(Disclaimer: Final Fantasy X characters and terms belong to Squaresoft. I'll put the toys away when I'm done playing with them.)
Summoning of the Innocence
"Have you chosen, then? Is he to become your fayth and renew Spira's hope?"
A voice with the finality of time, echoing like the thousands of millennia since Yunalesca's life had passed on. Her every gesture suggested an infallible grace and dignity, provocative and evocative and sensual. Disarming and awe inspiring to the men who followed her into the ruins of Zanarkand's once grand temple. Jecht could only stand and stare, feeling his heartbeat drumming against his chest in anticipation. Braska felt his limbs stiffen, almost too enthralled to answer her though his vocal chords did so of their own accord.
"Yes. This is Jecht, my Guardian and one of my closest friends."
"That is all that matters," she replied solemnly, silent feet moving across the broken floor with a hand held out toward Jecht, "A child, a lover, a friend, a wife or husband, so long as the bond is true then you shall have your fayth and your Final Aeon and Spira shall know they do not hope in vain. Come, take my hand, Sir Jecht. And, like my husband Lord Zaon, become that which will defeat Sin."
Jecht couldn't even formulate an answer as she reached toward him, grasping his wrist and compelling him to follow her step by step. He had questions to ask, things he needed to know. Yet, standing there with her, guided away from Braska's side, everything fell away. His mind ran numb and anything he thought to say scattered like leaves in the wind.
The lead him to the center of the eye of Yevon, at the precipice of the Temple overlooking the nothingness of space. Cold and empty, where death and life bordered one another and overlapped into the ghostly ruin of Zanarkand. Spinning, she released his wrist, tendrils of ethereal hair spiraling around her slender form. "Do you, Jecht, accept that this body is merely mortal clay?"
"Huh?" Jecht looked back toward Braska, who seemed so small and far away in the distance. The Summoner could only shake his head sadly and gesture for his friend to answer. Jecht was on his own now, Braska could only watch and wait.
"Yeah," he finally replied, focusing again on the woman in front of him. His lack of etiquette didn't seem to phase her, or the trance in her eyes as it spiraled out to encompass him.
"Then do you accept that the soul is immortal and death is the end to all suffering?"
"Yeah."
"Then know peace, Sir Jecht, and embrace death."
Turning her back to him, she reached up toward the heavens, face lifted in supplication as the air itself grew dense and began to solidify before her fingers the shape of a sword. It glowed a bright blue in color and then red, white and finally gold. A bright and burnished gold that nearly blinded both Jecht and Braska with its light.
Jecht might have exclaimed at how bright it was, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. But in a second's time Yunalesca grasped the hilt and the glow faded away, the bright and perfect blade shimmering within her hands. "Now you shall receive that which you came for. Be still."
A deep tremor erupted from beneath Jecht's feet, the ground breaking apart as several tentacles emerged at once to slice open the ancient tiles. Jecht found himself a prisoner within them before he could react, cool tendrils wrapping around his ankles to bind them together and then his wrists to hold them apart and lift him into the air. Held fast, he found himself unable to move, helpless in an instant.
"Jecht!" Braska's voice sounded faded and old. The Summoner could no longer be still and observant, racing forward only to find himself barred from the ceremonial floor by forces unseen. "Jecht!" Palms pressed against the mysterious barrier, Braska could do nothing to aid his Guardian. Nothing but watch as Yunalesca continued the ceremony as if she could not even see him.
"Do you, Sir Jecht, agree to take responsibility for the sins of Spira?" she asked, sword pointed toward the ground as she lifted her chin regally to regard the man hung before her.
"Yeah..." Jecht answered, breath quickening in anticipation. What manner of torture awaited him?
The sword lifted, glinting in the half-light of the edge of the world and with a swift stroke, drove through Jecht's left hand. He cried out in pain, feeling the tendril around his wrist tighten as he struggled in its grasp.
She withdrew the sword after a moment, the brilliant blade dulled somewhat by the mark of his blood. "Are you, Sir Jecht, willing to die to renew Spira's hope?"
It took him a moment to answer her that time, swallowing and gasping for breath. He could hear Braska somewhere behind him, pounding on something and just in knowing his Summoner was still there, and would need him gave him the impetus to continue, "Yes."
And pain renewed itself as the sword then pierced his right hand, more of his blood darkening the blade. She withdrew it and stood solemnly, as if meditating before her final question was posed, "Do you agree to become Sin. To become the vessel of Spira's atonement?"
"Wha...?" Even in his pained state, both hands aching and blood dripping down to the floor of the temple, Jecht couldn't understand the question.
"Yes or no, Sir Jecht," she snapped, the sword within her hands held at point's end to his chest. "Will you die for Spira?"
"Yes," he answered, though he could have sworn that wasn't the same question. And with his answer the blade of the sword pierced his chest, running him through for the point to jut from his back. Head thrown back, an articulate cry of pain echoed from his throat, drowning out Braska's cries of protest and horror for his friend and Guardian.
Yunalesca stood with sword in hand, unaffected by the cries that echoed around her. Her voice stood out above them, even as the ground trembled again as the tendrils slowly dragged the dying body into the ground. Jecht's head hung forward, feeling his heart struggling to beat with the blade piercing it. His lungs filled with fluid, a last breath drew as her words enveloped him. "Now, Sir Jecht, you shall be reborn."
Braska sunk to his knees as the Eye of Yevon began to glow, Jecht disappearing into the haze and Yunalesca gliding through it as if she parted the Red Sea. "Come Braska. Receive your fayth and you will have the Final Aeon."
She took his hand, moving effortlessly even as Braska moved clumsily toward the ceremony grounds. The Eye of Yevon had been changed. Where once there was the symbol of his religion, now there stood the statue to the Final Aeon. Jecht's form wrapped around a sword that pierced his chest, with twin pagodas trapped in a spinning motion surrounding him. "Pray to the fayth," Yunalesca urged him and turned to step away.
Falling back to his knees, Braska's arms trembled as he struggled to construct the motions of prayer, bowing low to the statue and quietly begging Jecht to please show him a sign of life.
Emerging from the stone, Jecht no longer held a corporeal form. Translucent, Braska could see through him to the darkness of space. Whole again, no sword now pierced his chest, he studied his palms to find them healed. Looking up toward Braska, their eyes met, sharing a moment of horror and awe.
Jecht was now a fayth. The Final Aeon was theirs.
(fin.)
Summoning of the Innocence
"Have you chosen, then? Is he to become your fayth and renew Spira's hope?"
A voice with the finality of time, echoing like the thousands of millennia since Yunalesca's life had passed on. Her every gesture suggested an infallible grace and dignity, provocative and evocative and sensual. Disarming and awe inspiring to the men who followed her into the ruins of Zanarkand's once grand temple. Jecht could only stand and stare, feeling his heartbeat drumming against his chest in anticipation. Braska felt his limbs stiffen, almost too enthralled to answer her though his vocal chords did so of their own accord.
"Yes. This is Jecht, my Guardian and one of my closest friends."
"That is all that matters," she replied solemnly, silent feet moving across the broken floor with a hand held out toward Jecht, "A child, a lover, a friend, a wife or husband, so long as the bond is true then you shall have your fayth and your Final Aeon and Spira shall know they do not hope in vain. Come, take my hand, Sir Jecht. And, like my husband Lord Zaon, become that which will defeat Sin."
Jecht couldn't even formulate an answer as she reached toward him, grasping his wrist and compelling him to follow her step by step. He had questions to ask, things he needed to know. Yet, standing there with her, guided away from Braska's side, everything fell away. His mind ran numb and anything he thought to say scattered like leaves in the wind.
The lead him to the center of the eye of Yevon, at the precipice of the Temple overlooking the nothingness of space. Cold and empty, where death and life bordered one another and overlapped into the ghostly ruin of Zanarkand. Spinning, she released his wrist, tendrils of ethereal hair spiraling around her slender form. "Do you, Jecht, accept that this body is merely mortal clay?"
"Huh?" Jecht looked back toward Braska, who seemed so small and far away in the distance. The Summoner could only shake his head sadly and gesture for his friend to answer. Jecht was on his own now, Braska could only watch and wait.
"Yeah," he finally replied, focusing again on the woman in front of him. His lack of etiquette didn't seem to phase her, or the trance in her eyes as it spiraled out to encompass him.
"Then do you accept that the soul is immortal and death is the end to all suffering?"
"Yeah."
"Then know peace, Sir Jecht, and embrace death."
Turning her back to him, she reached up toward the heavens, face lifted in supplication as the air itself grew dense and began to solidify before her fingers the shape of a sword. It glowed a bright blue in color and then red, white and finally gold. A bright and burnished gold that nearly blinded both Jecht and Braska with its light.
Jecht might have exclaimed at how bright it was, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. But in a second's time Yunalesca grasped the hilt and the glow faded away, the bright and perfect blade shimmering within her hands. "Now you shall receive that which you came for. Be still."
A deep tremor erupted from beneath Jecht's feet, the ground breaking apart as several tentacles emerged at once to slice open the ancient tiles. Jecht found himself a prisoner within them before he could react, cool tendrils wrapping around his ankles to bind them together and then his wrists to hold them apart and lift him into the air. Held fast, he found himself unable to move, helpless in an instant.
"Jecht!" Braska's voice sounded faded and old. The Summoner could no longer be still and observant, racing forward only to find himself barred from the ceremonial floor by forces unseen. "Jecht!" Palms pressed against the mysterious barrier, Braska could do nothing to aid his Guardian. Nothing but watch as Yunalesca continued the ceremony as if she could not even see him.
"Do you, Sir Jecht, agree to take responsibility for the sins of Spira?" she asked, sword pointed toward the ground as she lifted her chin regally to regard the man hung before her.
"Yeah..." Jecht answered, breath quickening in anticipation. What manner of torture awaited him?
The sword lifted, glinting in the half-light of the edge of the world and with a swift stroke, drove through Jecht's left hand. He cried out in pain, feeling the tendril around his wrist tighten as he struggled in its grasp.
She withdrew the sword after a moment, the brilliant blade dulled somewhat by the mark of his blood. "Are you, Sir Jecht, willing to die to renew Spira's hope?"
It took him a moment to answer her that time, swallowing and gasping for breath. He could hear Braska somewhere behind him, pounding on something and just in knowing his Summoner was still there, and would need him gave him the impetus to continue, "Yes."
And pain renewed itself as the sword then pierced his right hand, more of his blood darkening the blade. She withdrew it and stood solemnly, as if meditating before her final question was posed, "Do you agree to become Sin. To become the vessel of Spira's atonement?"
"Wha...?" Even in his pained state, both hands aching and blood dripping down to the floor of the temple, Jecht couldn't understand the question.
"Yes or no, Sir Jecht," she snapped, the sword within her hands held at point's end to his chest. "Will you die for Spira?"
"Yes," he answered, though he could have sworn that wasn't the same question. And with his answer the blade of the sword pierced his chest, running him through for the point to jut from his back. Head thrown back, an articulate cry of pain echoed from his throat, drowning out Braska's cries of protest and horror for his friend and Guardian.
Yunalesca stood with sword in hand, unaffected by the cries that echoed around her. Her voice stood out above them, even as the ground trembled again as the tendrils slowly dragged the dying body into the ground. Jecht's head hung forward, feeling his heart struggling to beat with the blade piercing it. His lungs filled with fluid, a last breath drew as her words enveloped him. "Now, Sir Jecht, you shall be reborn."
Braska sunk to his knees as the Eye of Yevon began to glow, Jecht disappearing into the haze and Yunalesca gliding through it as if she parted the Red Sea. "Come Braska. Receive your fayth and you will have the Final Aeon."
She took his hand, moving effortlessly even as Braska moved clumsily toward the ceremony grounds. The Eye of Yevon had been changed. Where once there was the symbol of his religion, now there stood the statue to the Final Aeon. Jecht's form wrapped around a sword that pierced his chest, with twin pagodas trapped in a spinning motion surrounding him. "Pray to the fayth," Yunalesca urged him and turned to step away.
Falling back to his knees, Braska's arms trembled as he struggled to construct the motions of prayer, bowing low to the statue and quietly begging Jecht to please show him a sign of life.
Emerging from the stone, Jecht no longer held a corporeal form. Translucent, Braska could see through him to the darkness of space. Whole again, no sword now pierced his chest, he studied his palms to find them healed. Looking up toward Braska, their eyes met, sharing a moment of horror and awe.
Jecht was now a fayth. The Final Aeon was theirs.
(fin.)