's features as he descended, trying to catch a glimpse of Besaid before Pacce shuttled him back to their cabin. Sin and the church of Yevon might be scrapping for souls these days, but oddly enough, no one had lost faith in the High Summoner, even though her Calm was coming to an end.

Lost in thought, Isaaru was nearly flung overboard himself when the ship gave an abrupt heave. Pacce lunged and blocked his fall, helping him down the last rung. Cries of Sin rang out. The harpooners leapt to their posts.

"I'll cover you!" Pacce said eagerly. He planted himself in front of his brother, shielding him as a wave crashed over the side. "The wheelhouse, it's closer!"

Isaaru shook his head and grasped a line, steadying himself. "Pacce, it's not Sin, it's—"

A flurry of scales and long fins burst from the waves in a surge of battering spray. Hulking fishy forms thudded against the deck, landing amidst the sailors and pouncing upon them with terrifying speed. Pacce drew his sword with a yell and jammed it at the nearest one, twisting the blade in a gush of pyreflies.

Blood was already running over the boards. The sinspawn had cruel snapping jaws, and were tearing through unarmed sailors despite the efforts of the ship's contingent of warrior monks. There was a cry overhead. Isaaru looked up to see Tatts with an upraised arm trying to fend off two fiends, his back pressed against the railing of the upper deck directly above Isaaru and Pacce.

Forgetting his brothers' admonitions, the ex-summoner raised his hands, letting fly a silent call to the aeon of Besaid, invoking her by the name he had given her long ago. Pterya, old friend, we need you.

Everywhere was din, panic and chaos, yet to Isaaru's inner ear there was a hollow silence: no Hymn of the Fayth, no beat of wings unfurled as the crimson-feathered spirit arrowed down from heaven's gates.

He watched in anguish as one of the sinspawn clamped down on the sailor's arm, another on his leg. Where was his brother? A thrusting spear answered his question an instant later, but it was one instant too long. Even as Maroda dispatched one of the creatures, the other leapt off the deck, dragging its screaming victim overboard.

For reasons he could not fathom, Pterya was not answering his summons, and Isaaru saw with painful clarity that many lives would be lost if he left the warrior monks and Maroda to deal with the threat alone. But the deck would surely buckle under Spathi's weight, assuming there was even room for the massive aeon of Bevelle. Pitch, rope and oiled boards were ill-suited for Grothia's fire, but Isaaru was running out of options. Shutting out the sounds of melee, he sketched a familiar series of gestures in the air that he had not needed for over ten years.

Few here had seen a true aeon, and there were more screams and cries of horror when the flaming hulk burst from the deck with a defiant roar. The ill-tempered spirit charged into the fray at once, snarling at its master's unspoken command to refrain from flames and restrict itself to pummelling and biting. These sinspawn had the edge in speed, but there were so many that Grothia's swipes usually found targets. It slapped them aside like an ogre swatting wasps.

Gradually the chaos died down as the warrior monks, guardians and aeon gained the upper hand. Blades and spears flashed through eddies and swirls of rising pyreflies. Pacce stoutly shadowed him and kept sinspawn at bay while Isaaru moved from one wounded man to the next, healing those he could. He would send the others later.

They cast anchor half a league out from shore. The surviving crew set to work clearing the carnage and repairing the damage. There beneath a shroud of smoke and a blood-red sunset, Isaaru performed his grimmest duty, giving the dead a sending before the bodies were committed to the deep. Tatts was not among them, but there were probably a few others who would have been comforted to know that the summoner who sent them carried Sin's token in the folds of his robe.


*[A/N: In FFX, when Yuna dueled with Isaaru in the Via Purifico, his aeons had different names from hers, although they looked the same: Pterya, Grothia and Spathi for Valefor, Ifrit and Bahamut. Perhaps each summoner must name an aeon to seal the bond.]

is that you're wearing around your neck?" one came close to meeting his unholy god six months ago. The toxin—"

​

They spent a restless night in the island's lee, huddled to the southwest where the air was clear of ash. At dawn they weighed anchor and headed towards the village, hugging the shore. Soaring green cliffs splashed with plunging waterfalls would have made for a pleasant view, if not for the enormous, jagged gashes in the slopes of the jungle high above. They caught glimpses of shattered trees and dirt blasted away right down to bedrock.

There would be no question of mooring at the ferry's dock; that much was clear before they pulled into the shallow waters of the harbor. Rounding a point, the ship encountered a grisly soup of bobbing planks, rope, snarled fishing nets and slats of boats, all thumping and scraping past the prow. To the dismay of the crew, a few bodies were tangled in the floating debris. They were heaved aboard with nets meant for other kinds of catch. Priests who had accompanied the maester from Bevelle set to work at once wrapping the pitiful remains in funeral shrouds. At this rate, they might run through their stock even before they came ashore.

The beach had been scoured; muck and dead fish were strewn across once-golden sands. Ash coated everything. Some of the splintered and blackened trunks of the jungle behind the bluffs still smoldered. A few carrion-birds circling the cliffs were the only signs of life— almost.

There blazing red in the dawn, a man stood upon the water. No, not on the water. One scrap of dock had escaped Sin's wrath, and a few planks remained on piers far out in the harbor. Excited murmurs spread across the ship, whispering a name— or, more often, a title.

The Legendary Guardian. He was back again, from wherever heroes were stowed when the world did not need them.

"It's Sir Auron!" Pacce was beside himself. "I don't believe it! It's really him!"

Maroda was silent. His thoughtful look meant he and Isaaru would be having a difficult conversation later, out of Pacce's earshot.

So then: a brief detour to pick up an improbable passenger. Isaaru ordered the ship's dinghy to be lowered. The crew's fear had evaporated at the sight of the swordsman silhouetted against the smoking treeline, and Kiyuri had to select rowers from among too many volunteers. While the crew were winching the boat down to the water, Maroda argued vigorously with Isaaru. Maroda seldom lost his battles. Isaaru and a frustrated, fuming Pacce were left to watch the small craft sculling across the harbor, shoving its way through debris-choked water.

As they approached the lone figure who had been standing there all this time, Maroda's query rang out over the waves. "Sir Auron! What are you doing here?"

The response was inaudible to those left aboard, but Pacce would dig it out of his brother later. "Waiting for a ship."

 

[theoriginaldoodle]

I can't believe nobody has replied to this.

Auronlu, I am a fan of your writing I've read a lot of your fanfiction and I really enjoy it. This was no exception.

 

[Auronlu]

Chapter II: "Memorial"

​

"So have you been on Besaid all this time? Or did you just come here to fight Sin?"

Pacce seemed bent on extracting every scrap of information from his childhood idol as soon as Sir Auron stepped aboard. Not that the legendary hero was doling out many scraps. Surrounded by a semicircle of murmuring sailors, he stood in his customary slouch with an arm tucked in his coat, a dour expression, and a crop of more white hair than Isaaru recalled from their last unhappy meeting. Warrior monks shoved forward to form an impromptu honor guard, but Maroda and Pacce, as usual, stood to the maester's right and left.

Auron shrugged. "I followed a hunch."

"A hunch?" Maroda said, incredulous. "You can predict where Sin will strike?"

"No."

"Then how—"

"Lord Isaaru." Auron cut through questions with a swordsman's efficiency. "I assume a maester of Yevon did not come all this way just for the festival."

The red-haired man shook his head. "Tidings of the attack reached us en route to Lady Yuna's anniversary celebrations in Luca. We came to aid the survivors."

"There aren't any."

Such simple words. Auron had spent a day searching the rubble of the village for any sign of Wakka, a second day sifting the corpses tossed up on the beach. A few faces had been vaguely familiar, but Auron had not spent enough time on the island to know its inhabitants. Sin would have recognized almost all.

"Not much use in going ashore then," Maroda said grimly.

"Isaaru can still send them, though, right?" Pacce said.

There was a heavy silence. Auron raised his head and looked from one to the other, causing Pacce to straighten self-consciously. They made an incongruous pair. Maroda was dark, tall and rangy, armed for speed not defense. His leather hauberk and greaves were probably Crusader issue; an old scar twisted around his right arm from elbow to wrist. Pacce was a head shorter, a burly young man of about twenty with a round and earnest face; he wore the undented, burnished armor of a warrior monk cadet. His short black hair stood up like Auron's, but instead of giving him a grizzled air, he simply looked as if he'd tried to yank it out.

Auron nodded to himself and returned his attention to Isaaru. "There's something else you should see."

"Yes, we should at least pay our respects." Isaaru raised his voice. "Kiyuri, we'll need both boats lowered this time."

"Yes, Your Grace." She took a step towards the gathered sailors and began barking orders. "Back to your posts, slack-jaws— or are you all volunteering for oar duty? Winch teams, port and starboard! You heard Maester Isaaru. Hop!"

The sailors were less keen to set foot on the ravaged beach than they had been to ferry a celebrity, but the captain was well-versed in the art of the verbal lash. Boats were soon lowered and launched. Kiyuri took charge of the rudder in Isaaru's boat, charting a meandering course between fetid rafts of flotsam snagged on the reef.

Chatter died as they breasted the breakers and shipped oars, letting momentum sling the boats up the beach ahead of the waves. Keels hissed in the sand and stuck fast. The sailors hopped out to steady the boats while the passengers disembarked, stepping carefully to avoid heaps of debris. Above the tide level, they found the bodies— or rather, one sailor gave a cry before Auron warned them what lay beneath the row of smashed boats. He had not spent all his time marooned on the shattered dock, apparently.

It was a subdued group that gathered under the bluffs near the head of the trail leading to the village.

"Now," Isaaru said, chiefly addressing the anxious knot of sailors huddled around Kiyuri, "I must ask you to do a hard thing. Sir Auron says there is no one left in Besaid to prepare the dead for sending. For pity's sake, we must give them this, since we are too late to save them. I will leave my warrior monks here to assist you and protect you from fiends—" he held up a hand to forestall Maroda's protest— "while my brothers, Sir Auron and I take the jungle road to learn what we can and tend the village's slain."

"And if we don't see you by sundown?" Kiyuri said.

Pacce huffed, but Isaaru spoke with soothing assurance at odds with his reply. "Return to the ship and look for our signal tomorrow. After two days, I defer to your judgment, captain."

"Aye, sir."

He beckoned to one of those who had come with him from Bevelle. "I would like three monks to accompany us to the village. Durren, you know some healing arts, yes? The rest of you, remain here and tend the dead."

The chorus of "Yes, Your Grace," was ragged, but more than one of Kiyuri's crew looked relieved. After exchanging Yevon's bow with those staying behind, Isaaru's party plunged into the jungle.

It was slow going, even with Auron's sword: he hewed through limbs and fallen trunks as easily as necks of fiends. Trees snapped by gale-force winds barred the path like obstacles in a particularly aggravating Cloister of Trials. Sinscales, too, had multiplied during the week since the attack, and Pacce had plenty of chances to observe his hero in action and test his recent training. It was nearly mid-day before they reached the village outskirts.

They halted outside the uprooted stockade to survey the damage. Sir Auron stood a little apart from the others, leaning on his sword and gazing impassively towards the stumps of columns on a stone platform on the far side of the village.

"Like Opration Mi'ihen," Maroda said.

Pacce had gone pale; his brothers had shielded him from seeing the carnage after that decade-old debacle. Isaaru set a hand on his shoulder.

Before them was a paved square surrounded by rings of damp, burnt timbers: the foundations of the few huts spared by the rising tide. Cables of kelp were snarled around the stumps of nearby trees. A row of fresh graves under palm fronds lined one side of the square. Auron had even buried what was left of the dog.

Stupid, happy dog. It had once brought Yuna a slobbery, drool-drenched gift that had turned out to be a cloth book on Valefor's aeon. Yuna and Lulu had spent the rest of the afternoon poring over moldy pages, trying to untangle an obscure passage that promised to unlock the aeon's sleeping powers in a new devastating attack. In his mind's eye, Auron could see the pair of young women sitting in the shade of the temple with their heads together, finishing each other's sentences in low voices punctuated by fleeting laughter, as they must have done countless times before the pilgrimage began.

Here, too, her father Braska had uttered words that unwittingly shaped the fate of Yuna and her guardians.

"When this is over...could you bring Yuna here? I want her to lead a life far away from this conflict."

Little had they known.

You shouldn't have chosen a place with a temple, my lord.

There was no temple now.

Isaaru halted at the foot of cracked steps and stared. "What force of machina or nature could do such a thing?"

The brunt of the maelstrom's fury seemed to have been unleashed against the temple. Huge blocks of stone were scattered over a wide area, some of them flung into the crowns of distant trees. Mosaic floors were laid bare to the sky; some parts had melted and fused into a glassy, blackened mass. Here and there, spears of palm-leaves and ceramic tiles had embedded themselves in stone blocks as easily as harpoons into blubber. The rear of the temple platform had collapsed, revealing the maze of the Cloister of Trials hidden beneath. At the far end was a smoking crater where the Chamber of the Fayth had been.

"So that is why," Isaaru sighed.

Sir Auron raised an eyebrow. "The aeon?"

"I tried to summon her yesterday, when our vessel was attacked. I could not reach her."

"Interesting."

"Interesting?" Isaaru took a few steps towards the Cloisters' rubble-choked stairwell. "It is rather more than that, when a fayth is lost. I shall not forget her. She was a girl of uncommon courage, much like Lady Yuna. She had lost her whole family, but rather than yielding despair, she joyously offered her soul to Yevon so that others might not suffer."

Auron gave a noncommittal grunt. "And now she can rest."

"I hope Sin's not getting smarter," Maroda said. "That's the last thing we need."

"Hey, look at this!" Pacce called. "Lady Yuna's safe!"

Auron grimaced, although he knew what the boy meant.

Gazing down from the retaining wall, they saw Pacce on the hillside below, where Yuna's statue had miraculously landed on its base intact. The others hurried over to peer up at the slender, dancing figure, around whose shoulders a few tattered garlands still fluttered. Frozen in stone, the youngest High Summoner twirled on the slopes of of her childhood home with staff held high.

"It's a sign!" Pacce said excitedly.

Isaaru smiled. "You may be right, Pacce."

"Yes, but of what?" Maroda said.

Isaaru knelt before Yuna's statue and cupped his hands together in prayer, remaining motionless for several minutes. At last, he rose and turned to Auron. "An overdue apology. When last we met, it was my sad duty to carry out Yevon's orders for Lady Yuna's execution. I have never been more gratified by my own failure. But I never had the chance to beg her forgiveness, before she was gone, saving a world that had turned its back upon her." He bowed low. "I owe you an apology as well, Sir Auron."

Auron shrugged dismissively. "What do you intend to do?"

"We must bring tidings back to Bevelle. I shall discuss the matter with my fellow maesters. Along the way..." He gave a sidelong glance to Maroda. "I think it is time to resume the pilgrimage I put on hold after Lady Yuna's victory. Sir Auron, I would be honored if—"

"Fine," said the legendary guardian.

Chapter III: "Broken Bones"
​

The sea-breeze buffeting the headland had faded. The air felt pinched and still, as if Sin's passing had peeled away part of the atmosphere. In the village square, smoke-trails spiralled upwards in straight columns. The torches' blue flames barely flickered. In ones and twos, drifting pyreflies chased the smoke like furtive children stealing out after curfew to play in the fiend-haunted jungle.

Below, guardians and monks kept vigil while Isaaru circled the graves, his solemn gestures a restrained echo of Lady Yuna's whirling dance. Maroda watched intently, but for less than pious reasons: he had noticed his brother's knit brows and taut face. The summoner was waging an inner battle far from his guardians' aid. At last, Isaaru halted and sagged against his staff. Maroda started towards him.

The maester waved him off. "It is done. They are free." He nodded to the monks, who bowed and fanned out to clear away the trappings of ritual.

"Leave the torches," Sir Auron called from the temple platform, keeping watch. "We'll need them tonight."

"What?" Pacce said. "But if we hurry, we can reach the beach by sunset!"

Maroda raised his eyes to the sun setting beyond the snaggle-toothed roof of the jungle. "If we hurry, we could run straight into the jaws of fiends," he said. "Sir Auron's right. We don't want to get caught in the forest after nightfall. Don't worry. The ship's not going to leave without us."

"I'm sorry, Pacce," said Isaaru. "I've put us in some peril in order to perform a proper sending. But I have faith in my guardians." He winked. "It's like old times together, no?"

Pacce managed a strained grin. "Yeah. I suppose."

"Come on," Maroda said. "There's cots and mats in the lodge we might be able to salvage. We can spread them out by the fire ring—"

"Out in the open where nothing can sneak up on us. Right."

Isaaru sank onto a block of stone, smiling faintly at the give and take between them that was almost on equal footing now. It would have to be. Their last pilgrimage had been sheer folly; Yuna's sacrifice had saved them from confronting a foe too great for their skill. Propping his chin on his hands, the summoner closed his eyes in a silent prayer of thanks to the summoner in whose shadow he was honored to tread.

Gravel crunched nearby. "A hard sending," Auron said at his shoulder.

"Indeed. The only spirits clinging to their bodies after so many days are those who don't want to leave— and they are bitter, stubborn or in pain. But we were in time for a few."

"Maester thirteen years, yet you still think like a priest," Auron said. "All Spira needs you. You may not have the luxury of saving a few."

"Perhaps not." Absently he reached for the bone pendant tickling his skin under the stiff collar of his robes. "But I think High Summoner Yuna would have done the same."

"Yuna made mistakes."

"As have I," Isaaru said. "I trust, Sir Auron, you will share with us what you know of the journey ahead, so that I may avoid other mistakes."

"You're awfully quick to trust."

"Yes and no." The maester gave him an odd smile. "I wonder, Sir Auron, if you are still a traitor to Yevon. If so, I should like to know what you make of this." He drew the necklace over his head and cupped it carefully, shielding it from the view of the nearby monks.

Auron arched an eyebrow. "An odd talisman for a maester of Yevon."

"It belonged to a sailor on the ship that brought us here. I believe he carved it from memory. He had encountered Sin before. Do you recognize the image?"

"May I see it?" Auron always sounded gruff, but there was a strain in his tone that Isaaru noted and filed away. He placed the delicate triangle of bone in the man's gloved hand, watching him closely.

After a moment, the guardian shrugged. "Another of Sin's victims, no doubt."

"You think so?" Isaaru lowered his voice. Pacce and Maroda had returned, and were arranging cots and mats in a semicircle nearby. "There are those who call Sin The Lady now, and hold her in greater awe than Yevon. Sin's cult is growing. They thank her for the good harvests these last few years, for the gardens of Djose and the rains on Bikanel. Those who breathe Sin's toxin see this face... say she is Sin. Yet according to other sightings, Sin is the same as ever, a terrifying behemoth covered in loathsome scales. Who is she?"

"Sin." Auron's fingers closed loosely around the image, forming a cage.

Isaaru waited for the man to go on, but the stones of the ruined temple would probably speak sooner. The warrior's attention seemed fixed on the simple token.

"Ah." The maester leaned forward. "Then...who was she?"

Auron raised his head and squinted towards the jungle. For a moment Isaaru thought the guardian was still ignoring him. Then he felt it: the earth was shuddering. Before Isaaru could frame a question, the pulse crossed hearing's threshold, and from the heart of the forest came a tramping, splintering sound of trees groaning and breaking. Something massive was churning through storm-tossed trunks. There was a sliding crash as whole bank of broken tree-tops, upheld only by a snarl of limbs and thick vines, gave way at the crest of the hill. The jungle canopy tossed and thrashed in the path of something unseen. Limbs and leaves began raining down from the eaves.

"Durren!" Isaaru called, rising to his feet. "Get back! Come away from the trees!"

His monks had laid aside their gear and reached for their rifles— one innovation of Maester Kinoc's that he had not set aside— and were lining up at the edge of the village clearing.

Sir Auron jammed the necklace into his belt and marched towards them with a terse, "Don't summon yet."

Pacce and Maroda dropped what they were carrying and snatched up their weapons, jogging towards Auron. "What've we got?" Maroda said.

A rattle of gunfire broke out as the monks fell back. The nearest trees gave way and fell outward with splintering crashes as a hulking form lurched into view. Branches and vines trailed from the iron giant's joints. It reached the stupefied monks in four strides. A huge blade flashed in the dusk. Guns clattered to the ground as three torsos jerked and fell sideways like heads of grain.

Isaaru cried aloud in anguish, but his guardians took no notice, converging on the foe from three points. Maroda's spear glanced off with a clang. Pacce lunged beneath another scything stroke; Sir Auron, slower, caught the brunt of it. Somehow his hauberk held: he skidded backwards across the flagstones and fell to his knees, parrying some of the force of the blow with his sword braced before him. He barked something, but his words were drowned out by the ring of battle and the screech of ancient machina. Maroda and Pacce darted in and out, harrying the creature while Auron hammered at its knees. Yellow sparks flew from the older guardian's blade. Suddenly all three broke and ran for the cover of the woods. The behemoth roared and swung around, stomping after them.

Praying he had understood, Isaaru pointed his staff at the sky, gathering himself for the most difficult of summons. Green fire leapt from his shoulders. He felt a breath of benison on his upraised cheeks as the amber-streaked heavens split open, seared by a mighty star plummeting through glyphs etched in living light. The ground quaked again as Bevelle's aeon alighted with a roar, great wings beating the air as it lunged towards the fray. Spathi, youngest and eldest, a child taken captive from Zanarkand who might have become the greatest summoner of all had he not been bound: he never failed to make Isaaru feel like a child before him.

This aeon could dwarf a giant. There was no contest between the two, with Auron's gift for turning armor to eggshells. Ancient plates buckled under Spathi's massive fists. Curlers of rising steam turned abruptly to a shimmer of pyreflies as the iron giant toppled backwards and hit the ground with a final teeth-jarring concussion. Spathi roared in victory and hurtled upwards, swiftly vanishing from sight.

Isaaru whispered a silent prayer of thanks, then made his way wearily towards the sad remains of the monks. Maroda and Pacce emerged from the wreckage at the forest's edge and stumbled towards him.

"We're fine," Maroda said, answering his keen glance.

"Speak for yourself—" Pacce said, and stopped short.

"It should not have been here," Isaaru said dazedly, barely able to hear his own voice after the deafening din. "Do you remember? We fought such creatures on the Thunder Plains." He shook his head and stooped over the bodies, stomach clenching at the puddle of warm blood seeping into his shoes. "Forgive me, old friend." He closed the monk's eyes and moved to the next corpse, barely registering Maroda's hand clamping onto his elbow to steady him.

Out of the corner of his eye he noted the tears dribbling down Pacce's grimy cheeks. Usually he had sure words of comfort to bolster the youth's bright spirit, but now that well was dry.

Durren had been a fine tutor.

One more summoning. One more sending. Spira's next Calm could not come too soon.

I'm too old for this.

Auron tasted blood and irony on his lips as he lowered himself with a grunt onto a leaf-plastered bench set in a clearing well back among the trees. Dimly he registered the struts and shredded canvas of a ruined hut looming behind and partially overhead. Drawing a small flask from the inner pocket of his coat, he pulled the cork with his teeth and spat, then drank deeply. The cool potion slid down his throat.

Auron sagged as the stabbing ache of a cracked rib subsided. He allowed himself a fleeting memory of this place, glancing up and filling the shadows above with curved beams and a dome of tapestries backlit by moonlight. Below, the blush of candlelight played across her shoulder-blades where the witch lay draped in casual elegance across a surprisingly plain bed. The scent of the damp jungle and the dried bundles of herbs and spell-components hanging from the ceiling mingled with the musky hint of a perfume he had despised for the first half of the pilgrimage. He remembered the murmur of her voice rising and falling as she read to him the tale of two pagan gods that a follower of Yevon ought not to know. Despite the title, it had not provided many clues for their sigil-quest.

"And Venus born of sea-foam renewed her virginity each year—"

"Some trick."

"—bathing in the waves by the grotto where first she had come ashore. There he waited for her, and for one night only war was in abeyance. For then did Mars put off his shield and panoply to help her renew her womanhood."

"Not much use in the bath, then."

She opened her hand, and the scroll rolled itself shut with a crack. "We should be heading back."

"I thought you said you'd burn through the hull of the airship if you were cooped up in that machina one more night."

"Yes, but your thick skull is starting to look tempting."

"My skull?"

That languid laughter had always been more dangerous than her barbs. "Among other things."

A slithering rustle in the underbrush drew Auron's mind back to the present. The jungle darkened as the vision faded away. He'd taken more than enough time for ribs to knit. Lifting his sword and laying it across his knees, he ran gloved fingertips along the edge, finding a few notches. There was no nimble-fingered Al Bhed to sharpen it for him tonight.

"Sir Auron?" Pacce's anxious calls filtered back through the trees. The summoner must have finished the sending. Heaving himself to his feet, Auron started back towards the village.

Something snapped under his boots when he stood up. He looked down. Peering through the gloom, he could just make out the broken bones of a wicker cradle. Someone else must have moved into Lulu's old home when she did not return.

Auron knelt, fishing the sailor's charm out of his belt. He stared at the face of bone gleaming in the darkness. After a moment's hesitation, he draped the necklace over the cradle's shell with care, rose quickly and stalked away.

 

[Amizon]

Moved to Fan Fiction.

 

[Auronlu]

Chapter IV: For the Fallen

Chapter IV: For the Fallen
​

"You have my thanks. And Lady Yuna's as well, you may be sure. May she guide our path and shield us from Sin's fury. For now we sail... to Kilika!" The maester raised his hands and drew them together in Yevon's sign with a graceful bow.

There was a ragged cheer from the sailors and priests gathered at the waterline. They scattered at once to make ready the rowboats, even before the torches had reverted from blue to orange. It was disrespectful to the dead, but Isaaru did not begrudge their eagerness to quit this marred island paradise.

They had worked hard. The beach was swept clean, and they had even washed down the trunks and leaves of the trees to remove clinging ash. Brightly-colored prayer flags— many of them products of Besaid's famous weavers— fluttered on poles thrust into the sand. The blue ocean sparkled under a fierce noonday sun, masking the last few pyreflies drifting up from submerged coffins jostling on beds of coral. Besaid's harbor had been too choked with flotsam to use for the sending, but they had ferried the dead around to a more sheltered cove using the ship's rowboats and a few salvaged fishing-canoes.

"Will somebody rebuild here, do you think?" Pacce asked Maroda as they headed for the rowboats.

"In the next Calm, maybe," Maroda said. "Not before."

Both looked to their brother, but Isaaru seemed to have missed the exchange, although he walked between them. Wordlessly they held a boat steady for him to board, then joined the sailors in dragging it down into the lapping waves until the stern floated free.

"Hey," Pacce said, tumbling into his own seat, "Where's Sir Auron?"

"For a guardian, he sure doesn't seem to guard much," Maroda muttered.

Isaaru smiled; a commanding figure was just striding out from the edge of the trees. Sir Auron sloshed out to them and stepped into the bow without breaking stride.

"No sign of Sin," he said. "We should have clear running tonight, although it may be another story in Kilika."

Captain Kiyuri, taking her place at the rudder, shot Auron a jaundiced stare over the backs of the rowers that told plainly what she thought of the legendary hero: landlubber.

It was a subdued company that ferried the maester and his guardians back to the ship. Isaaru had not spoken a word since his speech. He sat with chin lowered, gripping the sides and swaying jerkily as if struggling to match the rhythm of the swells. Halfway across the open water, Kiyuri ventured a soft, "Are you all right, my lord?" barely audible above the chop of the oars.

"My heart is heavy, Captain." He turned in his seat with a well-honed smile. "But I am also pleased. The dead of Besaid will rest easily, and we have gathered much that should assist my pilgrimage. Our trip was not in vain."

"We have?" Maroda mouthed behind him.

"Yeah, and we've got Sir Auron, now!" Pacce said cheerfully.

"Yes." The maester glanced at the man's broad back and shoulders, wrapped as usual in his imposing red coat. "Ah, that reminds me. Captain, no need to hoist my sigil. In fact, if you can, fly no symbol of Yevon at all."

"My lord?" Kiyuri's voice rose in astonishment. "But it is an honor to convey the Grand Maester, and ill luck to sail without Yevon's blessing!"

"Yevon's blessing you will have, Kiyuri, so far as it is in my power to grant it," Isaaru said, soothing. "But your crew have faced perils and sorrows enough. If Sin is truly roused against Yevon, then I shall not needlessly endanger them. Yevon will bring Sin to account, but that battle is for summoners and guardians, not ordinary sailors and soldiers."

There was a faint humph from Sir Auron. Maroda's somber nod conveyed more: thirteen years gone, the ghosts of Djose's bloody beaches still haunted all four maesters.

"Aye, Sir." Kiyuri braced her elbow against the tiller to give Yevon's prayer. "And thank you."

Back aboard the SS Korra, Isaaru remained on deck just long enough to be sure all were safe aboard, and that the sails had been changed to plain canvas sheets from the ship's stores. Then, yielding to Maroda's urging, he retired to his cabin.

"For I am weary," Isaaru admitted. "Five sendings in three days is a record I hope never to repeat."

Freed from duties for a while, Pacce joined Sir Auron on the upper deck. The veteran guardian acknowledged him with a spare nod, and side by side they watched Besaid shrink and fade into the blue haze. Tongue-tied, it took Pacce some while to muster up his courage and a question.

"Sir Auron? Do you think Sin is after Isaaru?"

"Not directly," Auron said. "Or not yet. But your brother's guess is correct. Sin is targeting Yevon."

"Wow," Pacce said. "I didn't know it could think."

Auron gave an odd smirk, but said nothing.

Pacce folded his arms along the railing and rested his chin on his forearms. "I don't get it," he said. "Sin's the punishment for our sins, right? Isaaru says that good deeds can balance lack of faith, so we shouldn't blame Sin's return on the heathens, but still— why does Sin leave the Al Bhed alone and attack us? Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"Yevon opposes Sin," Auron reminded him. "The Al Bhed avoid it."

"Huh." Pacce ran a hand through his hair, leaving it flattened on one side and straight up on the other like a half-mowed field. Wrestling with Yevon's teachings and coming no closer to a solution, he gave up and changed tack."So, um...what happened to Lady Yuna's other guardians, anyway? Is Sir Tidus still alive?"

"No." His voice held a painful note of finality.

Pacce was wracking his brains for another question when Auron added with more gentleness than was his habit: "He died protecting the woman he loved." It was a pointless platitude, but Pacce seemed young enough to notice romance more than stupidity.

"Aw." Pacce sighed. "I liked him. He was cool. The Final Summoning, huh?"

"Seymour," Auron growled.

"Maester Seymour? Wasn't he... dead... unsent? Though I guess Maester Mika was, too." Pacce's round face blanched at a memory. "But you did get Seymour finally, right? Lady Yuna sent him?"

"Yes." So much could be packed into one brittle word: a summoner's tears, the death of hope, a holy fury that had reduced Auron's last bellowing charge against Yunalesca to a mere squeak. Lulu must have been proud of Yuna, through the teeth of her own bitter rage.

"And the others?" Pacce said. "The other guardians?"

Auron grimaced. "I never found a trace."

"Aw, man." The younger guardian kicked at the deck-boards. "I'm sorry."

Auron roused himself, finally seeming to focus on the young man beside him. "I didn't see them fall, Pacce. Yuna's last command was for us to stay well back when she performed the Final Summoning. I didn't listen, and nearly paid the price. If they obeyed, there's a good chance they're still alive." There. A lesson. It was partly a lie, since Kimahri had refused to leave Yuna's side. But Auron's task now was to prepare new guardians for their own pilgrimage, not brood over the last one. There was one other matter of ancient history, however, that Auron could not leave unexamined.

"Pacce," Auron said. "What happened to Mika?"

"Oh!" The youth's round cheeks reddened. "Lord Mika? He, uh...Didn't you hear the proclamations? Maybe you were still coming back from your pilgrimage. He died. Isaaru said his heart gave out when he learned how Seymour had murdered the other maesters and all the Ronso."

"Hmph." The white-haired guardian stroked his chin, eyes suddenly narrowing. "Was that before or after your brother was appointed maester?"

"After...no, before, I think." Pacce ducked his eyes. "I'm sorry, sir; I don't really understand everything that happened back then. I was just a kid. You should ask Isaaru or Maroda about it."

Auron nodded minutely, preoccupied.

Fidgeting, Pacce abandoned the railing and pulled himself up in a self-conscious salute. "Well. Speaking of Isaaru, I'd better go check on him. It was, uh, nice talking to you, Sir Auron!"

Hurrying forward, Pacce failed to notice Maroda lurking behind the mast until an arm shot out to check him. "Isaaru's asleep," Maroda said in a low voice. "Pacce, did Sir Auron say anything about how he got to Besaid?"

Pacce shook his head. "I didn't ask."

"Or why he knew Sin was coming?"

"Not really." The youth raised his eyes, troubled. "You don't trust him, do you?"

Maroda gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. "Don't worry about it. Just...be careful. I know he's Sir Auron, and Isaaru wanted him as guardian. But he's not telling us everything."

"Yeah, well." Pacce shot a guilty grin over his shoulder. "Who does?"

A clear, star-drenched night sent the SS Korra flying on the wings of a pure, cold wind that blew them towards sunrise. Only a few wisps of haze hung in the southwest. A lacelike curtain of lightning had flickered and danced there for an hour or so, but it had faded away before dawn.

By mid morning, Kilika's green spur was rising out of the sea like a prow against the burnished sky. White gulls flew out to escort them. A few leagues out from land, the Korra passed through a far-flung necklace of fishing boats floating in a wide arc where the ocean changed from jade to blue. Fishermen dropped nets to gawk and wave, hailing her with cries of welcome and wonder. The stately three-masted vessel dwarfed any ferry that had plied these waters in living memory.

Isaaru and his guardians joined the captain in the wheelhouse to discuss plans for the brief layover.

"We only need to re-water," Kiyuri was saying. "But I wouldn't mind a few hours to inspect the hull. There's a slow leak somewhere; the hold's damp."

"Very good," Isaaru said. "Meanwhile, my guardians and I will pay our respects at the temple."

"Wait, are you serious?" Pacce said. "A leak? That's not good!"

"You'll find the same in any old ship, boy," said the captain, giving the cabin wall a sturdy rap. "We're not going down, don't worry."

As if in response, there was a hollow boom underfoot more felt than heard, and the ship gave a disquieting lurch. All the lanterns suspended from the ceiling swung slowly to one side. Compartments and trunks rattled. On the upper deck, the ship's bell began to clang wildly.

"Sin," Auron said. Outside, sailors began taking up the cry.

Kiyuri swore and lunged for the door, flinging it open just as a huge wall of spray crashed over the deck and blasted into the wheelhouse, knocking her back into Maroda's arms. She jammed an elbow in his gut to extricate herself. "Well, don't just stand there, man; defend the ship!"

"Stay here," he said, setting the woman on her feet and grabbing a harpoon from the wall; he'd left his spear in his cabin. "Pacce, come on!"

Following them grimly, Isaaru and Auron stepped out into all-too-familiar chaos. The ship was heeled over at a terrifying angle. Towering waves broke over the rails. A seething tide of snapping sinspawn had spilled across the deck, covering it with squat hard-shelled creatures armed with jagged, crablike claws. They darted and caromed off curbs and walls, tearing into the legs and limbs of anyone who held their ground. Sailors who let go of ropes and spars to dodge them risked being swept overboard.

The three guardians waded into the fray, clearing a swath through the swarm. Auron took point, whirling his sword in a great figure eight and hammering tough shells until they cracked and split in a shower of sparks; Maroda and Pacce closed ranks behind him to skewer and hack the weakened fiends to pieces.

"Above you!" Isaaru cried, following in their wake as he sought a clear space to summon. Pacce skidded to a crouch and stared upwards, aghast. A small fishing boat, raised on high by the surge, hung suspended at the level of the mast-head for a surreal moment before plunging down, down, smashing full force upon the deck. The trio scattered, barely leaping clear of the wreckage in time.

Before they could regroup, a few gunshots rang out from the upper deck in an anemic salvo. Either most of the warrior monks had been swept away, or their their rifles had been damaged by seawater. There was no time to find out. Just off the starboard bow, the white curtain of water had parted to reveal a looming wall of scabrous gray flesh, the body of Sin itself driving on a course nearly parallel to their own. Its vast shadow blotted out the sun.

"It's heading for Kilika," Maroda shouted.

"I have to turn it," said Isaaru. He seized a metal cleat bolted to the mast, bracing against another deluge.

"But that'll bring Sin back on us!" Pacce cried. He still had his hands full with sinspawn, pouncing on one of the crab-creatures to drag a sailor out from under it.

"No good." Auron's black blade sliced through its arms at the joints. "Your aeons are too weak."

The bulk of Sin had nearly passed. The ship quivered and groaned with a long, rattling vibration as Sin's pitted hide scraped against the hull. They could hear Kiyuri's foghorn voice bellowing orders in the wheelhouse.

"I won't let Kilika follow Besaid," Isaaru said stoutly, raising his hands to begin his most potent summons.

"So be it." Auron banked his weapon across his shoulders, broke from the melee and charged towards the prow where the sides drew together; the deck between them sloped upwards in a steep ramp. The big man picked up speed, oblivious to the bucking of the ship.

"Sir Auron!" Pacce cried. He stared in horror as Auron barrelled towards the bowsprint and vaulted over it, vanishing into the surf. "He'll drown!"

Sunlight streamed through the curtain of water off the bow. Sin had passed them by. A ragged cheer went up as the spray cleared. Sir Auron, a tiny red figure against the sky, was climbing a horny peak of scale and bone. He held his sword above his head, fending off sinspawn tumbling down on him from above. Abruptly he dropped to his knees, raised the blade high and slammed it downwards, crying out a name.

The mountain convulsed beneath him. Huge green waves rolled forward off the sloping snout. Sin's forward momentum abruptly slowed.

For a moment a collision seemed certain, but the captain's orders had come just in time. The ship canted in a steep turn. One of the rowboats hanging over the side was sheared off and tumbled into the frothing sea, but the Korra staggered clear of Sin's mass and rode out the swells beyond it, righting herself with a final heave. Her crew saw the green surge racing ahead of them to crash over Kilika's high stone seawall, built to shield the port against such assaults. Many of the fishing vessels were dashed against the breakwater, but the town was spared the brunt of the onslaught— for now.

Sin halted. Vast and menacing, it loomed high above the Korra's main mast, brooding over the sprawling fishing port laid out on the water before it. A hive of gigantic round eyes roiled on Sin's brow below a shelf where spires and barbs bristled like a city's skyline. Human sight seemed to slide off Sin's sides. For an inexorable moment it seemed to gather itself for some cataclysmic assault that would vaporize everything in its path. Then, suddenly, the field burst. Bracing themselves for dissolution, watchers found themselves bathed in in a fine drizzle of warm, gentle rain, salty like tears. A shower of rose petals came whirling on the wind, sticking wetly to cheeks and hair, deck and masts and stays. A rainbow arched overhead.

Murmurs of The Lady rippled across the battered ship.

Sin was once more wreathed in a soft cascading mist. Above it reared a wavering vision familiar from temple portraits, yet on a far grander scale: High Summoner Yuna dancing on a flowerlike pillar of water, whirling and dipping with her staff to paint ribbons of pyreflies on the wind. Higher and higher she danced, hypnotic, dreamlike, achingly joyful: an image of innocence so pure it burned the soul as the sun seared the eyes. At the apex of her dance, there was a white flash and a thunderclap. A bolt of flames— no, not a mere bolt, a massive meteor of balefire shedding embers the size of bombs— carved a blinding path overhead, stabbing towards Kilika's highest point. A fireball mushroomed up over the tops of the trees in eerie silence.

Isaaru gasped and clenched a hand over his heart, sagging against the mast. "Grothia..."

Boom. The sound of distant devastation buffeted their ears many seconds later.

With a mighty inrush of water and a mournful wail at the edge of hearing, Sin sank beneath the waves and vanished, leaving only a vast drift of rose petals bobbing on the surface of the sea to mark where it had been.

Of Auron, there was no sign.

 

[Auronlu]

Chapters V and VI

Chapter V: Pearl

Auron slogged through darkness. He felt the lash of bitter rain against his skin like tiny sullen barbs, warning him to keep his distance. Now and again lightning flickered, but never long enough to show him what kind of landscape this dream-world might be. He felt parched despite the rain, and his feet and limbs were numb with cold. At last, after he had forgotten what time and distance meant, he found a leaping wall of flame barring his path. He braced himself for the searing heat and pushed through.

On the far side of this barrier, darkness took on clarity and shape. It was the black and silver of moonlight, wisps of cloud and patches of night sky overhead where stars glittered. At his back was a whispering jungle, shimmering with crickets and the distant cries of fiends. Its lush, fiercely alive scents nearly smothered him. Before him lay a placid harbor, gentle flecks of crested waves rising and falling like a woman's breast in sleep.

Sensing his destination now, he kicked through sand towards the breakers beyond the point where seaweed flexed over rocks jutting out from shore. When the sand gave out, he waded into the warm saltwater. Water had never been his element, but it was Sin's, and it suited her now as much as fire's wrath, lightning's flash and icy disdain had suited her before.

There. A glimmer of white. Easing himself over the sharp edges of shells, he pulled up short, arrested by the same vision that had spawned a cult. Familiarity was no defense.

Lulu lay back against the rocks and purple seaweed with regal indolence, black braids swirling around her waist each time a wave lapped over her. Fishnets still clung to her legs, but that was all she wore. No, not quite all. Her hands were cupped behind her head, but manacles bound her wrists, discreetly hidden by hair. She was chained to the rocks.

He stood gazing too long, apparently. A stinging smack of seawater drenched him, burning his eyes with salt. "Yevon has me still," Lulu warned. "And you, I suppose. You never meant to stay."

He shrugged. "I made a promise."

"Another chain."

For a moment he was not certain whether he still had his sword— Sin's dream was a haphazard slice of reality— but then he felt its reassuring weight. Bracing himself for the downward stroke, he raised it slowly, inexorably, like a guillotine's indrawn breath. Lulu, watching him, did not flinch. The blade dropped. There was a bone-jarring clang. Sparks flew from the chains, but it was the sword's edge that came away notched.

"Yu Yevon has me," she said again. "I am nearly his now. I've fought him for so long, Auron. He rides anger so easily." For a moment, an image of Yuna was dancing on the crest of a nearby wave. Then she tumbled beneath it, lost from view. It was hard to see in the moonlight, but the damp sand left behind by retreating waves was now stained red.

"Yes, I knew all their names," she said, eyes remote. "Even the infant's."

"You make a good Sin."

That set off a ripple of laughter, enough to set the waves sparkling under the moon. "Of course," she said with a hint of professional pride. Then the haughty smirk faded, and the moon withdrew behind a cloud. "Thank you for stopping me, this time."

"You stopped yourself."

"No." The mage shook her head, chains clanking faintly as she flicked a hand dismissively towards herself. "There's just one way I've found to keep Yu Yevon out for a while. One way...and it is a momentary diversion at most." Her lips twisted in a faint smile, self-deprecating, coolly amused. "None of them are you."

With a wrench it came whirling back to him, those nights late in the pilgrimage when weariness and delay were eating at his mind, threatening to unravel him with the transition to fiend that all unsent must undergo soon or late. She had helped him keep the madness at bay with a different kind of abandon.

He gave a soft snort. For Lulu, even the arts of Venus were a weapon.

Even now he sensed the siren's allure of her presence like the tug of the moon on the tides— dream though this was, and both their bodies a lie meant to fool the living. Stooping, he wedged the black sword in a bank of mussels, then lowered himself into the tidepool and dropped to one knee, gathering her face in his hands.

She greeted him with a profoundly private, delicate, almost reverent kiss, like those she used to give his ruined eye the few times he'd let her touch it; yet the merest graze of her lips now threatened to drag him under and drown him on the spot. Perhaps he waited a little longer than necessary for her lids to droop and her breathing to quicken. The wind picked up, driving flecks of foam against his face and bare arm. Reluctantly he pulled away, caressing her cheek. Even that seemed to sear his skin right through the glove.

"Sorry," he said. "No time for worship. Lulu, I must know: why is Yu Yevon freeing the Fayth?"

Sir Auron! Abruptly a voice from a different life cut shrilly through the timeless music of lapping waves and surf, transgressing Sin's inner sanctum. Please, sir, wake up!

The dream-world rippled, shattered in spreading rings, and smoothed out again.

"Isn't it obvious?" she said. "Yuna and I, and you and Kimahri, we came very near to destroying Yu Yevon. The pilgrimage has become a threat."

Auron frowned. Something was inside out. For a moment he could not place it, until he realized that they were no longer seeing eye to eye, his left mirrored by her right. The sweep of black hair covered the wrong side of her face. He reached out to brush the black curtain aside. When it fell back, her face had reversed from left to right beneath his touch.

"You know," she whispered urgently. "Yu Yevon thinks he knows."

"Sir Auron!" The braying summons came again. Auron abruptly felt himself fighting for air, choking, straining to hold the fabric of the dream around himself like a fraying cloak. The sea hissed angrily. Lightning tracers scurried across the sky. Her braids coiled around his arms, his legs, his chest and throat, spilling into his lungs. Mine, mine, the surf seemed to snarl. His vision went from half to none. It felt like a crew of Al Bhed was nailing his brain to the inside if his skull.

Then smooth arms were lifting him towards the surface as gently as jungle fronds reaching for the sun. Sharp concern washed over him in a fading echo. "Go. Hurry. Be. Look for me in my garden, Auron; we'll talk later."

And the dream tore.

​

Chapter VI: Flotsam

It wasn't every day that the dead returned to the light of day to find themselves drowning.

That was Auron's second thought. The first— no, not a thought, just instinct— was to punch the dark figure crouched over him, compressing his chest with deep thrusts accompanied by a crackling, gurgling noise that he failed to recognize as the sound of his own lungs. The water gushing out of his nose and mouth should have been a clue, but Auron's skull was still pounding like a Zanarkand stadium. Luckily, the second thought made him chuckle, and that triggered a gut-wracking fit of coughing that kept him occupied until he had reclassified Maroda as a non-target. Instead, he clamped onto the man's wrist and pushed. "Enough."

"Whew!" Pacce's moon-face hovered into view. "You all right now, sir?"

That voice. Still half-drowned by dream, Auron transferred his grip to Pacce's collar. "Where is she?"

"Oh, great," said Maroda. "The toxin." He sat back on his heels, glaring. "Hands off, or I'm throwing you back where we found you."

"Sorry." Releasing the boy, Auron turned away and squinted towards the ocean, resting on his side until another fit of coughing had passed.

"Were you trying to rescue somebody?" Pacce said, standing to scan the harbor.

There was still a harbor. Auron lay on a sloping shelf of rocks hemming the shore, but to his right a sturdy causeway extended out to the village and marina. Quivering puddles gleamed on plank walkways. Wails from the nearest hut told of broken bodies on the breakwater, fishermen who had gone out each day to feed their families, setting themselves on Sin's altar as daily offerings. Pyreflies were spiralling up from the hut's smoke-hole. But the harbor was clear, apart from a few listing boats and the imposing mass of the SS Korra moored to the end of the main pier. Murmuring locals— Sin's leftovers— clustered in scattered knots along the docks, huddled together like restive gulls driven ashore by the outriders of a storm. There would be more sendings today, but the village had been spared obliteration.

You're welcome, Lulu.

"Sir?" Pacce prodded. "Do you want us to help look for her?"

Sitting up and squinting, Auron searched the strip of ocean visible beyond the seawall. Sparkling blue sped off to the horizon without the faintest scar to mark Sin's passage.

"No," he said. "She's gone."

"Oh." Blinking back tears, Pacce bowed in Yevon's prayer for some imagined damsel in distress.

Fighting the weight of his waterlogged coat, Auron hoisted himself to his feet and grunted at Maroda. "Thanks."

"Sure thing." The dark man grinned and got up, loping over to the end of the causeway to retrieve his spear propped against the pilings. "Just don't make a habit of it, man. I thought I was going to need a winch."

"I can't believe you jumped overboard with your sword, armor and all," Pacce said. "Weren't you afraid they'd pull you under?"

Auron shrugged. "Didn't matter. I can't swim."

"Correction," Maroda said, raising his voice. "It's not Sin's toxin. He's just crazy."

"Pilgrimage entails a certain degree of folly," Isaaru said, walking towards them from the hut where wails had given way to poignant silence. A warrior monk and a priest marched behind. Isaaru's face was haggard, but his summoner's smile was undimmed. "Sir Auron. The villagers have asked me to convey their utmost gratitude; they saw your fight from afar. Your courage has saved Kilika."

"Partly."

The summoner raised his eyes to the smoke billowing up from the heart of the jungle behind them. "Yes. If you are recovered, we must go to the temple at once. There may be survivors. If not, we can at least pay our respects."

"Is that a summoner's command, or a priest's?" Auron said. "Sin won't wait."

"No. But where it is now, only Yevon knows."

Auron grimaced and said nothing.

"Sir Auron?" Pacce said shyly. "You know where Sin's going next...don't you?"

"Djose." He fixed the maester with a level stare. "After that, probably Macalania and Bevelle."

"No!" Isaaru pressed a fist to his breastbone as if trying to staunch a wound. "The aeons...and thousands of people in Bevelle—"

"Now, wait just a minute!" Maroda burst out. "With all due respect, sir, it's about time you explained how you're able to predict Sin's movements."

"You said it yourself," Auron said, ignoring the spear subtly angled towards him.

"Yes." Isaaru set his hand above Maroda's, silently commanding him to stand down. "Sin is growing smarter. She's making the pilgrimage ahead of us to prevent the Final Summoning, yes?"

Auron arched an eyebrow at his choice of pronouns. "Correct."

"So why'd Sin get so clever all of a sudden?" said Pacce.

"It's like someone's telling it where we're going," Maroda growled.

"Maroda, please." Isaaru raised his hand, warding off further debate. A delegation of villagers was trickling towards them along the causeway, led by an old man, a woman and several children. The little ones bore armloads of flowers, purple jungle blossoms and fuchsia interwoven with white rose petals. The straggling procession halted a few paces away and bowed in Yevon's prayer.

"Your Grace?" the woman said hesitantly. "My Lord Summoner?"

"Yes?"

"Welcome to Kilika," the old man said, flashing a snaggletoothed smile. "Though so far it's not been a welcome fit for a summoner, let alone the Grand Maester of Yevon. We'd like to make amends, my lord."

At his nod, the children tumbled over the side of the bridge and fanned out across the rocks, each one carrying a garland to Isaaru or one of his guardians. Isaaru bent, smiling, allowing one boy to hang a lei around his neck. "Even Sin cannot quench Kilikan hospitality."

"And we'd also like to welcome your guardians," the woman said. "Please accept these small tokens of thanks. Tomorrow will be a feast of thanksgiving. We hope you'll join us as guests of honor."

The youngest girl had taken too long in choosing a target and stood frozen, staring at the water dripping off the hem of Auron's sodden coat. He held out his hands. Mistaking the gesture, she scampered towards him with outstretched arms. He hesitated, expression inscrutable, then scooped her up and lifted her onto his shoulder. The urchin squealed and poked at his glasses. "He's old."

"Deir," the woman chided. "Please give Sir Auron his flowers."

Chastened, the girl hastened to drape the garland haphazardly around Auron's head, snagging it over one ear. She fussed for some time with the arrangement, trying it both outside and inside his collar before wrapping a few loops around the earpieces of his glasses and turning the garland into a wreath. His damp, salt-caked hair attracted her attention as well, and she gave it a thorough grooming with her fingers. Auron stood patiently until she was finished, then set her down with a gruff, "Thanks." A few nervous titters arose from nearby spectators.

Isaaru's lips twitched. Maroda tapped the end of his spear against a rock impatiently.

A woman's sneer drifted out to them from the curtain of vines fencing the jungle path. "Enjoying ourselves, are we?"

"Oh, great," Maroda muttered.

Dona stalked out into the sunlight and halted, propping a hand on her hip to survey the gathering. The former summoner appeared little changed, save that her summoner's ribbons were conspicuously absent. Her guardian Barthello blundered into the open behind her, acolyte's robes giving him the appearance of a badly-upholstered couch. He was smudged with soot.

"Barthello!" Pacce cried, taking an eager step towards the bulky man before remembering his post. Blushing, he altered course and planted himself by Isaaru.

"Lady Dona," Isaaru said with a courtly nod. Unruffled, he turned back to the villagers. "I and my guardians are honored and humbled by your generosity, people of Kilika: you're what makes a pilgrimage worth doing. I wish we could stay, but we can't rest until Sin is stopped. I'll send your fallen before we go. My priests and monks will remain here to tend the wounded and clear away sinspawn; they can follow on the ferry. Now, if you will excuse us—" He stooped to lift the smallest child back onto the causeway, ruffling her hair. "It seems Lady Dona would like a few words with me."

"Your Grace," The woman bowed reverently.

"Come back when you've put Sin to rights, then!" the old man said brightly. "We'll have another feast. See he doesn't forget, eh, lads?" He winked at Pacce and Maroda.

"Uh." Maroda peered down at the village elder as if checking him for signs of toxin. "Right."

"Good lad." The old man gave him a sympathetic pat, then turned to help herd the children and spectators back towards the village. There were many warm and beaming smiles as they departed, but no one save the children and the codger would meet Isaaru's kindly gaze directly.

"You can save yourselves the trouble of a climb," Dona said. "There's nothing left."

"The priests?" Isaaru said quietly. "The nuns?"

Dona shook her head. "We lost three and five— more, if this idiot hadn't decided to play hero." Barthello straightened and flexed. "The survivors are gathering what's left for sending. We'll be getting back to them after I've checked on things here. So what exactly happened?" She nodded towards the village. "Not as bad as I expected."

"Sir Auron was an idiot!" Pacce crowed. "He jumped on Sin's back and attacked it! He turned it away!"

Barthello's wooden face barely twitched, but his eyes shone. Auron gave a minute sigh.

"Must be getting senile," Dona said, eying the white-haired veteran skeptically. "Sin, that is. I assume this was after it blasted the temple into a molten crater."

"Before, actually," Maroda said.

"Hmph. Well, I suppose we should thank you, Sir Auron, although Isaaru's probably going to miss that aeon." She cocked her head at Isaaru. "Are you going, or do I need to come out of retirement?"

Barthello drew a step closer to her, unnoticed; he gave Isaaru a pleading look.

"No." The maester smiled. "I trust that won't be necessary. Guard Kilika. I hope Sin will not trouble you again before I and my guardians have dealt with it."

"Thanks. Enjoy being Spira's new darling — not that you weren't already." For a moment she seemed at a loss, smirk covering a hint of worry— or regret. Then she shook it away. "Come on, it looks like the village needs a few sendings. Why don't you boys play in the jungle while Isaaru and I finish up here." She snapped her fingers in dismissal at the four guardians, then stepped onto the causeway beside Isaaru. "Nice perk," she commented of the monk and priest who still hovered behind Isaaru as honor guard. "Maybe I should try for maester myself."

"Rumor has it there may soon be an opening," the red-haired man said good-naturedly, offering his arm as they started back towards the village.

"Come on, Barthello!" Pacce said, clapping the giant on the shoulder. "Let's find Sir Auron a sword! Sin took his. You've got to see his killer armor breaking move!"

"I'll catch up with you all later," Maroda said grimly. "One of us should guard Isaaru. Don't get hurt."
​

 

[Auronlu]

Chapters VII, VIII and IX

Chapter VII: Half-Truths

​

A spectacular Kilikan sunset of amber, red and gold had painted a sphere-perfect backdrop for the departure of Isaaru and his guardians, duly recorded by several spectators. The whole village had turned out to see them off. They had been escorted aboard with cheers, hymns, a refill of Auron's jug from Kulukan the innkeeper, and an unusually frank, "Good luck, Isaaru— sorry you're finally getting your chance," from Dona. Now they sailed north in lonely silence, muffled in a fog that seemed intent on blotting out the ship's lanterns, crew's voices, and any sign of a world beyond the ship's rails. The gates to the Farplane could hardly be more impenetrable.

Auron sat in the dank, gloomy night outside the door to Isaaru's cabin, methodically sharpening the cast-off Crusader's blade that Pacce and Barthello had found for him. It had barely sufficed for an ochu's hide. While that had given them a chance to show off to their idol, it might cost someone dearly.
​

Maroda slouched against the cabin wall on the other side of the door. The quiet, steady snick of the whetstone had been cutting the air between them for an hour, keeping awkward questions at bay. A delaying action at best, but it had given Auron time to prepare.

"So who was the wreath for?" Maroda said finally, breaking the unspoken armistice. Before his watch, Sir Auron had gone aft and cast the bedraggled garland overboard. The fog had swallowed it without a sound.

"A woman Sin killed on my last pilgrimage. She...mattered to me." Auron's former comrades would have been floored by the oblique admission. It irked him that a thirteen-year-secret could be so casually breached for the sake of tactics.

"Huh." Maroda's double-edged cordiality softened a notch. "Sorry, man. No offense, but you don't seem the type. Is she the one you were looking for today?"

"Yes." Yevon's art of cloaking lies in truths had taught him how to manage the reverse. "I saw her in the water. Sin's toxin, perhaps."

"Well, we all saw somebody," Maroda said. "But to me it looked like High Summoner Yuna. I could almost believe that Sin was marking the anniversary of its own destruction."

"Could be."

Maroda exhaled explosively. "Okay, look, Isaaru may be as patient as a Hypello, but I'm not. You've been holding out on us. You know what we'll find in Zanarkand, but you won't say a damned thing. You've survived two pilgrimages, when as far as I know, all your fellow guardians and summoners are dead. You know where Sin's going. It spared you today, and I don't think that was the first time. Just what is Sin to you? Your ticket to fame? Your...pet?"

Auron smiled sourly. Maroda's gambit was a good one, but it was not the first time a guardian had tried to provoke him into spilling secrets. Of course, Lulu's technique had relied on finesse more than a spear's thrust, turning his oaths against him.

"So that's it? You're going to withhold every scrap of knowledge about Zanarkand, so you can play some game with Yuna's life? And Tidus' too— or is he party to your plan?"

"I promised to protect them. They still have to find their own path."

"And wind up dead like Sir Jecht and Lord Braska! Exactly where in the teachings is it written that summoners have to enter a fiends' den blindfolded?" In her desperation, Lulu had let slip a secret of her own. And yet her impotent cruelty had almost swayed him, for he guessed its source. She had seemed too young to bear the weight of a dead summoner on her shoulders, but that night— just the second of their journey together, before she had come to matter — he had suddenly understood what anvil had forged the mage's twice-hammered steel.

"If I reveal what lies ahead, Yuna might turn back from the pilgrimage. But perhaps that's what you want." He, too, could wield words like a goad.

"What I want is not a matter for discussion. And there is nothing and no one in Spira that can convince Yuna to turn aside."

"I take it you tried?"

"For two years." The ache in her voice had echoed the one that kept him this side of the Farplane.

Then he had slipped. Auron had not realized until much later what seeds his words had sowed, or how far back Lulu had set foot on the first step leading to Yunalesca's lair. "I will tell you this. The summoner isn't the only one who pays the price for the Final Summoning."

"I... see."

"Do you?"

"Maybe." The curious calm in that one word should have alerted him, but Auron had been distracted, trying to head off her next question. "Except... you said Sir Jecht is still alive, did you not?"

"If Yuna knows the Final Summoning's true cost, she might turn back— or, if her will is as strong as you say, she'll give us the slip, try to finish the pilgrimage alone, and die far from our aid. No, Lulu. Let her find the answers she seeks in the Hall of the Final Summoning, with all of us at her side."

Auron grimaced. He had broken his resolve after all, and his words sent Yuna to her death. Or perhaps they made no difference. One guardian was gone by the time they reached Yunalesca. He might have changed the story.

Maroda was waiting. The crack of knuckles in the dark was a subtle hint that the younger guardian would sooner or later resort to more than mere words to get answers. Had Auron already said too much? No, this warrior lacked the witch's knack for adding up half-truths.

"Her name was Lulu," he said. "Another of Yuna's guardians. She trusted no one and nothing else to protect her summoner so well as herself. A trait you share. Yet when at last I answered all her questions, it changed nothing: except that she then chose the path I meant to take, and perished in the Final Summoning."

"Ah." Maroda affected sympathy. "I think I remember her. Busty, wore black?"

Auron smirked, wondering what sort of verbal fireworks that description might have earned from her. "Yes."

"You know, I'm sorry to hear about your friend— honestly— but that still doesn't explain anything about Sin. What's it doing? Why's it wiping out whole islands one day and showering us with flowers and rainbows the next? And what's with that vision of Lady Yuna that it plastered across the sky?"

Auron stared into the clinging, dismal fog, recalling the texture of dew-drenched fur and the scent of wet leather. Was tonight's weather natural, or was Lulu out there somewhere in the darkness, grappling with Yu Yevon's toxin and the more potent poison of regret? "Sin destroys. Sin grieves. It kills and honors the fallen. It's trapped in the spiral as much as we are."

"Huh. So why's it killing off the fayth this time around?"

"Freeing them is my guess," Auron said. "Maybe it thinks they're trapped in the same spiral."

"Except they volunteered for the job. A little like us, eh?" Maroda missed Auron's wry expression in the dark. "You know, if it succeeds, Isaaru won't die. He can't fight without aeons."

"Would that stop him?"

"No." Maroda slapped the wall with an angry thump. "And sooner or later, it'll kill us all. We've simply got to stop it from getting to Djose. Any ideas, old man?"

"Steal the fayth."

"Huh?"

"Remove the statue from the temple."

"Hey, that's a thought."

"It may not work. It depends on whether Sin can sense the spirit inside."

For once, Maroda's respect sounded unreserved. "Yeah, but it's worth a try. Thanks, man."

Second Cloister of Trials passed. Now Auron simply had to deal with Isaaru. The man seemed as innocent as Pacce, but Auron knew better than to judge summoners by their smiles. And he was still a maester of Yevon.

Chapter VIII: Two Can Tell a Lie

The faint lights of Luca glittered across the bay, a child's playhouse erected in memory of a half-forgotten dream. The last shreds of fog clung to the looming shell of the stadium. A few tinny strains of music drifted over the water. Apart from that faint heartbeat, the city slept.

Auron stood on the upper deck and took a swig of Kulukan's ale. He frowned. Either he was forgetting how to taste, or it lacked the bite of Zanarkand's brew. Then again, the city that never slept was stretched across the threshold of the Farplane like a spider's web; no surprise its spirits suited his tastes better.

Auron had not returned to Jecht's Zanarkand in thirteen years, although he had heard the whisperings of the dreaming fayth flowing down from Gagazet's peak. He'd killed Jecht and failed to save Tidus; Auron could do no more for the rest of Zanarkand's damned souls. Of course, his sword would have found plenty of fiends to cleave there now. Sin's ravaging the dream-city had made it real, turned it into a living nightmare. Or had Gagazet's fayth reset the dream to a time before the attack? Maybe Jecht and Tidus had been resurrected, pyrefly simulacra playing out variations of their tragic story like Jecht's hymn sung over and over, always out of tune.

No, Auron would not return to dream-Zanarkand. He had unfinished business in the real one.

A kindly voice sliced through his reverie. "You, at least, will not be wanting a blessing."

Auron snorted and looked down at the summoner standing on the deck below. Isaaru had emerged from his cabin a short time ago, taking care not to rouse Pacce dozing with his back to the door-post and his head buried in his arms. They would leave the SS Korra behind in Luca, where she would remain for much-needed repairs. Isaaru had been making his final rounds of the vessel, seeking out each member of the crew, speaking soft words of praise and blessing for their part in tending to Besaid's dead and saving Kilika.

Isaaru mounted the stairs and joined Auron on the upper deck. The shadows cast by the ship's lanterns gave the summoner a hollow-eyed look, but his guardian noted it was not merely a trick of the light: he moved with slow deliberation, as if will were required. Auron knew the feeling well.

Compassion aside, it was time to inventory weapons. "You still have three aeons?"

"Two," Isaaru said. "I have not been to Macalania."

Auron nodded. "There's one more in the Calm Lands... maybe."

Remiem Temple was intact, as far as he knew, but the Cavern of the Stolen Fayth was deeply buried. The Ronso had come out of hiding to help the Crusaders dig out, but he had not told them of Yojimbo or asked them to unseal the cave. The Ronso were too few to risk. Besides, the fayth statue had likely been pulverized. Yuna was not the only summoner Lulu mourned.

"That is good to know." Isaaru splayed his hands on the rail. "Sir Auron, I am depending on you as no summoner has relied on a guardian before. I know you have reasons not to trust—"

Third trial. Auron shrugged. "If I didn't trust you, Isaaru, I wouldn't have offered my services as guardian."

"Unless you had other motives." Isaaru raised an arm with a swish of fabric and gestured towards the horizon behind them. "Lady Yunalesca, for example?"

"What?" Auron's eyes narrowed.

"You seek revenge. She killed Lord Braska, Lady Yuna, Sir Jecht and his son, no?" The summoner spoke with quiet compassion, but the rhythm of his speech was too well-rehearsed. "Our goals are the same, Sir Auron. I want to free Spira from her grip... and her lord father's. I want the teachings— the good that has grown from roots of fear— to be disentangled from their lies, including the pilgrimage."

"And yet you intend to make one."

"For the same reason you remain a guardian, I suspect. We must play Yunalesca's game and beat her." He shook his head. "Yet I am at a loss. If I refuse the Final Summoning, what weapon will suffice?"

"I don't know." Twenty-three years, and Auron still hadn't come up with a surefire way to beat the bitch and free a friend. "Did Mika tell you this?"

"No. Mika...passed...without instructing a successor. But I have spent long nights combing Bevelle's archives for clues. Not easy, with so many records purged." Isaaru sighed. "At least you can confirm my guesses, perhaps? First and foremost: Sin dies and is reborn. That makes it an aeon, surely, for aeons return from seeming death. Only by destroying the housing of their fayth can we truly vanquish them."

"Correct." The housing of their fayth. Cold words to describe a blitzer's scarred frame or the Venus-blessed curves of a young woman's body.

"In Yevon's name." Isaaru smiled crookedly at Auron's sour expression. "Yes, that's the second lie, isn't it? We pray now in ignorance to Bevelle's ancient foe. Yu Yevon, Zanarkand's greatest summoner, has girded himself with Sin, using it as both armor and spear of vengeance. The question is: whose fayth is it?"

Auron was silent. How could this man bear to uphold Yevon as maester, knowing it to be an embalmed corpse with a rotten core?

The pre-dawn air was so still that every creak of the ship and the thudding of the hold's pumps sounded like drums. Isaaru lowered his voice to a whisper. "It's Yunalesca, isn't it? That was the truth that eluded me for so long. I once thought that Sin was Lord Zaon, but no: he is the Final Aeon, a two-edged sword gifted by Lady Yunalesca to summoners who pose a threat, the one aeon who could not, would not destroy the one he loves more than his own life. The Calm is a sham meant to raise our hopes; the pilgrimage is a net. And now Spira is beginning to worship Yunalesca just as we live in thrall of her Lord Father." He sighed. "Lady Yuna came near to defeating them, I guess, and so they have changed tactics. Have I hit the mark?"

"Close enough." Auron thrust aside a twinge of irritation at Zaon being named Sin's lover. Irrelevant. Isaaru understood almost everything that mattered; surely he was ready for the rest. Yet something in his manner still smacked of Yevon hypocrisy. "What happened to Mika?"

Isaaru tensed. Only one trained to see an opponent's bracing to dodge would sense it. "Passed away in his sleep. I fear the grief and remorse were too much for him, when the full scope of Seymour's crimes was laid bare."

"I... see." Stalemate: they both had secrets to keep. "I take it the other maesters have not heard what you just told me."

"No. Although Maester Baralai knows something: he, too, frequents the archives, and never says what he seeks."

"Baralai?"

"A former Crusader, a survivor of Operation Mi'ihen."

"Ah."

There were more voices below now as the ship awoke, and a drab gray light was growing. Isaaru paused to listen, head cocked, then went on. "Well, it is some comfort to have a confidante. But we are no closer to a solution. We must protect the other fayth, since Sin seems intent on wresting away those weapons. Sooner or later we must confront Yunalesca. But will the remaining aeons, my brothers and your strength be enough to defeat her?"

"Too close to call." Lulu's magic would have tipped the scales, but there was no coming back from the path she had chosen. Unless—

"Then we need machina. It will not be easy. Some of my fellow maesters still blame the disaster of Djose on the use of forbidden machina, and the Al Bhed remain wary of Yevon. Have you any allies left among them?"

"A trader, but no one of consequence."

"Baralai has worked with them. But he's in Bevelle. First, we must—"

The sounds of raised voices on the deck below were growing distracting, especially since one was Maroda's. "What do you mean, you don't know where he is? Isaaru! Isaaru!"

"First, I had better calm Maroda before he rips out Pacce's hair," he amended ruefully. "Excuse me."

Chapter IX: We Interrupt This Broadcast

Despite his pleas, Kiyuri insisted on flying Bevelle's crests for arrival in Luca. The Grand Maester would have his due, even if it dashed his hopes of slipping through the city quickly and quietly. Judging by the din from the docks, Isaaru would do neither. Other cities welcomed maesters with hymns and ceremonial; only Luca could sprout souvenir stands and hawkers in the time it took for the SS Korra to hoist sails at sunrise and put into port. Cheering crowds waved prayer flags. Sphere cameras flashed up and down the waterfront like so many pyreflies. Children clutched collectible summoner statues and played dueling aeons while waiting for the ship to dock. Over the general hubbub, the public address system blared a breezy patter, the local equivalent of pious homage.

"Ladieeees and gentleman, we'll return to the pre-game show shortly. But first, here's an exclusive update on today's developing news story. The SS Korra has arrived at Dock Three. We can now confirm that Grand Maester Isaaru is aboard. We repeat, Grand Maester Isaaru has arrived! We missed him at the High Summoner's festival, but he's joined us for Luca's most famous tournament, the Eleventh Annual Sir Tidus and Sir Wakka Memorial Cup! And it looks like all Luca's turned out to welcome the ruler of Yevon and the undisputed leader of Spira!"

"While we wait for the maester's party to disembark, Jimma, this is a good time to remind folks of the new security measures in place at the stadium for our fans' safety. All bags will be searched, and machina not approved by Yevon will be confiscated. Sphere cameras with Yevon's seal are permitted. If you're wearing goggles, please remove them as you approach the turnstyles—"

Isaaru waved to the crowd placidly while the crew prepared to lower the ship's ramp. Maroda shook his head at the broadcast. "It's only going to get worse, the longer Sin's out there."

Isaaru nodded. "One more reason to be on our way."

"Some people are sayin' the Al Bhed are planning to attack Yevon," Pacce explained to Auron. "They've almost disappeared in the last year except for tournaments. The warrior monks say they're up to something."

Auron snorted. "Keeping out of Sin's path."

"We know that," Maroda said. "But the rest of Spira needs a scapegoat."

"The maesters know it too," Isaaru said firmly. "There will be no war between Yevon and those who should be our allies this time, Maroda, I promise you."

"That depends on your replacement," Maroda said. "I still think you shouldn't—"

Captain Kiyuri, barking orders over her shoulder, abruptly caromed between guardians and summoner. "Hey! Get that dock cleared before you drop a gangplank on someone's head!" She turned to Isaaru. "Almost ready, Your Grace. But I wish you'd reconsider. The repairs should only take a few days. Seal a few seams, replace a few beams— we can catch you up in Djose, bring you the rest of the way to Bevelle."

"Nay, Kiyuri, you've played your part. Mine is to tread the summoner's road; yours to keep your ship intact. Your chances of that will be better without us. If you would yet serve Yevon, hasten to Bevelle and bring tidings to the other maesters. Tell them what we have seen of Sin and advise them to evacuate the temple district and as much of the eastern quarter as possible."

"Yes, Your Grace." She bowed. "We'll pray for you. And... you, there! Where'd you learn to coil a line like that, the Besaid weavers' guild? It's rope, not a rug!" With that, the captain charged off again. Isaaru pinched the bridge of his nose and resumed waving, his smile fraying ever so slightly as the announcers' commentary washed over them.

"Lord Isaaru replaced Grand Maester Mika thirteen years ago at the beginning of High Summoner Yuna's Calm, and no maester has done more to restore Spira's confidence in Yevon."

"Speaking of High Summoner Yuna, wasn't Lord Isaaru a summoner himself once upon a time?"

"That's right, Jimma! And by the way, it looks like his old guardians are with him today. The man with the tan is Maroda, captain of the Yocun Crusaders who've finally made the Calm Lands live up to their name. On the right is their younger brother Pacce, fresh from training and a full-fledged warrior monk of St. Bevelle!"

"Quite an accomplishment at his age, Bobba. You know, by my calculations, he must have been less than ten years old the last time he was a guardian—"

"Stop puffing," Maroda muttered. "You look like a rutting chocobo."

"Do not!" Pacce said, glancing back at Auron furtively to see how he was handling the publicity.

The white-haired guardian seemed oblivious, slouching with his arm slung in his coat and a vaguely bored expression. He stirred when the gangway slammed down. "Let's move."

Isaaru strode to the top of the ramp and paused there for a sweeping bow, bestowing Yevon's blessing on those below. A mirroring ripple of bows spread out across the crowd. At the base of the ramp, a semicircle of local Crusaders was holding back the crush of people. An officer in a red-kilted uniform stood at attention before them. Isaaru was spared the need for speechmaking by the loudspeaker crackling to life again.

"Hoooooold everything, folks, do you see what I see? It's the one, the only, the legendary Siiiiiiiir Auron, guardian to both High Summoner Braska and Yuna, the most successful guardian in history!"

"He sure is, Bobba. It looks like Grand Maester Isaaru's pulling out all the stops to add 'High Summoner' to his resumé."

"I keep tellin' you, Isaaru," Maroda said. "Spherecasts use forbidden machina. For Yevon's sake, ban them." The two younger brothers marched shoulder to shoulder ahead of Isaaru; Auron, as usual, was guarding the rear.

"Your Grace," the waiting officer said crisply, dissolving into a broad grin as they drew close. "About time you got here. Follow me, please; the general sent me to make sure you didn't get away."

"Thank you, Elma," Isaaru said faintly. "Maester Lucil is here, I hope? We've much to discuss."

"Yes, sir. I hope you've got a speech ready, sir; she's expecting you at the stadium. There'll be time to talk once the game's started. This way, sir." Shooting Sir Auron a curious glance, the wiry woman gestured for the Crusaders to surround them. She set off at a brisk clip.

Just in time: a reporter with a cameraman in tow was using a large microphone like a ship's prow to cleave a path through the crowd. "Your Grace!" she called after them. "We'd just like a quick interview...Lord Isaaru, please!"

"Don't look back," Maroda growled. "Whatever you do, don't make eye contact."

"I trust you to defend me," Isaaru said serenely, "even from those who wield such fearsome machina."

"Phew," Pacce said as they broke free of the main press of people piled onto the dock. "Almost as bad as the field exam."

"Congratulations, by the way," Elma said.

"Thank you, ma'am!"

"You owe me fifty gil, Commander," Maroda said.

"Not until I see his sword-work for myself," she said affably. "Gotta make sure they didn't go easy on him for your sake and Lord Isaaru's."

"Like we'd pull any strings."

"No, but those machina-wielding sissies spend all their time playing temple doorposts and escorting dignitaries in places that never see fiends. They're probably terrified of Captain Maroda and his gang of Calm Lands thugs."

"Elma," Isaaru said quietly. "Please. I lost several warrior monks on our voyage. Good men."

"Oh...dear. I'm very sorry, Your Grace."

"...Isn't this exciting, folks? And now we continue our live coverage of the Opening Ceremonies. Be sure to stay tuned at halftime for all the latest news on Besaid and Kilika. We'll have interviews with the captain and crew of Lord Isaaru's vessel, including an exclusive eyewitness report giving a play-by-play of a guardian's epic battle with Sin!"

Elma raised an eyebrow. "Epic battle?"

"Sir Auron, of course," Isaaru said. "You'll hear the whole story shortly."

"We'd better," she said, giving the white-haired guardian another respectful glance. "We feared the worst, Your Grace, when your ship didn't turn up."

"Didn't you get my messages?" Isaaru said, dismayed. "A merchant promised to relay them. I pray he did not meet with some mishap!"

"We got 'em, sir, but the general was fit to be tied when she heard where you'd gone. If you hadn't turned up today, she'd have sent me after you as soon as the tournament was over."

Auron, who had been scanning the tide of faces flowing past, abruptly spoke. "Wakka. Is he here today?"

"Not that I've heard, sir," Elma said. "The tournament was named for him and Sir Tidus, but he's not been seen in Luca in ten years. Don't you know where he is?"

"We...parted ways after the pilgrimage."

"Ah." Elma frowned and exchanged glances with Maroda, who shook his head.

Isaaru was starting to lag behind. "Commander," he called with a chuckle, "not all of us are trained to keep up with chocobos."

"Oh! Pardon me, sir." She dropped back a few paces. "Wish I could've met you with a few, but there just isn't room for 'em in town."

For a time they were carried along by the late crowd rushing for the stadium until a jam outside the main entrance caused another check. Elma veered off and led them around to a side entrance. "Biggs— yep, we've picked up a stray maester; have stadium security on full alert— don't let Shaami and her reporters in here; use batons if you have to— this way, your Grace!"

Whatever weariness Isaaru felt was masked the moment they emerged from the stairwell into the blaze of sunlight and a barrage of sound. While the crowd's roar threatened to shake loose the fields holding the sphere pool suspended, the beaming maester led the way around the stadium's perimeter. He paused now and again to grasp someone's hand or bless a toddler held out to him. Finally he reached the raised platform on the far side, where the team captains were just exiting en route to their locker rooms. Isaaru shook hands with each of them. At last he mounted the dais where Lucil stood waiting, forearm and fist raised in a military salute despite the voluminous maester's robes she now wore. Her eyes flicked from Isaaru to those behind him, resting a beat on Sir Auron. She bowed stiffly and pushed herself away from the podium, gesturing towards it in silent invitation. Elma moved unobtrusively to Lucil's side while Isaaru strode forward confidently to take her place.

Isaaru raised his hands, summoning silence. "People of Spira! Glad indeed are my brothers and I that we could be with you today by the grace of Yevon, despite Sin's obstructions." Murmurs swirled around the stadium as he paused to pray. "I will not keep you long from the day's festivities. But I have heard your pleas and know your fears, and so it is my humble honor to announce that I will be stepping down as maester in order to resume my pilgrimage. In Yevon's name, I vow to do all that lies in my power to shield you and serve you as Lady Yuna and her noble father did before. With Sir Auron and my brothers at my side, I have the best of help, and have no doubt we shall succeed." He smiled, waiting for the roar to ebb.

"But for today, even the rigors of pilgrimage should be set aside to honor the glory of blitzball and the celebration of life which is Luca's finest art. I'm sure that Sir Tidus and Sir Wakka would say that the pursuit of joy is another form of courage in Sin's despite.

"Last but not least, it is my great delight to introduce to you a man who needs no introduction, mentor to Sir Tidus and guardian to Lady Yuna and Lord Braska, the legend himself. Sir Auron, would you care to share a few words with us about your fellow guardians, in whose honor today's tournament is named?"

Auron gave him a withering look and stepped forward into the range of the hidden microphone. "Two," he said. "As Wakka and Tidus used to say before battle: 'Let's blitz.'"

A thunderous burst of applause crashed over them. Isaaru sank into the high seat next to Lucil. Guardians fanned out on his right while the crusaders sealed off the left side of the platform, Elma waiting attentively at Lucil's side. The buzzer sounded. Lucil turned to Isaaru as the match began.

"Resigning, my lord? That should have been broached first with your fellow maesters. But I am glad indeed to see you and your brothers in one piece, and Sir Auron as well."

"My apologies, General, but there wasn't time. Sin's stepped up its attacks. Besaid is gone. Kilika was spared, apart from the temple. We fear Djose will be the next target."

"If so, it will pass here first." Lucil glanced at Elma.

"The watch is on full alert, ma'am. We'll know the instant Sin shows so much as a scale."

"Very good, Commander. All right, my lord, tell us your tale."

​

 

[Auronlu]

Chapters X-XII: Operation Mi'ihen II

The Story So Far: Thirteen years after Yuna falls defeating Sin, Isaaru sets the mantle of Maester aside to resume his pilgrimage with his brothers. Teaming up with Auron in Besaid, they discover a pattern to Sin's attacks: it seems to be targeting temples and destroying their fayth statues. They meet Maester Lucil at Luca Stadium to report their findings.

Chapter X: Best-Laid Plans

​

The carnival ambiance of the blitzball tournament had ebbed and flowed around Isaaru and his companions like another world pinned by pyreflies to a gigantic sphere. Fans screamed and cheered for their favorite players, bickered over team loyalties, lived and died with every goal. In the maesters' box, all was still.

Isaaru had been uncharacteristically stark, blunt, and brief as he narrated the bare bones of their journey. Now he and Lucil sat between two worlds, surrounded by a sea of noise, clapping when the crowd roared and feigning interest in a match that none but Pacce had actually watched, waiting for the final moments of a Bevelle upset ("That's one for the history books, folks!") to play out so that they could slip away to ponder the fate of the world.

As soon as the buzzer sounded and fans began piling towards exits and vendors, Isaaru and Lucil retired to a VIP suite below the maester's dais. The chamber was as dark as a Cloister of Trials, despite a few skylights. Luxurious furniture and refreshments could not disguise the fact that it had been built into the stadium's walls as a fortified retreat against attack— from Sin, or from an angry mob, to judge by its defenses. Years ago, Lucil had commanded the removal of all hidden machina weapons embedded in the heavy doors leading out to the stadium, but the peepholes of gunsights and the stripped mountings on the doors' inner face were a sober reminder of what Yevon could be.

Isaaru settled into a high-backed chair, his guardians forming a triangle around him. Elma discreetly helped Lucil into the seat across from him. The maester in charge of Yevon's military concealed her infirmity in public, but a chocobo accident had left her partially paralyzed below the waist. The younger woman— no longer young; there was a brown scar cutting a bare swath through her short salt-and-pepper hair, and her face had been tanned and weathered by years of riding— returned to the entrance to relay a few quick orders to the guards stationed outside, then pulled the doors shut and ambled back. "There. No one's going to disturb us for anything short of a Sin sighting. The next match is in forty-five minutes, if you mean to keep up appearances."

"Thank you, Commander," Isaaru said, forgetting that he was technically no longer the senior official in the room.

"Djose, then." Lucil steepled her hands in her lap, gazing at the wall as if her mind's eye were fixed on something past it. "Elma. Provide Summoner Isaaru and his party with mounts and escort them to Djose. Send ahead couriers to Mushroom Rock Lodge, advising the captain there to begin battle preparations and await your arrival. We will need his ground forces as well for this operation—"

"Maester Lucil," Isaaru said, half-rising from his seat. "With all due respect, what do you think you're doing? Did we four not agree that the tragedy of Operation Mi'ihen must never be repeated?"

"I do not forget a single face of the fallen heroes whom Yevon betrayed," she snapped. "But if Sin wipes out the aeons, it will strip summoners of our only means of protecting Spira. We must defend the fayth at any cost." Her eyes flicked briefly to her second-in-command, who gave a melancholy little smile in return.

"Actually," Maroda said, "Sir Auron had an idea about that."

Isaaru's brows jerked upwards, perhaps at his brother's sudden about-face concerning their enigmatic comrade. "Yes?"

The taciturn guardian said nothing, looking expectantly at Maroda.

"Move the fayth." Maroda shrugged. "We can't stop Sin yet. So put the statue where it can't be harmed. Hide it."

"But won't that screw up the spirit inside?" Pacce said, munching on a fruit. "I mean, can it survive without the temple and hymns?"

"It's been done before," Auron said curtly.

"Is that so?" Isaaru leaned towards him. "I should like to know which fayth, and where. Baaj Temple, perhaps? I have been trying to pinpoint its location, but the records are imprecise."

"We're wasting time," Lucil said. "Lord Isaaru, if my Crusaders provide wagons and engineers to move the statue, can you and the priests of Djose ensure the fayth's integrity?"

He bowed his head. "In theory, I know what prayers sustain and strengthen the bond between statue and spirit, and I have a link with the fayth which may let me soothe its unease. I believe it can be done. I cannot be certain. If we do nothing, however, the fayth will almost certainly be lost, and our hopes diminished."

"Then we must deploy, taking every care we can to minimize casualties. Elma, you will assist Lord Isaaru in removing the statue to a safe location. I suggest Lord Mi'ihen's Grotto. Order Captain Luzzu to deploy perimeter defenses around Djose Temple; your mobile units will defend the Highroad between the temple and Mushroom Ridge. His infantry and your knights will provide cover for the true operation, keeping Sin at bay and staging a mock-defense of the temple."

Elma cleared her throat. "Ma'am, I hate to remind you, but Captain Luzzu is still on probation for heresy. What if he can somehow tell Sin our plans?"

"I'm satisfied with his explanation that it was the toxin speaking, Commander. And if not— and if Sin really is aware— then who better to convince Sin we are defending the fayth of Djose Temple than one of its followers? The fayth's relocation will be on a need-to-know basis. Keep the statue concealed during transport. Use the pretext of evacuating the temple, its scrolls and relics."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Heresy?" Isaaru said.

"Sin sightings are frequent off the coast of Djose, my lord, as you know," Lucil said. "Our patrols are sometimes affected by the toxin when the foe comes too close to shore, and a few have fallen prey to the Cult of Sin. I confess that is one reason for our exchange program with the warrior monks. Those who seem to be suffering a crisis of faith are sent to Bevelle, where Maester Shelinda can take them under her wing."

"Or to the Calm Lands to be whipped back into shape," Maroda said, shaking his head. "I wondered why you kept sending me your scraps."

"But Captain Luzzu has commanded the lodge at Mushroom Rock for ten years," Elma said. "He's refused promotions or transfers. He's gone a little strange. I caught him up on the headland just talking to Sin one day. He said he was keeping it company so it wouldn't attack."

Pacce chuckled. "Sounds like someone else we know."

Auron ignored the jibe. "Are we finished, here?"

Lucil nodded. "Indeed. Summoner Isaaru, have you any last objections or additions to the plan?"

"Only that I would urge you to authorize machina for this operation. Your troops—"

"—will stand a better chance than they did thirteen years ago, if we don't use forbidden machina and provoke Sin's retribution. However, this will be a good time to test the new Lightning Rock Shield."

"Anyway, Sin's not going to blow up its garden," Elma chuckled. "It's mellowed."

"Elma!"

"Don't worry, ma'am, I'm not going to start worshipping it just because it's sending us flowers." She sobered. "So. Move statue, check. Keep it under wraps, check. Have Luzzu's lodge guard the temple, check. Chocobo Knights along Highroad. Activate shield. Fall behind the barriers the instant Sin starts flashing. Are we set?"

"You have your orders, Commander. And... Elma?"

"Ma'am?"

Lucil removed a glove and clasped her hand tightly as Elma reached out to help her to her feet. "I will see you when this is over. I expect a thorough debriefing. Understood?"

The officer's cheeks colored faintly. "Yes, ma'am."
​

Chapter XI: Right of Way
​

​

"Please have it," the youth said again, holding up a battered leather pouch to Maroda. "My mother carried it on pilgrimage. There's a half-dozen remedies and other needful things. She... didn't get a chance to use them."

The boy looked about Rikku's age, Auron noted, watching the familiar exchange with fatalistic detachment, like a fan of a team that hadn't seen a victory in his own lifetime. He knew the pattern, he recognized the cycle, he knew every tiresome beat of this movement in futility, but somehow when the faces were new and young he could entertain a fleeting hope that it might play out differently. That had been his downfall the last time, after all.

"Well..." Maroda shot a glance at Auron, as if the legendary guardian's fame were somehow to blame for these road obstructions. At least there had been no fiends so far.

"Just take it," the older guardian muttered. "It's quicker."

No, he corrected himself sharply. Not Rikku's age. She should be almost thirty now, practically old enough to be the boy's mother. It was a minor slip, but troubling: Auron's grasp of time had been growing fuzzy lately, a warning sign that he might not have much time left.

"We will honor your mother's memory," Isaaru said warmly, "and use your gift to help us save Spira. You have our thanks."

"Get back to the village now, kiddo," Elma said. "My knights have been pulled off patrol to escort Lord Isaaru, so there may be fiends about." In fact, most of the Highroad patrols had been sent ahead hours before to start preparing for the operation. The four mounted Crusaders accompanying the summoner's party were hardly sufficient to cover so much territory.

"Yes, ma'am... thank you, my lord!" The youth bowed deeply in Yevon's prayer, then turned and jogged towards the cluster of homesteads that had sprouted on the bluffs around the thriving Al Bhed inn and trading post. A few heads peeped through windows or over fences, watching the small cavalcade with awe.

Maroda passed the pouch to Isaaru as they moved off. "Fourteen-year-old potions," he said in a low voice. "Don't get them mixed up with the rest."

The summoner smiled as he slipped it into a saddlebag. "Thank Yevon he turned them over to us before someone tried to use them."

"We can drop them off at the hazardous items dump below Mushroom Rock," Elma said. "Come on, let's put some leagues behind us. Ya!" At her urging, the chocobos put their heads down and pressed forward in a ground-eating lope.

Chocobos. Auron had never enjoyed jogging along on a mount whose scrawny neck stood in the way of a good swing, but speed was vital. They had already wasted half a day in Luca.

Swift couriers had been sent ahead to convey Lucil's orders, but Isaaru had stayed through the tournament to present a semblance of normality and limit the wild rumors brewing around his abdication and the news from Besaid and Kilika. Afterwards, the victory parade had turned into a citywide farewell celebration for Summoner Isaaru and his guardians, since the Bevelle team's upset was hailed as a good omen for the Maester's pilgrimage. There had been balloons, showers of flower petals (but no rainbows), special pre-Calm sales from street vendors, and live music provided by the Macalania artists' colony. Sphere cameras flashed like miniature fireworks among the throngs of people lining the roads, eager to record pictures of the next High Summoner and his soon-to-be-legendary guardians. The city PA system had broadcast dramatic coverage of the parade interwoven with hastily-thrown-together retrospectives and expletive-laden interviews of sailors spinning colorful yarns about Sin's defeat at Kilika. Auron's fight with a dragon in the stadium thirteen years ago had been shown at least a dozen times.

There had been no fireworks or wailing women, but Jecht would have been delighted. On the whole, Auron was inclined to side with Braska.

Unfortunately, fawning fans were found not only in Luca and along the Highroad. Pacce was bubbling again, thanks to Elma's loose tongue. "Hey, Sir Auron, is that where you killed the Chocobo Eater?"

He gave an affirmative grunt.

"That's how it's done," Elma said cheerfully over the steady drumming of chocobo feet. "Local Al Bhed had been having problems with it for weeks, but all it took was a few swords and Sir Wakka beating its lights out! So much for machina!"

Not to mention a black mage capable of cooking a chocobo in ten seconds, Auron thought grimly. Apparently, sports icons and disgraced warrior monks made better celebrities than an aloof young woman, however attractive.

Riding made conversation difficult, so they ceded words to the rushing wind for a while. At their next check, walking the birds across a bridge, Isaaru spoke again. "Commander. I understand your reluctance, but I wish you'd reconsider the use of machina. Normally I should never presume to second-guess the General's wisdom on military matters, but I am worried that personal feelings are impeding her judgment. Her desire to atone for the mistakes of Operation Mi'ihen is causing her to make another mistake."

"Sir," Elma said, "with all due respect, if Maester Lucil allowed personal feelings to sway her judgment, she'd never have put me in charge of such a dangerous operation. For that matter, she'd not have authorized it in the first place. It kills her every time she has to send the Crusaders into battle while she sits on her ass."

Behind them, Pacce made a choking noise.

Elma grinned. "You're authorized to laugh, kiddo. There's no warrior monks around to give a damn—" she paused at and waved an arm vaguely at Auron. "At least, I don't think there are."

Auron snorted. "No."

"I respect that Lucil has always put personal...considerations aside, but that's not the same thing," Isaaru said. "It's her feelings towards machina— not for her own sake, but for the sake of her troops— that blinker her. We are pitting the Crusaders directly against Sin, something we had hoped never to do again. As the maester said, we must use everything in our power to minimize casualties."

Elma shook her head, holding the reins of his chocobo for him to remount on the far side of the bridge. "I know you're trying to save lives, sir, but you should know better. Machina fall under 'matters of conscience,' remember?"

Isaaru slumped into his saddle. "Yes. I'm sorry, Elma."

"Hey, no problem." Elma turned back to her own chocobo and swung herself up. "Look, we have safeguards in place that we didn't last time. And we're not going to engage Sin more than we have to. This is a defensive operation, not an attack."

"This is true."

"Matters of conscience?" Auron said as they set off again.

"Questions for which the teachings are inadequate," said Isaaru. "In practice, issues on which the Four Maesters disagree. A necessary reform, we felt, to correct Yevon's mistakes. For such questions, no one, not even a maester, may force his judgment on another. On matters of conscience, each lodge sets the rule, and any soldier who believes differently may ask for transfer to another lodge."

"Most Crusaders don't permit use of machina," Elma said. "Except for that renegade there." She grinned cheerfully at Maroda.

Maroda tapped the spear strapped beside him. "Does this look like a grenade launcher to you?"

"Don't play coy, Captain; I know how you train troops to deal with basilisks."

Maroda chuckled. "That's because my men don't use big flapping chocobos to run away."

"As you were," Elma said, noting one of the two knights ahead had checked his bird and was twisting in the saddle to glare at Maroda. "Yo, Maroda, wanna come hunting with me tonight and back up that big talk? Let's see what happens when we meet an ochu."

"Elma, Maroda, please," Isaaru said soothingly. "Sparring must wait for a later date. How much farther until Mushroom Rock, think you?"

"We'll be there by sunset, sir, if we keep making good time," said Elma. "Oh! By the way, you guys haven't seen the Memorial Gardens yet, right?"

"No, we haven't," Isaaru said.

"You're in for a treat, then."

"Does Sin really make the flowers grow?" Pacce asked.

"Hard to say, kiddo. The weather's been crazy these last few years, but that still doesn't explain how we started getting roses growing in sand that's half salt." Elma laughed. "One thing I know for sure, if Sin's behind it, it's not doing it to give the off-duties some place to sneak off and get laid."

You never know, Auron thought, his quiet "hmph" masked by Pacce's nervous laughter. Nevertheless, he suspected other powers besides Venus at work.

Look for me in my garden, Auron.

He was sourly amused at himself for the impulse to kick the damn bird and urge it to run faster.





​

Chapter XII: Memorial Gardens

​

Three days out from Luca, they reached the turnoff to Mushroom Rock Road as the last bars of sunset were fading from the sky. To their right, the black sea stirred and sighed restlessly, lapping the rocks below the edge of the road with leaden waves. Behind them, a beaten shelf of dirt and rock lay exposed to the elements and scoured by the wind. Ahead, a finger from the cliffs above arced down over the main road to form a natural buttress. Beyond, the land was utterly transformed. It was difficult to make out individual forms in the dusk, but swaying dark fronds draped over the arch like a lush curtain, with nodding white flowers as wide as a woman's hand winking between tendrils and broad leaves. A profusion of other plants carpeted the path below, some of them crushed or snapped by the passing prints of travellers, despite which they seemed to thrive: blue blossoms from Besaid and the coral-pink orchids of Kilika, ivy and hibiscus, lilies and irises, even the glassy trunk of a Macalania sapling with a few glowing seed-pods tucked into the forks of slender stems.

"Yevon," Isaaru breathed, reining his chocobo to a halt and gazing up at the floral tapestry in wonder. "What enchantment is this?"

"Nobody knows," Elma said. "Good thing it's so remote; even so we have to save a few tourists from fiends every month. They forget the danger. Speaking of which, be on your guard; those vines can hide a full-sized Iguion. We try to keep the path clear up to the lodge, but they grow back fast."

She turned left and dove into a narrow crack in the cliffs which opened into a ravine. Sentries lurking in the shadows drew back spears and saluted as they passed.

As promised, the path here was mostly cleared, but creeping vegetation spilled over the lumps and crags of the cliffs on either side. Sea-fog had collected on shelves and dimples in the rock along the edges of the winding road. The larger basins had mats of dark-green pads with pale flowers helping to illuminate the shadowy ravine. A few glowing wisps of pyreflies were spiralling upward from their fragrant blossoms.

"I don't believe it," Isaaru said. "Moon-lilies! But they need slow-moving water, nutrients, a swamp—"

"Well, it rains here fairly often now." Elma spoke in a hushed voice, but sounded oddly pleased.

"They're so pretty," Pacce breathed.

"Keep your eyes open, Pacce," Maroda said. "Remember what the Commander told you. Macalania's pretty too, and it's got chimeras."

They jogged along in silence, going at a slower pace now so that those riders who did not know the way wouldn't steer their mounts over a precipitous drop by accident. Rustlings in the undergrowth on either hand kept them wary, but either the group was large enough to give the fiends pause, or patrols had been through recently enough to clear out any fiends that might pose a threat to their VIP guests.

As they penetrated deeper into the canyon, they began to pass cleared patches on the walls where registers of names had been carved into the cliff-face. Here the vegetation was sparser, but delicate ferns and stonecrop tumbled down over the inscriptions. Isaaru paused again to bow and cup his hands in Yevon's prayer; Maroda and Pacce, unusually solemn, followed suit.

Auron bowed his head, although he did not pray. He noticed a white vein of quartz cutting through a nearby pair of glyphs that might read Gatta.

Iguions about were a nuisance; their speed had always given him trouble. However, they were not the only menance in these parts. Auron felt his hair ruffled by a gust of wind from above, bellowed "Down!" before he remembered why, and rolled from the saddle as two huge featherless claws came down out of the gloom to rake his mount's shoulders. The chocobo shrieked, thrashed in a flurry of feathers and blood, and bolted. Unfortunately, Auron's foot was still caught in one stirrup.

He was dragged a dozen yards before he lunged for his sword still stuck in the sheath lashed to the saddlebags. A black crevasse yawned under him. Cries and shouts were erupting behind him, and he felt the air pulse with the forceful beat of massive wings.

Bumping and bashing against the chocobo's flank, Auron's patience had run out. He swung the sword around for an awkward blow, striking the neck and a vital artery. It wasn't a clean kill, but it sufficed. Auron leapt free as the wretched bird, jerking in its death-throes, tumbled over the edge into the dark canyon.

He would have to apologize to Elma later. These Djose Knights took their chocobos seriously. Staggering on legs stiffened by a day's ride, Auron turned and charged back towards the fray.

Overkill, really. Four fighters — one of Elma's knights seemed to be missing, and two were herding the remaining chocobos plus a protesting Isaaru out of harm's way — were more than enough to handle a garuda, especially with Maroda's spear. Pacce seemed to have found an innovative technique, scurrying under the monster's belly and bracing his sword over his head like a spike every time the fiend stooped to strike. They would probably have made short work of it. Auron, however, was tired, stiff, and eager to press on. Timing his strides, he barrelled in from one side, raised the sword high, and threw all his momentum behind a scything blow to the neck. The blade was nearly jarred from his arms: standard Crusader issue could not shear through bone and spine like his old sword. Nevertheless, the garuda came crashing down, and he was smothered under a heavy, leathery wing.

The fiend wasn't quite dead, but now it was an easy target, twitching and gurgling in agony. Elma, Maroda, Pacce and the fourth knight waded in to finish it off. Auron lay under the suffocating weight and hoped that no one passed a weapon through him. A few moments later, the fiend dissolved into pyreflies.

Pacce immediately crouched at his side. "You okay, sir?"

"Fine," he said, standing and wiping feathers and blood out of his eyes. Forestalling an awkward conversation, he added, "The chocobo didn't fare as well. I think it fell." He gestured towards the edge of the crevasse.

"Damn," Elma said. "That's one of Clasko's chicks. Lord Isaaru, are you all right?"

"Perfectly, Commander," Isaaru called, voice echoing around the last bend. "But one of your men is not. I will tend him." There was a blue shimmer off the walls as they trooped back to find a circle of chocobos and knights fencing the summoner and prone rider. The unconscious soldier groaned, stirred, and sat up shakily.

"Good man," Isaaru said, offering his hand.

"All right, let's move before anything else pops out looking for dinner," Elma said. "Sir Auron—"

"I'll walk," he said. "I remember the way."

"Hm." Elma gave him a skeptical look. "Suit yourself. Let's go."

He might not have been so eager to have ditched the bird, Auron reflected shortly, had he realized the Al Bhed lift had been replaced with switchbacks.

​

A knee-breaking climb later, they emerged onto the wide shelf sweeping around to the promontory overlooking the bay. A fierce wind off the ocean scoured their cheeks with salt. Somewhere out there in the dark, where breakers crashed on a lonely beach below the cliffs, a generation of Crusaders had met their deaths in a hopeless cause. Blue lightning wavered in the distance, outlining the looming bluffs on the opposite side of the bay.

Elma turned away from the ocean towards lanterns planted on pillars around the sprawling Crusaders' camp. A clamor of voices and smith's hammers spoke of preparations for the coming battle. As they dismounted, a tall, red-haired man emerged the camp's gates and marched towards them. A few Crusaders hurried to keep up with his long stride, fanning out to take the chocobos' reins and lead them away.

"Lord Isaaru." Luzzu drew his fist to his chest. "Commander Elma. Captain Maroda. Welcome. We have quarters prepared and supper waiting for you in the main Lodge."

"You'd better. A garuda tried to make dinner of us back there," Elma said.

"I'm very sorry, ma'am. Orders said we were to pull in patrols for this operation. Does anyone require a healer?"

"It's taken care of, Commander," Isaaru said. "Don't worry. My guardians needed the exercise." He gestured towards Auron, who had just slogged into view. "Some more than others," he added with a chuckle.

"Sir Auron." Luzzu saluted again. He stared at the white-haired guardian keenly, then beckoned to the party. "Please, follow me. If you wish, Commander, we can review plans for the operation over your meal."

"Food first," Elma said. "Young Pacce here's not used to a long day's march; he's only had warrior monk's training."

Auron paused outside the entrance to the camp and glanced down. There in the shadows was a delicate, ground-hugging variety of rose pounded into the dirt by foot traffic. Stooping with a grunt, he found one intact blossom. Its color was impossible to guess; a patina of salt had painted it a ghostly white. Auron plucked it, tucked it into the blue beads dangling from his belt, and followed the others into camp.

 

[Auronlu]

Chapter XIII: "She Hit Me, Too."

​

Our Story So Far: The new Sin is targeting temples of Yevon and wowing the common folk with spectacular weather, bountiful harvests, and toxin-induced visions of a beautiful Lady at Sin's heart. Isaaru and his guardians head to Djose Temple to try and save the fayth statue there, enlisting the aid of the local Crusaders. The lodge captain, Luzzu, is suspected of being a member of the heretical Cult of Sin.

Chapter XIII: "She Hit Me, Too."

​

Troop deployments. Supplies. Wagons. Signals. Staging. Triage tents. Auron found the evening's business, so familiar and so routine, both restful and irritating. He was no longer directly involved in such affairs. Many might die tomorrow, and for their sake, at least, he had paid attention, but he had little to contribute— or too much that needed to remain unsaid. These Crusaders knew their business. He was mildly interested to see whether their Lightning Shield would work, and what effect it would have on their opponent.

On Lulu.

His clenched fist brushed against salt-rimed roses hunched low against the wind. They grew here on the promontory in stubborn defiance, overlooking the beach where Chappu had met his end. Was his name etched somewhere on these cliffs, or was he one of the forgotten? For every hero remembered, there were a thousand whose names were never memorialized in scripture or stone. The only mark they left was a scar in the hearts of those left behind.

Auron took another slow drink from his jug. After riding all day, it was foolish to be sitting out here alone in the aching damp, watching the blanket of clouds rolling in off the ocean, half-dozing in the faint scent of roses mixed with the sea's tang. The bay was jet black, impossible to distinguish from the shrouded sky except when Djose Temple's lightning peeled away the darkness for an instant. The rock beneath him quivered, but that was from unseen waves striking the cliffs, not thunder too distant to hear. He kept scanning the horizon for an answering flicker. Sin, as usual, was moving on its own schedule.

Lulu could be here within the hour, the day, the week. He was not concerned about what the others might say if his prediction seemed to have failed, but it would be awkward if Isaaru chose to press on.

Slow, steady footsteps crunched towards him from the direction of camp. Auron straightened and waited, unsurprised to see Luzzu coming towards him. The lodge captain had been focused on tactics during the strategy meeting, barely exchanging two words with him, but he had watched Auron intently during Pacce's enthusiastic account of their last run-in with Sin.

"Sir Auron." The Crusader halted a few paces away and folded his arms, staring down at the bulky figure seated by the weathered stumps of Kinoc's observation platform. "I thought I might find you up here."

"Sir Luzzu."

The man gave a bark of laughter. "No one's called me that since Lady Yuna died."

"Hmph."

"So." Luzzu paused, staring fixedly out to sea until another fan of lightning revealed the flat horizon. His posture relaxed subtly. "Sin?"

Time for another sparring session. Auron was hardly in the mood, but their mutual association with Lulu demanded an answer and might yield a few more. "What about it?"

"Lord Isaaru said you knew... it... was coming here."

"It fits the pattern."

The man gave a short laugh. "Besaid Island, Kilika Temple, and that's a pattern?"

"And one other before that. It buried a fayth statue in the Calm Lands."

"Ah," Luzzu muttered, mostly to himself. "So, you've been following Sin for some time. Did you actually see it strike Besaid?"

"No." Auron could hear the strain in Luzzu's voice, knew the man was watching him as warily as the ocean, seeking some sign of Sin's passing. What did Yevon do to heretics these days, now that it was bursting with so much goodwill and reform? "She," he amended, voice softening.

"The Lady?" Luzzu demanded, making the honorific an accusation.

"She was that." A memory brushed the edge of Auron's thoughts, no more than a fleeting impression of self-possessed presence, a taut pillar of black and white holding the rearguard at his side.

Luzzu exhaled. "Not that we ever called her that."

Even now, Auron noted, the Crusader had danced around self-incrimination for heresy— barely. "Luzzu. I know who she is. It's all right."

"Like hell it's all right!" He lowered his head and brought up his fists, struggling to keep his voice down. "What's happened to her? Is she dead... unsent? Or is she a prisoner inside Sin? That's what I thought at first, but lately..." He made a harsh, angry sound in his throat. "Dammit. Lulu was a fine woman, Sir Auron. A good fighter, too. What went wrong?"

Auron hesitated, keenly aware of what had happened the last time he had answered that question. But Luzzu already knew the what, if not the why, and Auron needed information. "Sin... doesn't die. You can cut it down, but it grows back." He gestured towards the scraggly fringe of creepers spilling over the rim of the canyon. "It puts down roots in whoever defeats it."

"And you did not think to tell them this?" Luzzu said, voice quivering like a cocked harpoon.

"I told them," Auron said. "Lulu... thought she had come up with a way around it."

Wham. Even braced for it, he was rocked onto his back by the force of the blow. His glasses cracked and went flying, skittering off into the darkness. Auron picked himself up with a grunt, watching the man silhouetted against distant lanterns in case he wasn't finished.

The Crusader stood panting, hands still clenched at his sides. "They're all dead now," he said hoarsely. "Chappu. Gatta. Yuna. Kimahri too, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"And Lulu... worse than dead. No wonder she's so angry." He shook his head slowly as if to clear it. "You said... 'whoever defeats it.' What about the Final Summoning?"

"Lulu is the Final Summoning." Auron looked down. "Her choice. She's a stubborn woman."

Luzzu's breath hissed between his teeth, and Auron recognized the sound of a swallowed oath: what was there to swear by, once Yevon had proved a farce? "Gatta was stubborn too," Luzzu conceded finally. "That's always the way, isn't it? The young get themselves killed. We atone."

"Regrets won't bring them back, Luzzu." What was it Lulu used to say? It's pointless to think about, and sad. Yet here they were, still dwelling on immutables. It was time for answers. "You said, 'all of them.' Yet you didn't name Wakka. Where is he?"

"I'm not sure," Luzzu said. "Lulu sent him somewhere far away, out of harm's reach— and hers. At least, that's the impression she gave me."

Auron grimaced. Wonderful. Zanarkand. He should have checked, but that possibility had never occurred to him. He was so tired of going in circles.

Wakka would hate it, of course. Lulu had an odd knack for being cruel to him.

"Is there any way to free her?" Luzzu said.

"Only one."

"Ah." Luzzu slumped. "Maybe you should just let her be, then. She's awfully good at what she does. She terrorizes Spira, but she makes us stronger, better. Not much changed, really, from how she used to treat Wakka."

"I can't leave her like this, Luzzu."

"No, I suppose not," he said. "So. What do you mean to do?"

"Take her place, if we can't find a better way to defeat her," Auron said. "Unless... has she told you what she's planning?"

"No. At least, I don't think so. She doesn't speak to me in words. Just feelings, images." Luzzu shook his head. "The last time Lulu came by, she was brooding over the summoners she'd lost. She showed me how Lady Ginnem died."

"Ah." That explained the attack on the Cavern of the Stolen Fayth, although Auron had already guessed as much.

"Is it true what Lord Isaaru said, that Besaid's been wiped out?"

"Yes," Auron said. "I'm sorry."

"Dammit, Lulu," he said, a plea for clemency far too late. "Maybe it really is time to...end her journey."

"Past time." If not for her, for me.

"Is there anything else I should know about this operation? I'm not a fool, Sir Auron. When the orders came in, I thought this was simply a roundabout way of getting me an honorable discharge: death by Sin, instant glory. But Maester Lucil wouldn't dispatch Commander Elma out here just to supervise a temple evacuation. They're getting us out of the way so they can open that cave below Mushroom Rock, aren't they?"

"Cave?"

"Down in the canyon. Rumor has it a crack team of Crusaders was sent in there just before Operation Mi'ihen, and none of them came out. It's been sealed off ever since. We use the area in front of it as a hazardous items dump to keep people away."

"I don't know anything about that," Auron said.

"Maybe they're keeping you in the dark, too."

"Possibly." Auron shrugged. "Just be ready to retreat, Captain. If you see that bubble start to form around Sin, have your men take cover. That's the only warning you'll get."

"Thanks." Hunching his shoulders, Luzzu turned to leave. "You planning on staying out all night?"

"Probably."

"Inform the sentries if you see her."

"I will."

Chapter XIV: Breach of Fayth

"Sir Auron, I must protest! You mean to tell me they're not even guardians? They should never have been permitted—"

"Neither are you, Father," Elma said.

The priest stood spread-eagled in the open doorway of the Chamber of the Fayth, blocking the workers who had been dismantling its ornate frame. "Your presence here is sheer outrage! Your men have ruined the Cloister of Trials, desecrated the fayth's very sanctuary! Why, it will take us years to repair the damage!"

"If there's anything left to repair," Pacce said.

"Hey," Maroda said. "Isaaru's communing with the fayth, remember? If you want your aeon in one piece, I respectfully suggest you shut up."

Elma, the summoner and his guardians were gathered around the fayth's statue, keeping vigil with varying degrees of awe. Lightning flickered, crawling the walls and tickling along the seams and rivets of armor like invisible insects. From the open doorway came the clatter of hammers and chisels, workmen's oaths. Yet Isaaru knelt with an expression of profound benison on his upturned face, oblivious to all disturbances. The benign, beaming smile of a summoner had slipped away, replaced by the shy, tentative smile of a boy catching his first glimpse of some rapturous vision that would anchor him all his days. A sheen of sweat lay on his brow, but for the first time since Besaid, he looked rested, whole, and at peace.

At last his eyes fluttered open. Auron, planted behind him, reached down to keep the younger man from toppling face first into the glass dome over the statue.

Isaaru nodded to him and stood, swaying. "It is done," he said. "The fayth understands and accepts. Father Kyou, I beg you to do the same. If there were any other way, believe me, I would never condone this extraordinary breach of holy ground."

"B-but, my Lord!" He clenched his hands. "What of the teachings? Crusaders are ever apt to abandon Yevon for rash schemes. Even maesters betray us. But you...you were the one who warned us that day, when we brought Sin's wrath upon us."

"Kyou, I remember. After Operation Mi'ihen, I swore an oath that I would vanquish Sin before any more lives were sacrificed to such folly. High Summoner Yuna postponed my vow, but it still holds." Isaaru met the man's distraught gaze with compassion. "But I cannot fulfill my vow if every aeon is lost. Three are gone. Four remain. We must save this one, so that I can save Spira. The temple can be rebuilt. Its fayth is irreplaceable."

The former Crusader wilted. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Blessings to you." Isaaru bowed to him, cupping his hands in Yevon's sign. "And thanks. I will need your prayers, Father."

"So now what?" said Elma.

"We must crack its seal and free the statue from its bed." Isaaru said. "Sir Auron?"

"Yes?"

"The fayth asks if you would deliver the blow. He... trusts you."

Maroda snorted.

"Very well." Expressionless, Auron hefted the borrowed sword like a child's plaything. "I suggest that everyone stand back."

They retreated to the doorway, crowding into the next room with the workmen. Auron peered at the glass lens covering most of the floor, trying to gauge its thickness. Below lay a giant figure of a man pressed into a stony bed as if the mass of rock floating above the temple had magically been transferred onto his broad back. Auron brushed aside a pang of regret— the broad-bladed weapon tucked under the statue's arm looked to have the weight of the one he'd lost — and selected a point just past the apex of the shallow dome. His boots rang as he raced forward, leapt, and raised an ear-splitting shout timed to match the downbeat of his sword-stroke. Sparks flew. The blade snapped off at the tip, but the floor held.

Glowering at his reflection, Auron caught a glimpse of a different shape looming above him, four-legged, all bone and sinew and scars. Ixion, Yuna had named it. Ki-rin, to her father. Eyes like embers blazed.

Remember, guardian. Your power is to break things... and to free them.

He grunted. "Thanks." Armor Break or Magic Break? Probably both, if he could manage it.

A second time he charged, flinging out his free arm with a shout as he brought the sword crashing down. Reflected in the glass below he saw the aeon's horn arcing upwards, mirroring his swing. The sword exploded in a shower of glowing fragments. There was a brilliant blue-white flash that burrowed through skin, marrow, and nerve. Auron went sprawling as the floor collapsed beneath him.

Groaning, he extricated himself from blocks of crystal strewn across the floor of the shallow pit, covering the statue like broken chunks of ice. Pacce came running over while the others, recovering from dazed shock, began to file back around the room.

"I'm fine," he said, fending him off. "The fayth?"

Isaaru dropped to his knees at the rim, hands cupped over his heart. The chamber had darkened considerably: the pulsing glow of the floor faded when Auron broke through it. Now the lines of electricity arcing overhead were beginning to fizzle out one by one.

"Shaken," the summoner said, "but intact. Father Kyou, I need you to help me with the Hymn of Renewal, to sustain the aeon's spirit while—"

The chamber shook again with a thunderous boom, and concussion after concussion followed.

"Sin!" Maroda said. "Isaaru, we've got to get out of here!"

Kyou gave him a scornful look.

"No... no..." Isaaru said. "Have no fear. That's Lightning Rock closing its armor around the temple and its sleeping fayth. But we have little time and much to do. Commander Elma, we are in your hands now: it is time for your engineers to work their wizardry."

"Aye, my lord." She beckoned to her crew. "You three, finish up with the doorway and start clearing away the statue. Do not touch the fayth directly. The rest of you keep working on that wagon. Pacce, run and tell the rigging team we're ready for them."

The boy saluted and headed for the stairs, pushing through stonemasons and carpenters laying rails on the steps and assembling a heavy wheeled cart in the center of the guardians' antechamber. Auron trailed after him.

"Hey!" Maroda said. "Where are you going?"

Auron grimaced, flexing his glove-hand. "To find another sword."

They threaded their way back through the Cloister of Trials, its gleaming lines of current on the floor providing the only illumination. Decorative pillars had been removed, doorways cleared and widened, and piles of chipped stone and masonry lay scattered in careless heaps left by Elma's engineers.

"Sir Auron? Can you... do you sense Sin coming?" Pacce said.

"Sometimes."

"W-what about now?"

"No."

The youth sighed. "I almost wish it would just get here and be done."

Auron grunted. "Concentrate on the task at hand. Thinking about a foe you can't see won't help."

They had reached the landing at the rear of the Great Hall. Here the light was stronger, cast by dazzling pillars of electricity dancing like fountains over crystalline plinths. To Auron's eyes, however, they seemed dimmer. When he and Pacce descended the stairs, the few remaining clergy, scurrying about like rock-squirrels in the shadows, halted and looked up anxiously.

"The fayth confirms it," Auron said, voice booming out. "Sin is coming. Lord Isaaru and Father Kyou are securing the statue against attack. You have fifteen minutes to evacuate, by order of the high priest. Move!"

They scattered at once, snatching up bundles and rushing for the exit.

"Won't you get in trouble?" Pacce whispered. "I mean, Father Kyou never said—"

"Hmph." The white-haired guardian glowered over the wall of his collar. "Who's going to tell him?"

Pacce broke into a grin. "Not me!"

Auron nodded, resting a hand on his shoulder briefly. "Get going. Tell Isaaru I'll be outside keeping watch."

It was barely brighter outdoors. A heavy curtain of rain hung beyond the point of Mushroom Rock Ridge across the bay. Dark thunderheads formed a vast ceiling that stretched for miles, roiling over the temple like gravity-defying boulders. In the stony yard before the gates, soldiers were bustling to and fro. A line of monks, nuns, and temple orphans straggled towards the bridges spanning a narrow inlet between the temple and Djose Highroad. Dark silhouettes of Crusaders fenced the edge of the cliff, facing out to sea. The steep drop hid the bay from view, but a stiff wind scoured the eyes with salt.

Auron skirted the line of evacuees and trudged towards a brigade of soldiers standing at attention. Unlined faces, not a whisker among them: evidently Yevon was still recruiting children. Their captain was haranguing them in stern tones.

"...escorting them to Moonflow Village. You are authorized to engage Ochu, but don't waste men or time: your first priority is to protect civilians. Once there, erect a temporary lodge and guard the town until you receive the all-clear from Djose Command." Luzzu raised his voice over a smattering of grumbles. "Your mission is a vital part of this operation. I know that you're itching to fight Sin, and that's commendable. But I shall not be adding your names to Gatta's wall. If I find any of you trying to sneak into the front lines, you'll be demoted to cadet and sent to Clasko for four months of stable duty. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sir!" A wave of crisp salutes answered him.

"Dismissed. Yevon be with you." Standing confidently with arms folded, Luzzu lowered his voice as Auron walked up. "Everything in order?"

"Yes." Auron ignored the eager glances darting in his direction. "Everyone's evacuated except the high priest. He and Isaaru are securing the Chamber of the Fayth."

"Filling the whole temple with rocks, or what? I hope the commander returns some of my engineers to operate the lightning shield." Luzzu arched an eyebrow. "So what happened to you?"

Auron glanced down at the blood dripping from his sleeve and grunted noncommittally. Blood was preferable to pyreflies, but it still felt like a cheap counterfeit.

"Ah." Luzzu grinned wryly. "Something else the Lodge Captain isn't supposed to notice. So. Is there anything you need?"

"A sword."

"Good grief. I hope you'll fill me in after this is over." He nodded towards a small outbuilding next to the temple. "See the quartermaster in there; we're using the inn for stores."

"Thanks."

"And... Sir Auron?"

The guardian halted testily.

"Sorry about your glasses."

Auron shrugged. "At least now everyone will stop taking me for Al Bhed."

"Ha. Hey, if you've got time afterwards, drop by the command lodge. I want to show you the bouquet I've picked out for an old friend. It's just her color."

Chapter XV: Her Favorite Color Is Death

As far as Auron was concerned, Luzzu's jest was just salt for an old wound. Perfect strangers had lived long years in Lulu's presence, known her before she walked the path of the condemned beside a dead man. He had been occupied by more important matters during the brief time they shared, largely ignoring company at hand for the sake of those lost. At any rate, Lulu's old friend from Besaid was probably correct: lightning must be her favorite color.

Lightning was fine, but Auron could do without the rain. His white forelock tickled, and its slow drip was maddening. How long were they to stand in this anemic drizzle, tarnishing the Crusaders' armor burnished for a maester's arrival?

It had taken the work-crews half a day to extricate the statue from the temple cloisters. Auron's job had been to keep Luzzu away and watch for Sin, conveniently avoiding more stonecutting duties. So he had suffered himself to be led around in an inspection of Djose's defenses. The day had been a blur of names, introductions, soldiers crowding around for a scrap of news or a hero's notice.

The exhausting charade had been relieved by an unlikely arrival, Maester Lucil herself driving a covered wagon to deliver "gifts of Yevon" for the soldiers. She must have emptied every shop and storehouse in Luca, bringing an entire cartload of armor, swords and medical supplies. Their distribution threw the ordered frenzy of battle preparations into utter chaos. During the confusion, Elma's team was able to trundle the tarp-wrapped statue up the loading ramp and into the back of the wagon without anyone noticing. It was neatly done, Auron had to admit. Now if only the engineers involved did not forget their oaths of silence.

At the moment, Auron wished maesters were bound by vows of silence. Isaaru had set aside the title but not the platitudes, and could not seem to pass any concentration of Spirans without making a speech. Again Auron wondered how the man dared to invoke the name of Yevon, knowing what he knew. But at least he had been brief, and the troops seemed happy enough with the blessing. They had moved on now to the tedious protocols of military leave-taking.

"I can't thank you enough, Your Grace," Luzzu was saying before an honor guard bracketing the wagon outside the temple doors. "Your presence is a huge boost to the troops' morale. I wish you were staying longer."

"As do I, Captain. It galls me that the Crimson Blades may face Sin when I can no longer lead the charge." Maester Lucil's calloused fingers tightened around the pommel of a cane whose grip was wrapped like a sword-hilt. "But you have enough duties without having to babysit senior officers. I must go. Yet I am gratified to know my troops are in excellent hands."

Luzzu bowed his head. "Ma'am."

"He looks kinda relieved," Pacce whispered to Maroda, slouched against the side of the wagon. "Guess he's not on probation anymore, huh?"

"Nah, he's just glad to have Lucil out of his hair." Maroda ruffled Pacce's scalp, already a mass of spiky tufts from the humidity and charged air.

Isaaru nudged them. "Shh."

Commander Elma slipped forward to help Lucil onto the driver's box, maneuvering around the maester's robes with practiced efficiency. Just then, a trumpet blast sounded, echoing off the natural amphitheater behind the temple. The assembled soldiers scattered like startled fish, rushing to their posts. Cries of Sin! Siiiiiiiin! broke out along the sea-wall.

Lucil pushed herself up on Elma's shoulder, squinting out to sea with narrowed eyes. "Not good. Captain Luzzu—"

"We'll hold Sin off as long as we can, General," he said. "Get the fayth to safety. Djose will put up a good fight."

Lucil's face froze for a beat. "Lord Mi'ihen guard you and yours, Captain," she said, matching his salute with a fierce smile. "Isaaru! Guardians! Kyou! Get in. Move!"

Swearing, Maroda seized Isaaru's belt and propelled him up the loading ramp ahead of his sputtering protests. Pacce scrambled up behind. Father Kyou stayed rooted to the spot. "I will not abandon my temple to—"

"Fine," Auron said, slamming the tailgate shut and heaving himself over it. The planks of the loading ramp clattered to the ground behind them as the wagon lurched forward.

"Tend the wounded, Kyou," Isaaru called, gripping the sides of the wagon and gazing impotently at the figures of priest and soldiers receding jerkily behind them. His guardians hastened to find seats in cramped quarters as the wheels bumped and clattered over the bridge.

"It grieves me to be abandoning them like this," Isaaru said.

"We feel the same, sir," Elma said over her shoulder, perched on the driver's bench next to Lucil. "But this is what they signed on for. Don't worry! Luzzu can look after his men now that he doesn't have to look after us!"

"Eyes forward, Commander," Lucil said. "Monitor Sin's movements. Maroda, I need you to watch behind."

"Aye." Maroda clambered over Auron's legs to peer out the back. "Defenders manning their stations along the sea-walls. No sign of sinspawn."

"I don't see— wait, there," said Elma. "Sin's just off the point at Mushroom Rock Ridge. I can't tell where it's headed."

"All right." Lucil spoke in cool, crisp tones pitched to cut through a battlefield's din. "I propose that we turn off at the crossroads to the Moonflow and observe the battle from there. The banks will provide some cover. Afterwards, we can take the fayth to Mi'ihen's Grotto or return it to the temple, depending on what transpires."

"I defer to the maester's judgment," Isaaru said. He had made an art of sitting still, Auron observed. Such composure must be another part of summoner's training, feigning to ignore every jolt. The man's green eyes were fixed on the temple and cliffs dwindling into the distance behind them. In his mind, perhaps, he was already sending the dead.

"The fayth?" Auron said.

Isaaru looked down, dropping a hand to the gray canvas wrapping the statue like a shroud. "He sleeps. I do not think I should disturb him, if we are attacked. But I still have Spathi."

"Good call on the crossroads, ma'am," Elma said. "Sin's barely budged. If we'd tried to reach the grotto, we'd be heading straight towards it."

A pair of chocobo riders dropped behind, guiding their mounts into a ditch to let the wagon pass. There were a few patrollers on this stretch, since Elma had stationed the bulk of her knights south of the crossroads, where vegetation would provide camouflage. Here the Highroad was narrower and meandering, shielded from the sea by a stone parapet where it ran along the cliffs or earthen berms when it veered inland.

"What's Sin waiting for?" Maroda said. "Us?"

"Maybe it's visiting the gardens," Pacce said, chuckling nervously.

Auron stiffened, cursing himself for a fool. Of course! Look for me in my garden, Auron. But here he was, trapped like a fayth under glass. "Can we commander chocobos to ride?" he said. "We're nothing but deadweight in here." There was another word he needed to strike from his vocabulary.

"Negative, sir," Elma said. "It would take too long to flag down my knights and send for extra mounts. Anyway, an escort might attract attention. With any luck—"

There was a shuddering boom that rattled the metal cage reinforcing the walls.

"What the—?" Pacce said.

"So much for Mi'ihen's Grotto," Elma said grimly. "Sin's blasted the beach and the bluffs behind it. First casualties, I'm afraid."

Lucil sighed. "Let us pray the barriers shielded some of them."

Fine drizzle, more mist than rain, obscured the contours of the land, but a thin line of fire showed the profile of Mushroom Rock Ridge. A long fence of flames marked the site of the Crusaders' camp where they had lodged the night before. Dark smoke curled upwards, fusing with the overcast sky.

"Damn," Elma said. "I've lost Sin. Look sharp, people."

"She's burning her gardens," Pacce said, dazed.

"Pacce!" Isaaru said sharply.

He blinked. "Sorry. It, I mean. But why? The Crusaders say Sin always leaves the Memorial Gardens alone when it comes by. It hasn't attacked Djose since Operation Mi'ihen."

"Shield's coming up," Maroda said. "Sinspawn falling on the causeway."

"Thank you, Captain," said Lucil.

Looking back, they could no longer see the temple, camouflaged by its rocky shell. There was a flurry of movement along the stone parapets and bridges. Rain blurred the dark writhing shapes of attackers and defenders into a heaving mass. Out over the water, a white shimmer was coalescing into quivering cords of lightning like horizontal versions of the pillars in Djose's great hall. But these energies were channelled on a far greater scale, spanning the whole bay in a curtain of woven light. As the shield strengthened, all the veins of electricity in the crags around the temple were snuffed out. Hair and armor began to prickle. One particularly massive bolt began to ricochet crazily from Mushroom Ridge to Lightning Rock and all around the bay in a fading discharge, reflected by Djose Spheres embedded in the rocks above the high water mark. Thunder clashed in a bewildering tumult, reverberating off every crag and cove.

"Some bouquet," Auron said, drawing a quizzical look from Pacce.

They passed another pair of mounted knights whose raised lances were limned by a blue nimbus of sea-fire. One of them lowered his spear and pointed urgently towards the water.

Maroda leaned out, straining for a better view. "It's working!" he said. "Sin's stopped dead in the center of the bay!"

There was a distant groaning scream that made Auron wince.

"'Ware Sinspawn!" Elma said. "Get ready! The walls are armored, but they may punch through!"

The wagon rocked as something heavy struck the side. One of the chocobos squawked and kicked. Luckily, these were combat-trained birds, inured by constant exposure to the fiends along the Highroad. The wagon swayed and reeled as the chocobos put on a burst of speed. Auron grabbed Maroda's harness to keep him from tumbling out the back.

"The shield's dropping!" Pacce said. "It's losing power!"

"Yevon, no," Isaaru said, voice swelling with sudden dread. "The fayth... its power is in the very rocks, but now—"

More scales began to slam into the roof. The wagon lurched again as a wheel rolled over something. On the road behind them, blue-black flickering wings were unfurling in a fast-growing crop. Pacce flung up an arm and yelped, stung by a spine burst.

"Get down!" Auron said.

"General, we've got to get out and fight!" Maroda said.

"Nearly there, Captain. We'll take shelter at the turnoff. Let's get the fayth out of Sin's line of sight."

One of the left-hand chocobos screamed and stumbled, causing the wagon to list alarmingly towards the ocean as the right-hand pair kept running at a full clip. Lucil reined them back, checking the dangerous tilt.

"I'm on it!" Elma jumped down with an exuberant yell and pelted forward, charging into the fiend and punting it over the edge of the road. She drew her sword and hopped onto the ruffled chocobo, soothing it with her free hand. "C'mon baby... yeah, yeah, I know." She raised her weapon in the signal for the cavalry-charge. "He's okay. Let's go!"

"Green flares going up," Maroda said.

"Fallback signal," Lucil said, icy calm. "Good."

And then many things happened at once. A hard armored snout crashed through the roof, raining splintered wood and rivets all over the passengers. To his credit, Isaaru's first instinct was to fling himself across the statue. Auron lurched up onto one knee to meet the foe, but there was no room to draw his sword. Maroda, more agile and less encumbered, raised his spear from the truck-bed and braced it like a pike, fending the creature off.

Meanwhile, Pacce, staring out the back of the wagon, gave a horrified shout. "Djose!"

Out of the corner of his eye Auron saw the white flash, the rolling shockwave at the fringes of sight, stone bridges shattering into shrapnel, a soundless explosion as all the spires of Lightning Rock came crashing down inexorably. Pillars of dust billowed up into the sky, enveloping the temple area and sweeping across the Crusaders engaged in desperate melee along the sea-cliffs.

And Lucil screamed. Yuna had made just such a sound on the peak of Mt. Gagazet, with Tidus' body at her feet and his head clutched in Seymour's jagged claws.

The wagon stuck fast, tipped to the right and smacked the high bank beside the road with a grating crunch.

"Out," Auron ordered.

Maroda struggled to hold off the fiend burrowing through the ceiling until Isaaru was clear. Pacce tumbled out the back, drawing his sword and whirling it in the figure-eight he had seen Auron use back in Kilika. That kept the nearest sinscales at bay while Auron helped Isaaru clamber out. Maroda dove out the front, scrambling to reach Lucil, who had been thrown under the tongue of the wagon. Bloody feathers and shredded harnesses were all that was left of the lead chocobos. The surviving pair shrieked and struggled in their traces. There was no sign of Elma.

Protected by Auron and Pacce, Isaaru staggered around to the front of the wreck. "Lucil—"

"I'm unscathed," she said tonelessly, lying on her side where she had fallen. "Get to safety, Isaaru."

There were more sinscales on the road ahead, but they were being swept aside by a pair of Djose knights charging up the road towards the wagon at full gallop.

"Pacce!" Maroda said. "Where are you going?"

Pacce had eased himself over the parapet, fumbling for a foothold. "Elma's... body is down there," he said, fighting tears. "I think I can reach her."

"Guard your summoner, boy," Lucil snapped.

"Run!" Auron was moving before he knew why, grabbing Isaaru and hurling him into the ditch beside the road. He had just time to identify that achingly familiar sound, the sizzling hiss of the lightning's intake of breath, an instant before air and wood and stone exploded in a blinding, searing flash with the sound of a million shields being riven into scrap metal. Every nerve shrieked pain.

No, said Auron's fading thought. Her favorite color is what follows the lightning. That settled, he yielded to black.