(A/N): I know for many fans, the FFX-2.5 novel and audio drama -Will- are a point of contention and much controversy. I know this, but despite all logic I am fascinated by the potential canon of the absolute shitstorm that is Nojima's muse. My own headcanon serves as the driving force behind this fic. Enjoy! :D

The numerical marker hints at additional chapters that fit under the same theme, so I may expand upon this story in the near future.

~Their Sense of Belonging~

I

Baralai casts his gaze out into the cloudy, white sky, the smell of petrichor thick in the air. A squall struck Bevelle overnight and he feared another delay, but true to the capital's unpredictable weather, it did not impede progress for long, dissipating by noon.

The Yevoners of Bevelle need not suffer another day without a place to call their own.

For now, the vicious rains and bellowing winds have subsided, allowing laborers to continue hammering in support beams and skeletons for brick and concrete to someday reinforce those empty walls. Toiling away at a foundation for open-air hallways to someday grace their flower beds and insulated corridors to someday guide their listless feet, older folk and wayward youth move with newfound purpose, eager to complete the construction of their monastery.

Although Baralai strove to initiate the building project, he experiences a sense of loss, that distinct feeling of being left behind. What's there to lament? Recent history has proven religion and politics were never meant to intermingle, and so he resolved to depart from priesthood in order to focus on his rising career in government. This lead him to spearhead the establishment of democracy alongside those he trusted most. Even so...

No matter how his feet ache to stride forward and work amongst them, he must remember his place. He can no longer step out of his shoes as Chancellor for a fleeting moment of communion, at risk of vindicating his own partiality. 'I must practice secularism in the eyes of the public. After all, the Yevoners belong to Lady Yuna now…'

"Oh. Baralai…"

Broken from the dark clouds of his thoughts, he turns to regard the woman who approaches. Her long, curly hair falls as soft ringlets of dark maroon around her worn, aged face, a striking feature passed down to her spitfire of a daughter, and he sighs, the fond smile betraying him as she stops to greet him in Yevon gesticulation, however hesitant.

"Mi'ira. Good afternoon."

Delighted by his cordial greeting, she reciprocates with a small curtsy of her modest dress, the same one she always wore for her morning prayers. He opts for a slight bow, placing a hand over his heart. Once they have dispensed with the formalities, quiet laughter threatens to expose their amusement, so entertained by the other's tedious decorum that they rise to reach forward and clasp hands, drawing close.

"It's good to see you, dear. What brings you all the way out here?"

"I wanted to check up on things, what with the weather. Everyone looks to be doing well." Baralai pauses to survey the work site, taking note of the makeshift outdoor kitchen serving hot soup to those on break, the acolytes proffering warm towels for the grateful and weary. Nostalgia stings his chest, and the words come out unbidden. "I wish I could do more…"

"You have done plenty enough, Baralai." She exclaims, reeling him back with a firm squeeze of her calloused hands. "The fact you managed to convince the Spiran Council to grant us this boon, an island suitable for our needs… It's the greatest kindness. Thank you."

Baralai does not want to tell her that the only reason they accepted his proposal to shelter the Yevoners fell on the convenient goodwill of their isolationism. The councillors wanted no part in their 'depravity,' disgusted by their vilification of a false religion that once imprisoned them in guileful ignorance. They also criticized Lady Yuna's silence on the matter, whose apathy only gave rise to growing concern against the gradual spread of her passive doctrine.

He withheld his opinion, because he cannot speak for the High Summoner. However, he knows this: the welfare of his citizens are his responsibility.

If there are Yevoners and sympathizers who live inside the borders of his city, the majority unable or unwilling to journey as far as Besaid to settle there in peaceful reclusion, then all the more reason to appeal to their plight. Yet the Council refused to abdicate Bevelle Temple to their cause, clinging to their proverbial house of government since times of antiquity, so he had to make due with what little leeway he could afford, even going so far as to provide the bulk of those funds out of pocket.

He manages a smile, albeit weary. "...when all things are done, I hope it is to your liking."

"I know it will. The Yevon monastery will be beautiful." If Mi'ira senses his turmoil, she does not show it. Instead, her eyes linger on his face, her silent expression one of musing.

Baralai resists the urge to fidget, self-conscious. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing." She giggles. "It's just… You have grown into such a fine young man. To think it was just yesterday you were escorting me to the food market, determined to protect me past dark. Time flies fast…" Lost in the memory, Mi'ira giggles again, besotted by the sight of his visible embarrassment. "I am honored to have known the Chancellor since his boyhood years."

Baralai blushes. "Enough of that."

"I only jest, child." Mi'ira's grin widens, her brown eyes sparkling with mirth. Sobered by the thought she stands in the presence of her superior, she bows her head in reverence. "Continue to watch over us, Chancellor. The past is not yet behind us, for it haunts us still... but I believe in you. I know the future will be brighter as long as you continue to lead it."

Baralai stares, overwhelmed by the gravity of her earnest words ― and lamenting the great chasm that stretches between them.

He harbors so much affection for this woman that his heart aches. The polar opposite of his vivacious mother, but an invaluable maternal figure all the same. Gone are the blessed days they would walk arm in arm to the temple at first light, scavenging for warmth in the winter dawn, prostrating themselves before the stone-cold statues of High Summoners past while the spirits of their forefathers looked on in mute judgement. Pouring over countless scriptures, singing Hymns, practicing calligraphy, visiting hospices, orphanages, and homeless shelters to care for the afflicted and unfortunate... feels like such a bittersweet, distant memory now.

Although they must stand apart, at least they are forever bound in the communion of their souls.

Even when her warmth shall someday cease to grace his own.