Final Fantasy XIII: Sometimes there is little difference between fear, guilt and courage
In Oerba, you are an adult when you reach nineteen years of age. It is possible to marry earlier, and some do, but it is only at nineteen that one may choose a Profession, and hence be entitled to a home of their own.
Matron tells me that it is not always so in the other tribes. On the eastern steppes, where the people live in movable tents, and have hair the colour of mine and skin the colour of Fang’s, breaking in a wild chocobo is one’s key to adulthood. Further across the mountains, Matron whispers with disapproval, there are peoples who simply live off the fal’Cie, and won’t ever lift a finger to prove their worth.
I grew up elsewhere, but my parents were killed and so now I live in Oerba. It is a sad story, but I was not the only one, and over the years we orphans made our own family, here, in this village that gives us all the love we could wish for.
Oerba has done so much for us no child in the house would hesitate to fight for our adopted home. Especially Fang. She would die for Oerba, and that scares me sometimes. I don’t pretend to understand why, but I know, when she practices with her staff for hours, never stopping even after her hands bleed and Matron yells at her and I have to change her bandages every night until she heals, she’s fighting something more than the monsters roaming the plains.
Fang tells me a lot. She talks to me about how she wants to get stronger, about the bullies in school and how to keep away from them, about what she did during lunch and what was the latest trick she learned. But she will never talk about what happened to her, before Oerba. Once I had asked Matron about it, when I was younger. She only sighed, and said that the whims of the fal’Cie can be cruel. At the time, I thought she was being ornery because she didn’t know. Lately, when I see Fang looking pensive, when she thinks I don’t notice, I begin to think that Matron does know, and the memories are too sad for either of them to bring up in this new life of ours.
Soon Fang will have to move out of the orphanage. She is getting too old to stay, and new children continue to trickle in. She will live in commune, together with other members of the village, old and young, who have not chosen a Profession. But Fang won’t be there a day longer than she has to. She has made up her mind to be a Hunter, and it is obvious that she is already better than most of the men and women taking the Test. She doesn’t really need a house, so she laughs and says it’s really for me.
Sometimes we sit atop the windmill at the edge of town. It is our special place, and up there, staring at the mountains to one side and the sea on the other, Fang tells me other things, quiet things about when she’s sad, or scared. No one ever sees her cry, but I know that when she’s with me, she’ll let her heart cry a little, even when there are no tears.
Fang doesn’t really talk much about the future, but I know that there is nothing more important to her than protecting Oerba. I also know that something bad is coming, because the elders whisper about it. The war with Cocoon is getting worse. And I can’t help it, I’m terrified of the day Fang turns nineteen. Because everyone knows that Hunters usually die young.
---
The Test to be a Hunter is a private ritual. It may be witnessed by one other person, who must either be a very good friend, or a close lover. Family members are barred, for reasons that will remain obscure in the annals of history. It begins with the drawing of the Mark, a symbol chosen by the Hunter-to-be and etched onto the skin by the Elder. The process is excruciating and the pain is deliberately heightened by a concoction that is drunk before the ritual.
Personally I think the whole thing is needlessly barbaric. It is bad enough that I have to see Fang writhe and sob through hours of agony during the Marking. Then I have to sit by her side throughout the night of convulsions and fever that follow, as her body tries to work off the shock and the drugs. When it is over, I feel just as sick and exhausted. The Elder explains that the ritual is crafted to instill humility and to teach affection and gratitude to counter aggression. I do understand the theory, but hadn’t our ancestors thought about how awfully it affects those of us who have to witness it?
Maybe they did, though. Maybe this also teaches us the discipline needed to see our loved ones off to danger, and gives us the strength needed to care for them when they are returned injured or broken.
In any case, this trial has brought us closer. Sometimes I will catch Fang staring at me as if it’s the first time she’s seeing me. I wonder if she feels the same thing I do, an indefinable, inexpressible emotion. Nowadays, except when Fang departs for a hunt or a mission, we are almost inseparable. The house is small but cozy, and although I worry myself to death every time Fang is away, I am also happy to share everything, good and bad, that makes up her life.
Outside, though, things grow from bad to worse. Gran Pulse continues to be stripped, slowly but surely, by the fal’Cie who battle over that which is incomprehensible to us. Fang hates the fal’Cie with a passion. She blames them for our hardships, for interfering with our lives, for bringing their disputes on top of us with no thought given to the innocents caught in the crossfire. Fang’s village, and nearly all the people in it, had been destroyed by fal’Cie, and though we are taught to respect them as gods, Fang will surely never forgive them for this betrayal.
---
There is a temple several days journey north of Oerba, where fal’Cie Anima resides, surrounded by offerings and acolytes. Anima is our patron and has protected the village for as far as back can be remembered. It is considered relatively benevolent and reasonably generous, as far as fal’Cie go, and villagers still make regular pilgrimages to retain its favour.
With the last two winters, however, even the most devout are starting to question the graciousness of Anima. The seasons are harsh, the harvests pitiful, and the monsters increasingly plentiful and bold. Most tellingly, roaming Cie corpses are appearing with alarming frequency. Nearly a day does not pass without Fang venturing out to fight the worst of the threats. Twice she has been brought back with gaping wounds, body barely held together with potions and makeshift bandages. Each time, I am a hysterical, weeping mess. Barely conscious, she will smile apologetically and reach out to wipe my tears away. Somehow, that makes it hurt even more.
But I don’t tell her that. It is not fair, and neither of us will feel better. Oerba is under siege, and we are fighting for survival. Fang doesn’t talk much lately. She still smirks and teases, but I see through the façade, and know her mood is grim.
I had not chosen a Profession when I turned nineteen. In happier times, I would have probably been a Craftsman, but considering the situation I simply put off the decision. For years I had been content to live with Fang, doing my share of the village chores. Now, though, fear is my constant companion. And so it is out of fear, and weakness, that I make my decision to take up a Profession. It is simple enough - if I were a Hunter, too, I would not have to be left behind whilst Fang risks her life, day in, day out.
This, I tell Fang. I know I am good enough, because since I was a child Fang has trained me to be more than adequate. I would do the job as well as any other. I don’t understand, then, when instead of embracing the idea, her eyes flash in disbelief and anger.
Vanille, are you outta your mind?! What in the Maker would possess you to come up with that? And think that I would agree to such a ridiculous thing?!
Those words hurt me, and in return I fling hurtful words back at her. Accusations - Do you even know how I feel? Pleadings - Don’t make me go through more of this. It is not our first fight, but it is by far our worst, and when it is over all we have gained is bitterness and guilt for each other. Fang has left in frustration and does not return even when the sun begins to peek out.
I find her sitting atop our windmill, staring into the distance. She sighs when I sit beside her, and for a long time there are no words while we watch the sky turn brilliant shades of orange and pink.
It is strange that all it takes is a moment of calm for understanding to take place. Suddenly I see that Fang, too, is deathly afraid. She is scared that she will lose Oerba, and that she will lose me. She frowns, squinting at something in the horizon, and I wonder what monsters she is fighting in her head, whether she is again gathering up the anger that drives her to crush the enemies that threaten our home.
Or maybe, I think, as an agonized look crosses her face, it is not so much anger as it is guilt.
She shuts her eyes, and when she opens them there is new determination. There is something else too, unreadable. Regret? She doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
Give me a few days. I’ll settle this, once and for all, she says, and drops to the ground before I can react. I am confused and upset. Once again she has made me seem a child. It is always about her, always her taking the blame, shielding me, fighting my fights for me. Are you doing this again?
I yell as much down to her retreating back, and she gives a little wave without breaking stride. I have to smile at that. Her need for self-sacrifice is as endearing as it is frustrating. I huff, and do a bit of my own staring into the distance as I ponder my next move.
It is not until the sun is a quarter up the sky that I realize the glittering speck on the horizon that had so captured Fang’s attention is Anima’s temple, and the full meaning of Fang’s words hits me with stunning clarity.
Suddenly fear like nothing before chokes me. I run home in a panic and crash through the door. Fang is still there, but a small sack of supplies belies her intention.
I look her in the eye. “I’m going with you.”