Red and Black - FFX Fanfiction

[muggy_mountain]

I will be posting the Red and Black chapters here, as well as on Ficwad and Fanfiction.net.

Title: Red and Black
Fandom: Final Fantasy X
Characters: Mostly Auron and Lulu, but the gang's all here! Eventually.
Rating: R for sexual themes and violence.
Spoilers: Eventually, yes!
Format: Chaptered
Status: In Progress
Summary: This story follows Auron and Lulu from childhood to the end of Final Fantasy X. It is very episodic and many chapters could be considered one-shots.
Disclaimer: Don't own Final Fantasy X or the characters from said world. Never claimed to, I promise.
Feedback: Any! Feedback keeps me writing and I enjoy discussing this fandom. AND! If you write fanfic in this fandom, feel free to plug. I also enjoy reading & reviewing.



Part 1. An Unlikely Girl From Besaid

Lulu was twelve then. Flat-chested, lanky and utterly devoid of the stormy poise of her later womanhood. She thought he was handsome, this Sir Auron. She first saw him on a news-sphere in the dishroom of her aunt's alchemy shop.

"All peoples of Yevon may rejoice today as we can confirm that the recent pilgrimage of an unlikely trio has succeeded in vanquishing Sin and bringing to a new calm to Spira."

She remembered it well, that early blush of giddy lust. Dishwater to her elbows, sound and images of this "unlikely trio" being broadcast through the news-sphere over the glug and sloosh of water as she filled and emptied the used potion containers.

There was Sir Jecht, the loud blitzer who dominated the footage with his brash antics and bared torso. He wasn't badly built, but his insipid wisecracks and blitzball obsession reminded her a bit too much of Wakka, --and when she was only twelve, Wakka was an obnoxious older boy who wouldn't simply leave her be.

There was Lord Braska, too. While this was before Yuna made her way to Besaid, Lulu's heart soared in admiration for this man. Of course, it was only proper for a Yevonite to revere their summoners, but Braska was different than the high summoners in the temple, ever-enshrined in ancient marble. He was real. He was kind-eyed and utterly disarming. His face was an honest one that looked directly at you and he spoke the exact right words with a serene cadence. In spirit and appearance, he reminded of her of a bird, or maybe a flower.

And then, of course, there was Sir Auron. He was the youngest one, she knew -- The Young Sir Auron of the Warrior Monks of Bevelle, was how they often to referred to him. It wasn't until much later that she learned he'd been quietly and unjustifiably excommunicated from the Warrior Monks years before he'd even set upon the pilgrimage. Of course, in the wake of Braska's calm, the Monks of Bevelle had been all too eager to reclaim him as an esteemed brother.

Auron. She had glanced at the sphere upon hearing the name. It was a nice name. An unusual name. Not a Besaid name, certainly --people here were given silly juvenile monikers like Chappu and Wakka and Lulu and Letty. Too much wine at the naming ceremonies, she supposed.

Auron was twenty-five years old. Young, but more than twice her age and probably dead --the news-sphere hadn't yet confirmed the fate of the guardians but in all of Spiran history not a single human was known to survive a battle with Sin. Yet nothing could subside the sudden flare of girlish thrill that overtook her. He seemed to be the quiet one of the trio and painfully ill at ease when the camera swung in his direction. She liked his colors. Lovely dark shades of red and black, with long raven locks that glistened silver in the light. Much like Lulu's own hair, though she hadn't quite learned to appreciate it, yet. He cut a tall and royal figure, wrapped almost entirely in a billowing scarlet robe, save his taut and beautiful sword-arm.

She wished to know the color of his eyes, but he sighed and looked away from the camera in the only decent shot of his face. Smooth and angular planes --almost feminine or feline in structure, his delicate visage seemed almost at odds with his masculine carriage. And his voice! So smoky and dark, it fell like spider-silk onto her ears. He spoke only two calm words, but it lent him a certain authority that neither his serene Lord summoner nor the other, older Guardian could muster. "Leave me."

His spirit, she determined, was that of a tree. A tall, graceful tree to Braska's bird. Perhaps an evergreen - likely a pine.

The news-sphere didn't have much footage to broadcast -there were no cheering crowds to wave off pilgrimages in Spira these days nor cameras ready to sphere them, particularly one consisting of a fallen summoner, an excommunicated monk and a crazed homeless drunk claiming to be from Zanarkand.

What little footage they did have, however, the news-sphere showed almost nightly for a matter of months, much to Lulu's private, girlish joy. There was some stunning, unnameable power this Sir Auron possessed, she was certain. She recognized this even as an awkward girl of twelve, just cracking the bud of womanhood on the quiet warm island of Besaid.



Part 2. The Sapling

The familiar little stream had hurled itself, in a very noisy way, over the same stones for years. At least for the two years he had been bathing here as a monk of Bevelle --and at fourteen, two years is still a rather long time. Eventually, Auron knew, these stones would be smooth as blitzballs, ever smaller and smaller until their stony beings dissipated into sediment which would be pulled along easily by even the weakest currents of the brook. Like pyreflies drawn to the farplane after a victorious battle.

Exceptionally young and quite small for a monk, Auron had plenty of resentment for anyone who dared observe those facts. He was a monk and he kept his regimen. That same regimen brought him here, to bathe in this stream once every ten days, in the evening. Even in the winter, which in Bevelle were usually not so cold to freeze flowing water, but cold enough to make him numb, blue-tinged and shivering. He was no fan of cold weather. Or water, for that matter.

He sighed as he ritualistically unlaced his boots and slipped from his uniform, which he subsequently folded in sharp and even squares and placed neatly, even respectfully, near his boots on the bank. There was no one to neither see nor scold him if he didn't treat his attire with such reverence but Auron was a monk and honor, noticed or not, was paramount.

He really didn't like the water. He sometimes wished he were born a Ronso, with their bark-like tongues, convenient flexibility and thus absolutely no need to bathe in the icy water of a pathetic ankle-deep stream. He probably wouldn't even mind the cold weather then, with the thick undercoat and the hot-blooded whiskey-barrel body of a Ronso, built for life on the frost-bitten Mt. Gagazet. But he was human. Uncomfortably human. He was merely an awkward, rawboned son of a dead sword smith who had joined the monks at Bevelle as a twelve year old orphan.

He gathered himself, swelling his slight chest with the dry evening air as he stepped into the creek. The cold water painfully tickled the sensitive skin between his toes and the sludgy creek bottom threatened to swallow him wherever he placed his feet.

He was a monk the moment he arrived at the monastery. He would remain a monk until he died. He was bound to the life by his heart, mind and spirit. He did wish, however, that his body would follow suit. His was still a dewy and shallow-rooted sapling. Stick-thin limbs like naked branches before the spring bloom. It baffled him. He trained as hard -no, harder than the other monks, confident of the warrior-strength corked inside his frustratingly boyish flask of a frame. He was sure he could feel the muscles readying to surface just under his yet-hairless skin. And yet!

Auron crouched, letting the water from his cupped hands spill over his closely-shorn dark hair, shivering as the water rolled down the boney texture of his body. Auron of the monks at Bevelle. Auron of the Sin-obliterated village. Auron of the familyless and fortuneless. Exasperated, he surveyed his goosefleshed body.

His manhood -or boyhood, dangled strangely like the unfurled trunk of a shoopuf. How did this wrinkled little bit of flesh assure his masculinity? At fourteen, Auron knew of its biological functions, albeit little use to a monk under an oath of celibacy, yet he did not see the connection of this tender-skinned gland to the battle-cultivated muscles of a warrior. It was then, in that pensive and absent moment that he begin to touch it. He had felt himself erect before, but it had always been a private embarrassment. An inconvenience. Never before had he manipulated it in this manner. And had he not been completely alone under the fast darkening evening sky he would not have done it.

A novel and tense pleasure wracked his body, and his breath began to work itself into stuttering gasps. Was he a man?

In his unguarded and foreign bliss, Auron did not hear the approaching footsteps, though each sounded rather heavily, cracking the dry autumn underbrush and orange pine-needles with each step.

Auron did not hear the footsteps, but he most certainly did feel the violent and distinct blast of a well-cast Thundaga spell shortly before the light of it flash-bleached his vision and the force of it rudely flung his body from his place in the water.



Part 3. Sapling Bends

Ikvan stepped forward, forearm still crackling with leftover static from the powerful thunder spell as he approached Auron's prone body. Had he overdone it? Embarrassed, he glanced over the naked body only long enough to confirm he was still breathing. Breathing, but thankfully, solidly unconscious.

Ikvan felt his heart tremble in frantic staccato runs as he considered his situation. Auron's...transgression was unmistakable. He wasn't sure that his sneaky high-level Thundaga spell was the sagest way to deal with it but it was certainly too late to reconsider. He exhaled loudly and slowly. By Yevon, had he not warned Father Milo against taking him in? At twelve, the boy should have gone to an orphanage --raising a child was no duty of a monk. Ikvan was uncomfortable with his sect's usual recruitment age of sixteen, let alone twelve. Far, far too young. The boy was lucky he was in Milo's favor, for Ikvan himself failed to see the "the clear makings of a legendary warrior" in the spare and pasty form on the bank.

Perhaps it would be best, Ikvan mused, if he simply left the child alone --to awake on his own or possibly to be gradually dissected by the lowly scavenger fiends native to this area. If only. Alas, he could not risk the possible ruin to his career over something so petty, despite how little the boy impressed him. He must deal with the situation. And thus, he would.

As he cast the Life spell, Ikvan turned his back to Auron, this measure of dignity more for himself than that of Auron. Ikvan heard a small grunt. "My...Lord?"

"Dress yourself." Ikvan ordered curtly, without turning his back.

In a confused and panicked obedience, Auron slapped clumsily across the stream. He was under the lion's paw now.

Relaced, rebuckled and reclothed, Auron sighed a quiet and quaking sigh in an attempt to gather himself. "Come here, Auron." The lion's ears were as sharp as its claws and of an equal threat.

Ikvan turned to face Auron as he approached. The lion's breath was humid and smelled of the blood-tang of the thousands of kills to come before.

Ikvan was awkward and even slightly intimidated as the boy trembled pale before him. No duty of a monk. He steeled himself. "Auron. Selfish pleasures have no place in the life of a Warrior Monk."

"Sir." Auron acknowledged soberly with a none-too-easily summoned stoicism. He bowed his head, suddenly grateful for this act of subjugation that allowed him to avoid eye contact.

"You know this, Auron. Or do you so easily forget two years of morning prayers by the evening? Give me your eyes." Auron obediently looked up into the face of his superior brother. Ikvan stepped closer, forcing Auron to crane his neck back oddly to maintain the ordered eye-contact with the larger man.
"As my flesh resides under the Spiran sun..." Ikvan began the familiar dawn-time incantation.

"May I never disregard thee, Yevon." Auron continued the litany quietly, bowing his head. His shoulders and neck ached vibrantly with the same profound guilt and shame that congested his throat. Or was it simply the remainders of the Thundaga spell? Auron was not sure.

"Louder. And look at me. A true monk has nothing to hide." Ikvan commanded. "My life is merely a loaned tool..." He prompted the next verse.

"May all my deeds and thoughts honor it." The ache was radiant and pumping further into his extremities with each quickening pump of his heart. He swallowed hard against his regret-clouded throat.

"All that I am and make is yours..." Ikvan held the boy in an unblinking and vice-like stare.

"My unlikeliest triumphs are merely humble offerings." He meant it. He meant it all, badly. Each word was barbed and carved a new wound into Auron's flesh as it made its way into his spirit, and Ikvan's glare salted each open wound. This was no longer the worn-out prayer to which he was accustomed, it was a volley of sacred oaths. Each word became a weighty promise.

"Should I take pride in victory..."

"May I fall painfully and honorless in battle." The promises that flared from each word were forcing their way into the innermost him...becoming a part of his being, parasites of the spirit. His voice began to quaver and buckle under the invisible assault.

"My only heart's joy is exalting thee..."

"Every fiber of the body is for Yevon." His words came out in hoarse and broken barks. Auron's rust-colored eyes gazed beyond Ikvan's slate greys, his vision softening.

"My blood is my covenant to thee..."

"My death shall be my final prayer." Auron concluded raggedly as his voice shattered in an elaborate spiderwebbing pattern. Auron might have cried had he the voice. It hurt, to contain a soul so full of heavy promises and guilt.

"If you want a life of pleasure, this is not the path you should be following." Ikvan addressed Auron calmly. "I will be returning to the temple now. If you choose to return, consider your path carefully. Another such transgression will result in dishonor."

Auron gaped soundlessly as his superior disappeared beyond the curve of the ravine. Dishonor? He wasn't even completely sure what he was doing when he did it, but it was such an offense to suggest dishonor? Dishonor led to death, bluntly. Dishonor meant excommunication and death was the only proper penance for an excommunication. An excommunication without such a penance would stain not only oneself, but all relations to come before and after. It would be easier not to return, now.

And yet. He was a monk. He was bound to this life and had been since before he had made his way to Bevelle, he was certain of that. He was as sure of it as his own name. It was his only reality. He had been led to this road.

He remembered when he was a child, his parents bickered -like many parents, over their son's future. They were good and real people. Poor but self-sufficient. They ran a sword shop out of their hut, his mother handling the business affairs and his father smithing the blades.

His mother was a bright woman who fostered Auron's promising intellect with endless volumes of Spiran history and manuals of fiend behavior. He would read them, and later, she would quiz him with the obscure --the poisons attacks of a common Malboro or the best guards against a dark flan. And he remembered. As stupid as Auron often felt amongst his older brethren, he always beamed with a secret smile when they consulted him in the battlefield. Because his mother had hoped to see her son as a scholar someday, Auron had a better knowledge of common fiend behavior and weaknesses than most of the more experienced monks.

His father was a stout and solid man who had regretted not joining the Crusaders in his youth. He had a thirst for adventure and strong Lucan nogs. During the slow business months of winter, Auron and his farther would sit together in the workshop watching cheap documentary battle spheres and furtively sharing a not-so-cheap vintage nog. Auron would sip from a tiny thimble of a tea-cup while his father took great swigs from his massive ceramic jug. Auron didn't care for the sour nog but he treasured those tranquil days with his father. When Auron was only six, his father had forged him a thin, light katana and they would mime the battles from the spheres. He learned the thrill of fighting and the rudiments of handling a blade. His father believed the crusaders were the true clergy of Yevon, giving their lives so villages and families would flourish against the shadow of Sin. Naturally, he wanted his son to join their ranks.

He liked those memories of them. But they were not his last memories of them, and those unspeakable and horrifying last memories -the day that Sin attacked their home-village and removed it from the Spiran map, were the ones that brought him to this life.

When Auron left the ruined town to live in Bevelle, he only took two things with him, his father's beloved nog jug and the elegant carved-stone beads of his mother's, the only jewelry Auron could ever recall her wearing. He hung them at his hip as he journeyed to Bevelle. Even today, they were the only possessions he could claim as truly his own -even his shoes belonged to the temple.

He missed them terribly and he could not risk to dishonor them in any way, be it though cowardice or excommunication. He would return to the temple. He was a warrior monk and that is where warrior monks belonged. Furthermore, he deserved his punishment. He deserved the humiliation. He deserved the secret, scornful and judgmental whispers he excepted to be waiting him upon his return. He must pay penance. And so, still terribly dwarfed and weighted with remorse and leaden oaths, Auron began to march up the ravine.



Part 4. Her Now

So that was it. That's how it's done, Lulu thought wistfully. The act itself. Rather unceremonious and graceless. It was sloppy and awkward and had none of the magic it promised. And if there was one thing Lulu knew well, it was magic. It felt good, very good, but there was no magic in it. She looked over at her snoring bedmate and wondered how he could sleep. Half hoping he would awake, she brushed her finger tips through his hair.

How was he sleeping? He looked so damn smug, too. He always looked smug. It probably wasn't even his first time, knowing him. Would he tell Wakka? She felt the blood rise hot to her cheeks. Of course he would tell him, he told his older brother everything. Wakka probably gave him advice. It's like a blitzball match, ya? You just keep going forward 'til she squirms, then you consider your options, change direction. You may not score at first, but you get better with every game, so just do your best. She shuddered. Still, sometimes Lulu wished she had an older sister. She did fine on her own, of course, but it would be nice to have someone.

Yes, there was Yuna, but she was only 11 and lily-pure. As much as a flower as her father. Her pious alchemist aunt wasn't much better, and it would be strange to broach the topic with her. Her aunt had been cold to Lulu since her niece had decided to pursue black magic, claiming it if felt like treason when she'd spent her life perfecting the best healing potions south of Bevelle, only to have her last flesh and blood turn to offensive magics. Lulu pursed her lips in irritation at the thought. Her aunt had convinced Yuna to practice white magic, after all. She even made Yuna promise that she'd recommend Auntie Neneh's Brand Potions, should she ever “make it big.” Having the daughter of High Summoner Braska recommend your potions was something, after all.

No, her aunt was a crazy old cave-bat who'd never left the island in all her life, for fear of Sin. Lulu was another person, absolutely, utterly and entirely. Lulu's future would be her own.

And this very moment --this now, belonged to her just as much as that future. This drowsy and placid now in which she could feel the weight of his arm, slightly warmer and heavy with sleep, across her waist.

So this is how he slept. She turned to face him then, closing the embrace and closing her eyes.

---

The curtain was starting to lighten and he'd already left. Disappointing, but not surprising. He liked to train in the mornings, in the warm coastal waters by the beach.

She stepped into her gown, still crumpled near the bed from its nervous and passionate discarding the night before. She still wore that frumpy Besaidian pink gown at sixteen, at her aunt's insistence. She despised pink, even at sixteen.

She smoothed her simple hair straight and lifted the curtain.

“Yuna!” startled Lulu.

The small girl's face brightened with a close-lipped grin that stifled a giggle. “Neneh wants us to go get the boys,” she said, referring to Chappu and Wakka. “And we're to take Parri. He needs exercise.” Between her and the ubiquitous Kimahri, stood the small yellow dog panting eagerly.

Kimahri found the dog shortly after arriving at Besaid. As a pup, Parri had been abandoned by his mother, due to a stunted foreleg. The dog had fine balance and speed, but was odd to look upon. Kimarhi had left his tribe, shunned for his broken horn. Odd to look upon. At the dying plea of an honorable man, Kimhari had found his way to tropical Besaid, where most had never seen a Ronso before him. Odd to look upon.

They had accepted each other, and that was all that was needed.

“Of course.” Lulu nodded her silent greeting to the Ronso. Kimhari liked that Lulu did that. Most treated him like furniture that they must walk around so as avoid to avoid bumping their shins. Most didn't raise their faces to look at Kimahri. Lulu did.

They began to walk, occasionally flicking off a fiend with a deft and cooperative fighting system already established between the trio. Fiends were usually light on the road to the beach, and easy to dispatch for native Besaidains.

Occasionally, however, there came the fierce and rare Garuda.


Part 5. Their Now

“Not now.” The young mage's energy had already been strained cutting through the small fiends, a
slow but certain depletion. Lulu enjoyed the training, but had keen judgment on which battles to accept. “We should retreat.” She looked over to Kimahri for confirmation.

She saw the Ronso lurch as the bird-like fiend stabbed and raked its talons into the blue fur. Reaction was quick and chaotic. Kimahri wheezed a frustrated and pained snarl, stumbling slightly from the force of the attack while the little yellow dog broke free from Yuna's grasp. Parri leap skyward, his lip lifted to clutch the scaly bone of a Garuda claw in its jaws.

The fiend bucked higher before flinging the dog against a cliff-face, and came down hard into its new target three times.

A Ronso's rage bubbled hotter and more turbulent than a Gagazet geyser. Kimahri jumped strong, like a coiled spring, radiating rings of violence in the landing. Lulu followed quickly with a furied cycle of ice, and the Garuda split into a hundred locii of pyrefly energy. The bleeding gashes crisscrossing Kimahri's chest healed quickly as Yuna hurried after her companion with a cure spell. Yuna's magic was weak yet, but almost as good as a common potion and far cheaper.

Kimahri sniffed at Parri's torn and bloodied form. He clicked his teeth. The dog had died quickly, at least. Had he been alone, Kimahri may have howled.

Yuna winced at the macabre sight of the dog's already-mortal wounds. Closing her eyes tight, she began a frantic round of cure spells.

“Save your magic. There is nothing we can do now.” Lulu didn't intend to scold the well-meaning girl, but their was a certain clip of irritation to her words. They would likely need Yuna's magics later and the girl had a predilection to let her heart lead, without proper guidance. Nonetheless, they should have brought a bit Phoenix Down. Lulu cursed her own hindsight, but there was no use in if-onlys.

Kimahri took the dog's head in his massive hands and pushed Parri's eyes closed.

It was sad, but dwelling is always a wasted venture. She left the Ronso to return to the path. “Come here, Yuna.”

“I could have saved him if I knew how to cast life.” The girl sat hard among the thorny weeds in the shallow ditch lining the path. She shrugged her shoulders inward and hugged her ribcage. “I should study harder.”

Lulu tried not to look as the Ronso haphazardly hacked off the dog's forepaw with his spear. She didn't understand some Ronso rituals, but she respected them. Still, she knew when to look away.

She heard a hoarse scraping of Ronso feet against the wooden bridge and a small splash when the corpse hit the water. When Kimahri returned, he was already fingering a new claw-bone in the warrior's pendant that rested on the tuft of silver hair at his chest. “Parri was friend. Died with honor.” The Ronso sounded almost apologetic.

“You don't need to explain, Kimahri.” She lifted her head to fix her eyes to his and spoke softly. “I'm sorry.”

Yuna leaned against her giant blue-furred guardian, hugging him as a grey squirrel might clutch an oak. Kimahri patted her head, each comforting the other in equal measure. It was a quiet scene.

Lulu inhaled, slowly, drawing the tropical air into every cluster of her lungs. Even now (and perhaps especially now), she was grateful she lived here, with the crisp-edged clouds of a sunny day and friends that could she respect and appreciate.

Thwack.

A spiked blitzball bounced, spitting up a cloud of the dry dirt path.

Ronso and mages alike tensed and positioned themselves at the sound, only easing at the sight of two copper-headed brothers galloping from the same direction as the blitzball.

“Hey yo!” Wakka called cheerily.

Kimahri straightened and crossed his arms defensively. Ever oblivious, Wakka circled the group in a slow jog, with a vacant, almost canine grin. “Me and Chappu was just saying we ought to get you people out here some morning. You never know when you might need to dodge a quick fiend, ya?” He emphasized the word quick with a swooping hand motion.

Kimahri replied with a growling pant, his fingers tracing the somber new regalia on his chest.

The slightly more perceptive Chappu approached Lulu. “You look tired, Lu. What happened?”

Yuna couldn't take it anymore, then. She'd tried to contain herself, really super hard. She tried to be brave, but now the tears burst forth like a ruptured dam. “I...I tried to save Parri. But we...but he...I don't even know how to cast life and...” Yuna attempted to explain between gasping, spirit-rinsing sobs. Kimahri placed a finger on his charge's shoulder and drew her close.

“The dog?” Chappu had a face that carried concern well. Lulu nodded. “Oh man. Kimahri, I am so sorry to hear that.”

Kimahri stood solid, but his eyes were thankful.

“Ah, there's dozens of dogs all over this island, ya? Got to be one that looks just like the mutt 'round here.” Lulu tightened her jaw. Wakka's stupid optimism could show itself at the most inappropriate times.

“That's not the same, Wakka.” Lulu narrowed her eyes and sharpened her voice.

Wakka may not have recognized his error, but he certainly recognized the sting of Lulu's voice. Wakka hung his head at the nape of his neck and began to trudge homeward glumly, blitzball wedged between his arm and waist. “Sorry, Kimahri. I'm a jerk. I'll see you all later.”

“Wait.” All turned to Kimahri. The steadfast Ronso rarely initiated dialogue. “Friends go together.” With a raised spear, Kimahri followed after Wakka, with the sniffling girl-mage trailing after him like an untied bootlace.

Chappu and Lulu exchanged glances. “We'd best do as Kimahri says.” Lulu whispered. Chappu offered his hand, and she took it. She spasmed slightly at the tingling bite of static when her hand met his. There was more life in his hand than in a bucket of ocean-water.

“Lu.” Chappu reached around to the back of her neck and drew her in, pressing his lips too hard against hers, so that their teeth scraped together. She smirked. She didn't mind so much the inelegant stolen kiss or his cocky triumphant grin afterwards. She didn't mind so much her pink dress. She didn't even so much mind the death that orbited Spira as reliable as the moon. Nothing so much to mind, after all, when two very living hands met in such a manner.

“Let's not keep our friends waiting, Chappu.”

And they walked.



Part 6. Offering

The first time Auron had participated in a fast at the monastery, he had complained all throughout the first day, feigned illness on the second and became actually, truly quite sick on the third. That had been over four years ago and since then, his body had become better accustomed to enduring them and he now fully understood and appreciated their purpose. That did not mean, however, that he despised them any less. Five days of intaking nothing save meager portions of a harsh and sour cleansing tea that made him retch every with every swallow. Furthermore, hunger made him impulsive and short-tempered, which could make a young warrior monk trained with a broadsword a dangerous thing. But he was a monk, and this is what monks did.

Wen Kinoc hadn't joined the monks at Bevelle to be a monk. Not exactly. Certainly he considered himself to be a pious Yevonite, but he liked the idea of the warrior monk more than the actual process of becoming one. His mother wanted her boys to be successful, though, so when his athletic older brother had been recruited by the Luca Goers, she decided it was time for her younger son to find his way. Kinoc wasn't exceptionally skilled or particularly interested in much of anything, other than a distant and dim hope of a successful life. Therefore, his mother had decided the only fitting career for her aimless son was to become Maester. The path of a warrior monk was the most accessible path to influence for those that lacked connections and wealth. And, after his mother had framed the idea with her flashy and forceful adjectives, he supposed political power held a certain appeal. That, and the fact his mother threatened to cut off financial and familial support if he didn't join the Bevellian brotherhood and earn a promotion within five years had brought him here. And now he was in the armory of Bevelle, polishing swords that did not belong to him while his head throbbed with the hunger of his first fast.

"Auron."

Auron at sixteen was the closest in age to his seventeen and upon arriving at the temple, Kinoc had guessed incorrectly that Auron would be the most sympathetic to his gripes with the temple. Instead, Auron was a living cornerstone of Yevonite precepts and Bevellian authority, even less sympathetic than Ikvan, at times. Still, the two had fostered an honest, if somewhat default friendship.

"Hmm?"

"Aren't you hungry?"

"Of course."

"Yevon, I'm starving. Don't you ever wonder why they make us do this?"

Auron gave a sour look. The divine name should not be tossed about so casually. "No wondering. I know. And you would too, if you'd follow the readings."

Auron could be such a jackass. "I suppose it's meant to make us consider the sacrifices of some ancient Spiran hero or something, eh?"

"In part. It honors the final duty of high summoners. Also, there are not always regular daily meals in the battlefield." Auron inspected his polishing work against the blushing glint of the afternoon sun.

Through the window, Kinoc eyed the monastery's gated apple orchard wolfishly. "You think they'd notice an apple missing?"

"Certainly. They count them. I've been on that duty myself." In spite of himself, Auron liked having answers to questions. It wasn't pride though, as pride has no place in the spirit of a Yevonite monk.

Kinoc groaned. Three more days. He couldn't handle it. Didn't they know he was here to become Maester? Maesters weren't subject to these silly rituals. They could eat what and when they wanted. They could even be with girls. On Sin's own grave, did he ever miss girls. He grimaced as Auron shifted a sword from his left to right hand, considering its weight and the grip on the hilt. Auron had been here since he was a kid. He probably didn't even know what he was missing. It must be easy for him, and that grated on Kinoc. Bastard. Kinoc turned the katana he was holding, studying the slight arch of the blade. He could learn to fight with this thing. Then, surprising even himself, Kinoc lunged at Auron, wielding the blade haphazardly.

Off-guard and unarmed, Auron twisted to block the blow with his shoulder and the harmless flat side of the blade slapped against him.

Auron's face cracked into a smile as he selected the nearest broadsword. At that age, he was an overeager fool for the fight. Kinoc came at him again and Auron caught the attack with his own blade. Kinoc's attempts at fighting were flawed and undisciplined, full of desperate, wild jabs that left him open and vulnerable. It was disappointingly easy to keep up with him. Kinoc was already beginning to tire when Auron made his first offensive move. Auron went low, putting force into the force into the swing, striking with the flat edge.

Kinoc toppled, dropping the sword and landing hard on his wrists.

Auron shouldered his blade and offered his other hand to his friend with a grin. "You shouldn't land your falls like that, you'll hurt your hands."

Kinoc glared, weakly punching Auron's hand away. It was time for Kinoc to speak like a leader. He should choose his words eloquently. But now right now his backside hurt and he was tired and all the hunger of two days and a few hours had exposed every nerve and this jackass, this why-did-he-even-call-him-a-friend asshole was daring to give him fighting advice in this undignified moment of defeat. Fucker was so calm, too. "Y-you. Think. You think you're..." Kinoc curled his shaking lip and exploded in a shrieking howl.

Auron stepped back from his seething friend, his smile gone. He hadn't expected this reaction. He quickly replaced the borrowed sword and exposed both palms in a gesture of neutrality.

"Don't even fucking..." Kinoc pulled himself off the ground, dizzy with rage and disgrace; he braced himself against his knee and the sword. He had to do something. Turning at his heel, Kinoc plunged the sword into the thick wood of the armory door.

Auron winced as the blade wobbled from the force of the strike. He was surprised it did not break. That was not the proper use of weaponry. He eyed Kinoc cautiously, now seething spittle from his clenched teeth like a fiend.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Kinoc trembled. The priests had been doubtful about letting the chubby, slow-moving teenager join their ranks and now he'd proven himself unable to command himself, let alone the armies he half-heartedly hoped to lead. And this cloistered, clueless sonofabitch had seen it all. He opened his mouth. He needed strong and dignified words now. He needed the inspired, soul-stirring articulations of a high summoner. Instead, he began to cry. Long guttural, horrifying sobs. With tears and snot. He couldn't help it. He couldn't speak. He could barely breathe. Half-broken, Kinoc stood --sobbing, infantile and pathetic before the younger monk.

Auron wasn't sure what to say. Auron wasn't sure what to do. This was not how monks behave. He felt weaker and more ineffectual than he'd ever felt in the wake of defeat. "I'm sorry."

In one motion Kinoc yanked the blade from the door and hurled it low, like a Hypello's boomerang, skittering to a stop before Auron's feet. "Don't need any apologies from you." He grunted, spitting phlegm on the dirt of the armory floor before he left and slammed armory door, the wall-mounted weaponry clattering slightly.

Feeling slightly crooked and unsettled, Auron set about silently finishing the work for the both of them, his hand tremoring slightly as he took up the polishing rag.

----

Kinoc still despised the claustrophobic wooden slats upon which monks slept. However, once one is half starved out of their body and completely worked out of their soul, even the privileged son of a Maester could slumber soundly upon such shoddy accommodations.

The apple was bruised and beginning to spoil, which made it nauseatingly fragrant. Remembering hunger, Auron's stomach thrashed and snarled at the smell. He had saved the apple from his last meal, hoping to break his fast with his favorite fruit. He didn't particularly like the idea of possibly supporting a transgression of temple law, but there were times when his personal order of loyalty blurred. The temple certainly came before friends, and Yevon came before the temple. And he felt pity for Kinoc, certainly. But that wasn't why Auron was about to leave this apple at the bedside of his snoring friend. No. Auron believed Kinoc could serve the temple and Yevon well, but that wouldn't happen Kinoc were to give up on his studies and leave the monastery. The temple and Yevon suffer with the loss of every single monk. Thus, he was doing this for the good of Yevon. And furthermore, there was no precept proclaiming that one couldn't set an apple beside a bedside. And that was all he was doing. Yes. What happened afterward couldn't be his responsibility. Still, his heart quivered.

Auron placed the fruit near Kinoc's bedside candle, but in a mirthful afterthought dropped it into one of Kinoc's temple-issued boots instead.

Retreating to his own bunk, Auron gathered himself in a brief prayer. He hoped he had done the right thing. He had nothing else to offer.


Part 7. Dauntless

The moon didn't hang in the sky, jewel-like among the clouds. Not in the Calm Lands. Here, it sat restful and confident on a throne, with no trees or hills to challenge or obscure its view.

The wind was nice, too. Lady Ginnem let down her hair to let the prairie night push through it.

"How Ginnem trust a Guado guardian?" The Ronso snorted as he lapped the foamy head from his ale.

"Guado just turned to Yevon. Lady Summoner should bring strong and proud Ronso, not sneaky Guado."

Ginnem, loosened by restful evening and the hearty drink the Ronso had eagerly shared, smiled at the blue-furred warrior. "Erna's a good fighter. She's the best Claw-handler I've ever seen, really. I trust her with my life. And, my dear Ronso," She added with a teasing lilt. "I doubt your fellows at Gagazet would be happy to hear that you've been questioning the judgment of a summoner on her Yevon-ordained pilgrimage."

With an audible snarl, the Ronso warrior turned his glass up, chugging the brew greedily, like a human. He was quiet, though, when the Guado woman emerged from her quarters and took a seat next to Ginnem, making a face. "Ronso ale? Thought you'd have better taste, my lady."

At that, the Ronso snorted indignantly, leaving biled words behind as he hulked to his room. "Ronso think Guado impolite, remember this when Lady Summoner reaches Gagazet."

Erna frowned. "Stupid Ronso. You'd think they-"

Ginnem looked straight ahead and cradled her drink in her hand. "Erna, please. No formalities. No 'my lady'. And let the Ronso be. I don't want any trouble. We are here to rest."

Erna grunted slightly. "I can't sleep well at these places, you know that." She lowered her voice. "I'm sure Rin means us no harm, but he is an Al Bhed, after all--"

"He cancelled a reservation to accommodate us." Ginnem sighed. The Guado were the most recent converts to Yevon, and perhaps due to that, among the most reactionary followers. "And I see no machina here. I see nothing that would violate the teachings, really. The travel agencies themselves have been approved by all four masters. Even Maester Jyscal and High Maester Yo Mika."

Erna bit her lip. "Regardless, what are you still doing out here? It's late."

"Enjoying myself." Ginnem spoke with a sad gravity. "It won't be long until I won't be doing this anymore. You said to me yourself there's no rush, right?"

Erna looked down, studying the weave and warp of the table cloth. She didn't say anything for a long time. When she did, it was quiet and careful. "I just assumed...that you'd be tired."

"I'm not tired." Ginnem answered without removing her eyes from the horizon, which was already growing pale with an ever-widening band of grey. Mornings came earlier when there were no towns or trees to halt it. Ginnem always managed to get her strongest guardian off guard with these moments. Simple words with the weighty underpinnings that a guardian could discern, but not quite articulate. A sorrowful acceptance, perhaps. No regret, though. Lady Ginnem didn't regret. The summoner held a determination Erna had never seen in anyone. But then, she'd never met another summoner in which she could place much trust. "But you're right. It is late." Ginnem lifted herself, feeling the gentle wooziness of the Ronso ale as she stood. "Goodnight." Erna watched her go, openly staring at the other woman. She always expected her to stumble, with all the weight Ginnem seemed to pull in that honorable harness of summoner. She was the vehicle of hope for all of Spira. Erna swallowed then and felt her eyes begin to water in spite of herself. She lowered her face quickly, returning to the tablecloth threadcount, should Ginnem steal a backwards glance. They'd done this dance for a while, barely skirting that inevitable truth. Never really speaking of the act, of what was to be done. Erna covered her face with her long fingers. These next couple days, then, would be the last time they would feel the warmth of the sun together. Beyond the Calm Lands lies the frigid Mt. Gagazet, and beyond that the holy ruins of Zanarkand, over which the sun never rose. Or so it was told. At the thought of the sun, Erna noticed the pearliness of moon that night. It was then that she began to really cry.

--

Ginnem hesitated. It was late, but she really wasn't tired, and the strip of lamp-glow from under Lulu's door seemed so much like an invitation, particularly with her judgment softened by the finest brew of Gagazet. So she lifted her hand and knocked softly on her youngest guardian's door. "Lulu?"

From the slightly bewildered mage inside. "My lady...? Enter!"

Opening the door, Ginnem could not resist a snorting chuckle at the sight of the young mage clumsily performing the prayer gesture, pajama-clad and sitting, propped up by pillows on an unmade bed.

"You girls know I hate that stuffy business." Ginnem lowered herself at the foot of Lulu's bed. She lifted her voice in a teasing tone. "And what are you still doing awake? I wonder if it is really worth the gil for these places when none of us seem to actually sleep."

"Erm...sorry!" Lulu stammered. "I was just finishing this chapter. It's about Mandragora. I thought it might be useful for--"

"A few blasts of Firaga. Simple, really. And I know you already know that; you've reviewed that chapter at least three times since Guadosalam. Is there anything in your life that you don't feel the obsessive need to know absolutely everything about?"

Lulu considered this. "If I didn't study, I wouldn't learn. And if didn't learn, I wouldn't be a much of a mage." Under the eyes of her superior, she added a quick disclaimer. "I think."

Ginnem exploded in a single, loud guffaw. "Lulu, you sound just like Maechen."

"Um."

"No worries, dear. It's a compliment." She smiled. "For a mage."

"And," Lulu continued unprompted. "I've never been to any of these places. You and Erna have."

Oh, sweet Lulu. Would she ever learn that memorized passages from reference books were no substitute for worldliness? "And we are getting very, very quickly to where we failed last time, and thus to places where none of us have gone. Our first go at it, we hardly made it a third of the way up Zanarkand. We decided we needed a black mage..." Ginnem stopped and fixed her eyes on the mage, tilting her head in questioning. "Did I ever thank you, Lulu? Because I'm not sure I did."

"Ginnem, you really needn't--"

Ginnem gathered the girl into an embrace, surprising the mage mid-sentence. "Thank you, Lulu. You're the finest black mage a summoner could want. You'll change the world someday."

"It is my honor." Blushing.

Ginnem held the mage's shoulders at arm's length, examining the young woman. "What are your dreams, anyway? Do you even want to change the world? And don't you dare say" The summoner raised her voice in a sniveling mimic, "'My one and only dream has ever been to serve you, my lady', because we both know that's bullocks."

Lulu hadn't expected this. And she'd really not given much thought to any dream. She was too practical for dreams. She thought about goals, rather. But then again. "I'd like to work in Bevelle. In the clergy. As a mentor in elemental magics. I wouldn't care for any career that wouldn't allow me to
practice my craft. And there's not much opportunity in Besaid."

"You're so respectable, Lulu!" Ginnem nibbled on a bit of calloused skin on her thumb. "Honestly, at your age, I probably would have said the wife of a blitzball star."

Lulu blinked.

"Come on now, not all of us were born heroes. Some of us need it beaten into us." She grabbed Lulu's hand then, and the grin was suddenly replaced by the stony, urgent stare of Yunalesca's statue, Ginnem's oft-professed idol. "Nearly one thousand years and they've still not found a solid, good way. It keeps coming back." Her voice trembled like an insect-eaten leaf. "I promise you, Lulu. We'll get you back to Besaid, and from there Bevelle."

"But the pilgrimage--"

"We'll finish the pilgrimage. We'll do it right, somehow. We'll do it right, for the first time." She squeezed the mage's hand, the small hand that held such power. "I know my girls. We can do it." Ginnem pursed her lips and forced the smile back. "You should put the book down, though. We need an alert black mage, not an exhausted tour guide."

"Goodnight."

Lulu gazed upwards at the darkened ceiling. Back to Besaid. Back to Chappu, Wakka and Yuna. She plunged slightly at the thought of Yuna. Lulu was still a little angry. She wondered if the girl was preparing for her first summoner's trial yet. Lulu had tried to keep Yuna from following in her father's footsteps.

Yuna had announced her decision quietly, wholly without fanfare. It was almost confessional, as the two girls sat alone, long after sunset, with their toes skittering the water's surface. Yuna had told her, and Lulu's heart sank like a ship. Yet it was a realization of the inevitable. When Lulu had first seen Yuna wield her first summoner's staff, it was as thought there had never been another Yuna besides Summoner Yuna. It simply fit.

And still Lulu had tried to turn her away from that path, with every fiber of her being. Lulu even dared to invoke the hold name of Yuna's father. He had, the black mage insisted, brought the calm so that his daughter may know a life without the constant loom of death. How would he feel if his daughter would throw away her own for the chance to battle the same force from which Braska had protected his daughter? Yet Yuna commanded all the force of a mountain in the same stately eyes and birdly delicate body of her father. Still, Lulu had tried. Wakka, too. But Chappu had been perhaps the most adamant, maybe skirting on blasphemy. He didn't understand why the sacrifices were necessary.

Lulu sighed. One could never tell how long a calm would last. She dared to hope Lady Ginnem's would last longer than Braska's, and perhaps Yuna wouldn't have to embark on the grim pilgrimage. The girl could spend a quiet occupied life attending temple duties and dancing away the dead of Besaid. A good life. A long life.

Lulu was at last sinking into sleep when she felt a faint tickling sensation at her thumb and looked down. A large white-winged moth had lit on her hand, its fuzzy antennae twitching, two miniature reflections of the dying oil-lamp in its glossy eyes. Yuna. Drawn to the light. To hope. Drawn to the flame. To death.

Goodnight.

--

Lulu sighed deeply, absently tracing the curved wing of the haunted moogle she currently wielded. The sun was too bright for her, and here there was no thick Besaidian canopy to filter out the light. So she had a headache. In addition, she was feeling stupid and jealous, as the elder women kept a few paces before her, casually and quickly comparing possible strategies. The two older women had such a rapport, such an understanding. She had to remind herself, as Ginnem often did, that they were all equal. All in this for the same reason, sharing the same goal. Still, the mage often found herself craning her neck to hear them as they quickly planned out their route, rarely consulting the youngest party member.

She wondered if the legendary Sir Auron, the youngest of High Summoner Braska's party, had ever felt this way. She wondered at the chance of perhaps meeting him as they neared Mt. Gagazet. No-one seemed to know for certain where the legendary guardian had gone after his party had ushered in the calm, only that he was not on the farplane. Rumors, however, painted him as a hermit in the Gagazet caves, protected and supported by the faithful and secretive Ronso tribe. He was nothing more than a mad recluse, now -- never fully recovered from Sin's toxin, they said.

"Look sharp!" Erna's voice slapped with echo against the cliff-wall.

The three formed themselves quickly, Ginnem protectively in the middle. "Erna?"

"Something's coming...I smell--"

"Ugh..." Lulu reeled an oppressive stench hit her, undeniable as a brick.

"Malboro!" Ginnem barked sharply.

Lulu knew this, of course, as the tentacled plant-beast resembled the countless scientific illustrations illuminating the pages of her fiend manuals. And yet nothing could prepare her for the smell. And she'd kissed Chappu in the morning before he’d brushed his teeth, ripe with the sweat of a Besaid night. She gagged. The fiend lunged at Erna with a belch, vomiting an oppressive goo onto the Guado. The blue-haired guardian roared as the skin-searing toxin burned through her armor. She plunged her claw into the beast’s face, a fungal black powder erupting from its wound.

"Lulu! Firaga!" Erna shouted gruffly as she gathered herself for another assault.

As Lulu began to conjure energy, Ginnem halted her as she initiated a summon.

A fiery cross ignited the ground before her and the ground split for the emerging Ifrit.

At Ginnem's command, the aeon made an impressive display of very effeciently finishing the fiend with a single overdrive that called forth the sulphurous center of Spira and catapulted the even the largest beats over the tallest tree-tops. Hellfire. She'd seen Ifrit do this before, and it was the same every time, but Lulu couldn't help but admire his showmanship.

Ginnem bowed respectfully to the Aeon with the dismissal gesture that signified its services were no longer needed.

Lulu sunk slightly as she relaxed the high-level fire spell from her hands. She hadn't executed the spell much and would have appreciated the practice.

Ginnem gave her a tired smile. Calling aeons drained the summoner. "I'm not sure why they named them the Calm Lands, either." She chuckled wearily and turned to the other guardian. "Erna, let me see what that mushroom did to you."

"I'm fine, Ginnem." The Guado woman hissed, taking on the path ahead of them with an increased speed.
"We don't need you wasting your energy anymore than you just did."

"What are you telling me?" Ginnem quickened her pace to match Erna's.

Erna glared ahead, assuming a pace quicker than her usual trot, leaving a pregnant distance between herself and the rest of the party. Ginnem had no right to Erna’s feelings. Ginnem had no right to see the redness of her eyes, to know how much time she'd spent sitting at that table last night, with her hands covering her face, pretending to be fascinated by modern Al Bhed tablecloth-weaving techniques. "That we didn't need the Aeon. It was a waste. And we really can't afford to waste." Erna spoke curtly, clipping each word to the quick.

"We weren't prepared. You know what the Malboro can do." Ginnem gave a soft, indignant huff.

"Of course I know. Even the girl knows. We could have defeated it easily, right Lulu?"

"Um." Lulu spoke in a small voice, slightly embarrassed for the both of them.

"This has nothing to do with Lulu, it was my choice. I'm the summoner."

"Then you should know-" Erna paused to ambush a single sleeping Skoll, defeating the canine fiend with a single, glimmering swipe. "You should know then, the aeons are not trained dogs to be sent after anything you see fit."

Ginnem halted suddenly. "Erna." She spoke in a firm, chilled tone the laid-back summoner rarely assumed. "I asked you to accompany me on my pilgrimage twice now. I did so because I trust and respect you. I may not always agree with your decisions and you may not mine. However, when one embarks on a pilgrimage, one's role trumps one’s personal feelings. I am the summoner and I have made my decision."

Erna was silent then, and while she still wouldn't turn to face her summoner, she reached her silver claw up and scraped it along the cliff-wall that edged the Calm Lands. Metal upon stone emitted a horrible squeal as she walked. A sound which drowned out any other.

--

The air was distinctly chillier and drier here. Battered bits of dyed cloth billowed like flame.

"Gagazet is over that rise." Erna observed glumly, stepping onto the Ronso-maintained bridge.

"Wait." Ginnem paused before the bridge, splitting from the path, slightly westward. "I want to see something."

"Do we have time for this?"

"No rush, eh? This is the only time for this, really. Besides," Ginnem slid a smile in Lulu’s direction, "We are going to make our Calm last a long, long time." The summoner led her guardians down an overgrown path below the primitive rope and blank bridge.

"What is this?" Erna squinted into the chasm of rock. "Smells bad."

"I think..." Ginnem stopped. Is this it?

"...the Cavern of the Stolen Fayth?" Lulu pondered allowed.

Ginnem nodded. "I heard it was here. And this...I think this is it."

"Stolen Fayth?" Erna scowled. "It sounds as bad as it smells. I don’t like it."

"The Stolen Fayth was stolen from a temple, centuries ago." Lulu volunteered eagerly, her voice quivering. "Some think it was to impede the summoner’s path. I...didn’t realize anyone-"

"-Not many seek this fayth. This trial is not easy. They say lady Yucon had him, though."

"Yojimbo." Lulu turned to Erna, her voice lightened with awe. "I’ve read he can strike down the strongest fiends with a single blow. I--"

"Whatever." Erna eyed the underside of the Ronso bridge. "I don’t deal with stolen goods. We don’t need it."

"I believe such an Aeon would be a great asset as we near Zanarkand." Ginnem raised her voice. "And I believe that we can accomplish this trial. I have faith in us."

"We. Don’t. Need. It." Erna spoke each word as though each commanded a sentence on its own. "This place smells like the farplane. Like death. It would be irresponsible and perilous to pursue this now, so close to Zanarkand."

Lulu pushed her shoulders back and raised her voice in a half-aware mimic of Ginnem. "I think we should try it. If anything, it will be good for training. Ginnem could learn Holy, which could be useful in Zanarkand."

"Lulu’s right. Good training. An adventure. Zanarkand can wait." Ginnem paused to light a torch with a low-level fire spell. "Furthermore, I am the summoner. These decisions are my privilege."

Lulu followed the summoner into the guttering blackness.

"Your privilege. My burden." Erna muttered quietly. The Guado was the last to follow, so that the others would not see her quaking hands as she performed the prayer. A dreadful and desperate plea to Yevon.