(no subject)
There are a lot of dead people. A lot of dead, and only a handful of summoners present.
She passes Dona, somewhere in the fifth hour, and there's not enough left in either of them to even snarl.
And all the while, people load the wounded into carts and the carts are dragged up the cliff road to the temple.
(Not by chocobos. They can't find any chocobos left alive, and for some reason that sets her off in a way the omnipresent carnage just can't, and she has to go behind a rock and retch. And then she starts walking the shore again, feeling her way, looking for the spirits of the dead.
It's harder, when they don't leave bodies.)
Eventually it's actually over, her magic is used up and all her potions and if there are more spirits on this beach she can't find them, and she doesn't know where anyone is, and she finds a place to sit and let herself cry.
And she finds she can't.
That's when Seymour finds her.
He kneels beside her, concern clear in his face, so clear that she feels like the only person in the world in that moment, and it's impossible, ridiculous, when so many people are dying that he should care about her and only her. What about everyone else? What about his own pain, for that matter?
It's a mask, she knows. But how can he do it?
"Lady Yuna?"
The face she turns to him is not a mask. It's the face of a girl of seventeen who's just watched a massacre, unable to stop it. He lays a hand over hers, and the stiff curve of his fingers, the tapering sharpness, isn't frightening. It feels strong, and protecting.
"Are you all right?"
She laughs, at that (she can laugh but she can't cry, she thinks, just like Lulu always wanted), bitter and harsh. "No."
"I know," he says, and his voice is infinitely tender and seraphically calm.
"How can you do it?" she shouts, and her voice is like a crow's, she thinks; she's utterly undone. "How can you go on like nothing happened?"
"That's what they expect from us," he says, gentle, with no note of reproof. "It's what they need from us."
"For us to act like nothing happened today?"
"For us to act as if we have not lost hope. What happened today, was a tragedy," he says. "And the tragedy has not yet ended. Yet if the people who survive this day can ever truly live again, they must believe that hope has not ended here."
She doesn't say anything, and after a moment, he continues.
"The machina weapons failed. The Crusaders failed. Yevon is their only hope now. You are their hope. They must believe that you are undefeated, unbowed. They must believe in a Yuna mythic, and grand and untouched by the fear and despair that gnaws at them."
"I can't be her," she says, her voice trembling. "I can't, smile, and act like this didn't happen. I can't be what they need me to be."
"Yes, you can," he says, and the faith and certainty in his voice seems to flow into her. "You are hurting now, and lost, Yuna, but I know you will not fail your people. And if you feel your hope fail, and you, too, need someone to turn to--"
He halts, and then his expression changes; becomes less generically concerned, less perfectly neutral, and fills with real passion and heartache. For her.
"Look to me, Yuna. My pilgrimage may have ended in failure, but if I have learned one thing, it is how to bear the weight of suffering, and stand the blows of despair. Let me be your pillar of strength. Let me be the Lord Zaon to your Lady Yunalesca, and carry your troubles as my own. In this way, I, too, will serve Spira." His free hand touches her face, and she turns into it.
"And a brave lady, worth of all the love and respect Spira has for her. You can do this, Yuna."
She smiles, faltering, a pathetic effort, and she bows her head and tries again. Again, stepping back from herself now, thinking of each muscle and each line; a puppet, with the rods and wires in her hand.
And she smiles, beautiful and graceful and at peace, a young girl of seventeen without a care in the world, confident and free and full of hope.
"My lady," Seymour intones, his perfect calm in place, and he kisses her forehead, and rises.
After a moment she rises up, too, and finds her Guardians.
She passes Dona, somewhere in the fifth hour, and there's not enough left in either of them to even snarl.
And all the while, people load the wounded into carts and the carts are dragged up the cliff road to the temple.
(Not by chocobos. They can't find any chocobos left alive, and for some reason that sets her off in a way the omnipresent carnage just can't, and she has to go behind a rock and retch. And then she starts walking the shore again, feeling her way, looking for the spirits of the dead.
It's harder, when they don't leave bodies.)
Eventually it's actually over, her magic is used up and all her potions and if there are more spirits on this beach she can't find them, and she doesn't know where anyone is, and she finds a place to sit and let herself cry.
And she finds she can't.
That's when Seymour finds her.
He kneels beside her, concern clear in his face, so clear that she feels like the only person in the world in that moment, and it's impossible, ridiculous, when so many people are dying that he should care about her and only her. What about everyone else? What about his own pain, for that matter?
It's a mask, she knows. But how can he do it?
"Lady Yuna?"
The face she turns to him is not a mask. It's the face of a girl of seventeen who's just watched a massacre, unable to stop it. He lays a hand over hers, and the stiff curve of his fingers, the tapering sharpness, isn't frightening. It feels strong, and protecting.
"Are you all right?"
She laughs, at that (she can laugh but she can't cry, she thinks, just like Lulu always wanted), bitter and harsh. "No."
"I know," he says, and his voice is infinitely tender and seraphically calm.
"How can you do it?" she shouts, and her voice is like a crow's, she thinks; she's utterly undone. "How can you go on like nothing happened?"
"That's what they expect from us," he says, gentle, with no note of reproof. "It's what they need from us."
"For us to act like nothing happened today?"
"For us to act as if we have not lost hope. What happened today, was a tragedy," he says. "And the tragedy has not yet ended. Yet if the people who survive this day can ever truly live again, they must believe that hope has not ended here."
She doesn't say anything, and after a moment, he continues.
"The machina weapons failed. The Crusaders failed. Yevon is their only hope now. You are their hope. They must believe that you are undefeated, unbowed. They must believe in a Yuna mythic, and grand and untouched by the fear and despair that gnaws at them."
"I can't be her," she says, her voice trembling. "I can't, smile, and act like this didn't happen. I can't be what they need me to be."
"Yes, you can," he says, and the faith and certainty in his voice seems to flow into her. "You are hurting now, and lost, Yuna, but I know you will not fail your people. And if you feel your hope fail, and you, too, need someone to turn to--"
He halts, and then his expression changes; becomes less generically concerned, less perfectly neutral, and fills with real passion and heartache. For her.
"Look to me, Yuna. My pilgrimage may have ended in failure, but if I have learned one thing, it is how to bear the weight of suffering, and stand the blows of despair. Let me be your pillar of strength. Let me be the Lord Zaon to your Lady Yunalesca, and carry your troubles as my own. In this way, I, too, will serve Spira." His free hand touches her face, and she turns into it.
"And a brave lady, worth of all the love and respect Spira has for her. You can do this, Yuna."
She smiles, faltering, a pathetic effort, and she bows her head and tries again. Again, stepping back from herself now, thinking of each muscle and each line; a puppet, with the rods and wires in her hand.
And she smiles, beautiful and graceful and at peace, a young girl of seventeen without a care in the world, confident and free and full of hope.
"My lady," Seymour intones, his perfect calm in place, and he kisses her forehead, and rises.
After a moment she rises up, too, and finds her Guardians.