"So it is you, after all, who will send me. But even after I am gone, Spira's sorrow will prevail."

Those were the last words he said before he vanished in a burst of colors and lights. He felt his corrupt Unsent body dissolving as the Pyreflies surrounded him. The dizzying light show lasted only seconds before he was surrounded in darkness once more. When he regained awareness again, he knew something was terribly wrong.

This wasn't the Farplane.

At first, he couldn't see anything because it was so dark. When his vision finally stopped being blurry, he saw the rainbow flickers of Pyreflies, but they were so dim that they hardly put out any light at all. Puzzled, he tried to touch one that went past only to see it flee away from his hand. There was a feeling of repulsion coming from it. He stared after it, not quite sure why it responded that way. A shiver ran through his body as he realized how cold it was here.

Cold? I'm not supposed to be cold…

Despite his heavy silk robe, Seymour felt an icy dampness seeping into his skin. The stone floor he'd been laying on may as well have been a glacier. If he'd still had a heartbeat, it would have been pounding. Realizing how solid he was, he forced himself upright. He felt dizzy doing so and had to lean against a crumbling pillar for support.

Why do I still have a body? And why does it suddenly feel so heavy?

His thoughts began to race. Images, dreams, and memories were all jumbled together as he surveyed his surroundings. Where were the waterfalls, the brightness of normal Pyreflies, the serene flowers? Where were all the people who had died before him? Where was his mother, come to think of it? Despite her hearty disapproval of what he had done, he had hoped she was the first person he'd see. Now he wished he could see any friendly face and ask what was going on. Moving on unsteady legs, he began to walk. The Pyreflies would scatter the moment he got too close. Not only were there feelings of repulsion coming from them, there was anger. This dark place had a very unwelcome, hostile feeling to it. He wandered around for what seemed like ages—the dungeon-like structure was enormous and the corridors all linked to each other. It was impossible to tell whether he had made any real progress or if he was just wandering down the same halls over and over again. There were no landmarks to tell him where he was and hardly any light to see by.

Is there no way out?

He was getting tired. How long he'd been walking for, he had no idea. Just as he was about to sit down for a minute to rest, he heard a noise coming from the shadows. Instinctively, he reached for his staff only to remember that he didn't have it anymore. He tried to cast a fire spell so that he could at least see what was there, but his palms remained as chilly as the stone around him. Backing away, he hoped that whatever snarling beast lay in the shadows hadn't seen or heard him. Flattening against a wall, he watched the movement out of the corner of his eye and slowed his breath as much as he could. The creature lumbered out of the darkness, its glowing red eyes piercing the gloom. It might have resembled a behemoth in the light, but it wasn't like any of the others Seymour had fought. It was easily twice the size of a regular one. Two more followed behind it. Always having the sensitive nose of the Guado, Seymour choked on the fumes coming off of the creatures—the foul stench of rotting flesh nearly made him pass out. He felt the stone under him vibrate as they lumbered past and hoped for about half a second that he was in the clear. He would have been if the second one hadn't turned its head right at that exact time. Seeing the movement that rippled through his long robes, the beast charged. While Seymour's large frame was impressive, he felt tiny standing near these creatures. He started to run, as three against one was in no way a fair fight without magic, but he soon found himself trapped at the end of one of the hallways. His clawed fingers scratched frantically at the stone walls for any potential exit at all and his widened lavender eyes hoped to see a glowing glyph appear. Nothing happened and the monsters struck the first blow. One wide fistful of claws slammed into him and knocked him face-first into the wall. An explosion of pain made his vision flood white for a second. If the wall hadn't been holding him up, he'd have been smeared all over the stones. The creatures all fell to attacking him, biting, clawing, and occasionally striking him with magic. With nowhere to escape, he was forced to endure their strikes. He fought back, of course, as well as he could, but his strength began to fail him. He hoped that the blackness would take him soon, but he remained acutely aware of every scratch, every pain, and every hit. Even though his body grew sluggish and eventually stopped responding to any command from him, his mind remained alive and torturously active. His throat was raw from having given in and screamed for help, but none came. Eventually, he stopped being able to make any sound at all as the creatures continued to attack his ravaged body. Sprawled on his stomach in the floor, all he could do was curl up and hope that the creatures got tired of him soon. Tears of pain streamed down his damaged cheek through his squeezed-shut eyes and Pyreflies began to surround him.

I'm being punished…he thought darkly,…for all that I've done…that must be why she sent me to this terrible place instead of the Farplane…

He somehow doubted that Yuna had been responsible for this, though. She didn't seem like the vindictive type—even at the end, he never smelled anger or hatred on her; only pity. He lost rationality after that, however, because the pain was too much to think around. He realized at one point that he was bleeding so much that it was soaking into his robes and spreading in a pool under him. He stopped wondering why he still had blood a second later. The pain blazed fire-hot in his mind's eye, consuming him wholly. He tried to hold onto any pleasant memories he could to try and block it out, but it was useless.

Then, something happened. Through the agony that rendered him motionless, he just barely registered that these mutated fiends were running away. He felt their vibrations retreating, their snarls and growls clearly annoyed at something. And…if he wasn't mistaken…he smelled fear. The hot, bitter stench of adrenaline stung his nose. Previously where there hadn't been much light at all, something blue-white was approaching. Hopefully whatever this new monster was would think him dead—he couldn't possibly be more dead than he was now unless his consciousness was destroyed as well. It was moving much faster than the fiends had, which was very impressive. The white-blue thing streaked past him, giving a vigorous chase to the creatures. It was moving too fast for him to get a good look at it through his mostly-closed eyes, but he could just make out a humanoid form: two arms, two legs, one head. The rest was hidden behind the blazing glow. It must have carried a weapon of some kind because one arm was longer than the other and the creatures screamed horribly when it struck them. A flash of light engulfed each one, instantly dissolving the fiend body and sending the resulting Pyreflies upward. The light creature finally slowed after slaying them and seemed to be looking around. Without being able to see any semblance of eyes, Seymour felt as if it was gazing at him. It approached him slowly, seeming very cautious at first. Then, it knelt next to him. He took a shuddering breath, waiting for the next round of torment.

No one will come…I am alone…

He didn't say this out loud because it hurt too much to breathe, let alone speak, but he heard a voice in his ear:

You're not alone. You've never been alone. Take my hand and we'll leave this place.

Through the haze of light, he could just make out the stretching fingers stopping just short of touching his hand. With what tiny ounce of strength he had left, his own closed around it and he sank into blackness once more. This darkness, however, was kind and restful, so he embraced it. Though the being's light faded, the feeling of gentleness did not. He would later wonder why he'd chosen to trust it. Maybe it was because he'd wandered for ages and hadn't felt a kind touch since his death.

When he finally started to regain consciousness again, he was aware of an immense pressure on his chest. It was rhythmic and very sharp as if someone was pressing into him and putting every ounce of weight on their hands. He was unable to protest, as this hurt even worse than the fiends attacking, but the only sounds he made were involuntary grunts caused by the air forced out of his lungs. There was something like a massive bolt of shock being sent through his body and all of his muscles tightened, singing a chorus of complaints ranging from dull aches to sharp, tear-inducing throbs. A strange flutter twitched under the pressure, something that felt like a bird trying to escape from a cage. Then, there was a hard contraction and he felt his heart give two or three hard pounds as it struggled to beat again. The shock came two or three more times before it finally settled into a more comfortable rhythm. It was pounding hard, though, trying to overcome the blood loss. White magic began to pour through his damaged flesh, paling his veins and knitting together the more mild gashes. In his mind's eye, brilliant colors that he'd never seen before swirled in a dreamlike stroke and he heard music in his ears. This went on for a very long time before the darkness came again.

How long it took for him to truly come to his senses, Seymour couldn't have said. He would only gain the slightest of awareness when the mysterious mage healed him. He couldn't conjure up the willpower or the strength to open his eyes. If he or she spoke to Seymour, he either didn't hear it or couldn't remember. He was in this state for quite some time before he felt his life force returning.

His first real awakening was terribly uncomfortable. Burning with fever, his very skin hurt even in the few places that weren't injured. His mouth was painfully dry and he shook violently with tremors. Though he was as close to the fire as he could be without risking burns, he couldn't seem to get warm enough. His vision was foggy and his breath kept hitching whenever a particularly bad tremor came. He was just lucid enough to notice that both of his hands were bound in gauze. While minor injuries could be healed instantly with white magic, really bad ones could take several days and had to have help. The gashes on his arms and legs didn't pain him as bad as long as he didn't move, but his broken ribs were agony-inducing. He tried to go back to sleep, but he hurt too much. He heard someone approaching but still couldn't look up. The mouth of a bottle grazed his lips and he instinctively seized it with both hands. The result was that his enormous clawed hands landed over a pair of much smaller ones. He drank the water so fast that he nearly choked. The giver tried to pull it back a bit to slow him down, but he had too tight of a grip. It wasn't until the vessel was completely empty that he let go. It wasn't nearly enough—his mouth was still uncomfortably dry and his throat was still tight. More white magic flowed into his body for a few minutes before his nurse brought him another drink. Now satisfied, he lingered on the border of sleep and wakefulness. The smell of sea salt came to him as his mind drifted, then the dusty smell of a place long disused. There was the smoky smell coming from the fire and something else, something he couldn't quite place. There was salty, warm smell of a human there, but it was mixed with something else. It reminded him of the way sentient Unsent smelled, something associated with the Farplane. So….his caregiver was an Unsent as well…

Whoever it was attempted to feed him on several occasions, but he had neither the inclination or the appetite for solid food. It was easier to get him to drink because of the fever, so all of his sustenance soon came from water-based sources like broth or tea. The frequent giving of the strange white magic also continued. In one of his more lucid moments, Seymour wondered which spell it was—he'd never had this happen with any of his own spells. In between the gatherings of minute details like sounds and smells, he dreamed of days past, days that might come, and bizarre events that made no sense. Sometimes he dreamed of a glowing white face with fierce golden eyes and blue-black hair. While this spectral creature was kind enough, she sometimes inflicted pain on him as well. He frequently suffered from nightmares about Sin turning on him once he entered it and of Yuna's party coming back to send him to the dark place. Reality and dream were all scrambled up for the longest time. Then, one bright afternoon, he regained full consciousness.

The light hurt his eyes even though he was in the shade. He raised an arm to shield his face, though that sent a shooting pain through his body. He grunted in pain and struggled to think around it. The throbbing lessened after a second and he was able to look around. Several emotions hit him at once: shock, disappointment, irritation, and a tinge of despair.

Of all the places I might have ended up, did it have to be Baaj Temple?

He recognized it even in its state of ruin. Several of the pillars had collapsed, there were holes in the roof, and many of the halls were now impassable because rubble barred their way. Time had not been kind to this place even since he'd come back to retrieve his mother's Fayth statue a long time ago. Only a scant few signs of someone being here now were there: the clumsily built fire that was almost out, the open first-aid kit with a mixture of potion bottles and traditional bandages and antiseptics, the two makeshift beds that were there. Someone had gathered up a great deal of palm fronds and piled them up to help cushion the hardness of the stone floor the slightest bit. Sitting on top a half-broken urn were various food items covered with a makeshift cage to keep out any wild animals that might stray in. A ragged blanket lay crumpled up next to one of the beds and he was covered up with the other one. He saw no sign of his nurse. Taking advantage of this temporary privacy, he conjured up the courage to examine himself. He had no clue where his robe was and it was probably shredded to the point of useless anyway. Clad only in his undergarments, he saw that most of his body was bandaged up. What little skin remained exposed was stained purple, blue, and even green in some places with a mosaic of bruises. The source of his illness, he realized, was probably blood poisoning—the veins along the bandaged wounds were an angry red and obviously inflamed. He was terribly thirsty again and the wet slapping of the waves against the stone docks outside didn't help. His throat was too raw to call for any help. Hoping some of his magic would have regenerated, he tried to cast a healing spell on himself. Nothing happened. He sighed impatiently, then winced at his stupid ribs. The first aid kit couldn't have been more than eight feet or so away, but it was a big challenge in his current state. His eyes locked on the top of an ether bottle and he slowly inched towards it. Biting his lip to keep from screaming, he reached it with the speed of a snail and uncorked it. Draining the glass bottle, he set it back down and waited for the effects to come. The characteristic tingle was ominously absent. He tried again to cast a spell, but nothing happened. Seymour frowned in agitation. Even when he'd been ill before, he'd always been able to do magic even if it was very weak. He couldn't even feel the hidden reserve of power that he usually had. This was a very, very bad sign….

"You shouldn't be up yet—you'll reopen all those cuts," a voice said, almost making him jump out of his skin. He bit back a curse and turned his intense gaze onto the source of the voice. There was a woman standing in the doorway. As bright as the light was that came from outside, she was little more than a plump silhouette. The heavy door creaked shut behind her and he was finally able to see what she looked like. There was almost a feeling of disappointment.

She must have been the one from his dreams, he reasoned, because her skin was very fair. Her hair was the same blue-black, though the black was the dominant color. Her eyes were gold, but they also had a greenish cast. When she stepped into the light, her skin did light up, but only because of how intense the sun was. At first he thought she'd been the glowing white light in the dungeon, but they couldn't be the same person. Besides, how had she gotten him here? He easily weighed between three and four hundred pounds, mostly muscle, and his weight and long limbs would have been very cumbersome to someone so small and round. She came over to help him up, as he was still kneeling by the first-aid box, but he shoved her away roughly.

"Leave me alone," he said defensively, voice ragged from the fever.

"You need to stay still," she insisted, "or you'll break your wounds open again. I had a terrible time bringing you back."

She certainly looked as if it had taken a lot of effort: there were dark circles under her eyes, her cheeks were pale and devoid of any color, and black shirt and silver skirt hung loosely around her frame. He had no sympathy for her, however.

"Why?" he demanded, "I was already Sent—I should be on the Farplane this very minute!"

He noticed the bottle of water she carried and snatched it from her hand. He hated this dried-out feeling he seemed to always have. Though his skin was still sticky with perspiration from the constant spike-break cycle of fever, his insides felt withered and dusty. He always drank as if he would never see water again, but she knew that was from dehydration. It was better than trying to force him to take it which had been the case a few days ago.

"Yes, you should have been," she agreed, "but that's not where you ended up."

"Obviously." His tone was laden with disgust as he set the jug down with a hard bump. She noticed that one of his bandages was in need of changing, but the minute she moved toward him, his cold eyes stayed her steps. She paused uncertainly. During one of his fever dreams, he had knocked her clear across the room even with his severely diminished strength. What harm was he capable of when it was intentional? Maybe she'd wait until he was in a more subdued mood. He was already tiring from simply trying to sit up, but he ignored the weariness for just a bit longer. The familiar coldness that so many people associated with Seymour's demeanor was setting into place. Now that his throat wasn't so dry, it didn't hurt as much to speak.

"So…you've gone to an awful lot of trouble to intercept me from the Farplane," he said, "why bother? Surely there was someone living who could have served your purpose. Lady Yuna, for example."

She looked up at him after fidgeting with the fire, trying to coax it into a bigger flame.

"I would never do that," she said, clearly insulted, "I was only sent in afterward to get you out. Father said that you were in a lot of trouble. Something else did that to you—something really sinister. You've been touched by something very dark, something that wanted you to suffer greatly. And unfortunately, they seemed to have succeeded a little bit."

She retrieved his blanket and draped it around his shoulders since he seemed to have no intention of going back to bed.

"You reformed down there," she told him, her hands lingering on his shoulders for a second or two, "I saw the Pyreflies swarming around when they were reconstructing you, I think. Then I saw the Hellhounds attacking. The way they were going at it, I knew I'd found the right one. I got there as fast as I could."

He stared at her incredulously. She didn't even look like she could handle a piranha or a condor, let alone three huge beasts like that.

"Father helped us get out of the dungeon," she continued, almost breathless, "but I only had enough power to get us here. The rest I had to use to revive you. He told me how, but it was much harder than it looked."

None of it made any sense to him. Pyreflies bringing him back, he supposed, vaguely made sense, as they were made of memories. But he was Sent—why would they bother bringing him back? He was supposed to be at rest. This girl and her "Father" must be very powerful mages, but why would they bring him back? He knew he had an extraordinary amount of power as an Unsent, but there were so many others who were still alive. Lady Yuna and the others had beaten him soundly even in his most powerful form. What he had done would forever be looked upon as an abomination on both Guado and human history. There were some people who believed that even death was not enough, as the accused would only escape from pain, torture, and depression. The realization must have registered on his face, for she said, "What is it?"

"My compliments to you and your father," he finally said with a bitter smile, "wherever he is. There are many in Spira who have been out for my blood. But I have never feared death…I was quite comfortable with it, in fact. By reviving me, you both would punish me by denying me the one thing that gave me power."

Again, she stared at him as if he'd lost his mind though he thought his theory was quite logical. A strange sadness radiated from her large, dark hazel eyes.

"That's not what we want," she said in that strange, quiet voice, "that's not even what Father wants. Yes, you've got plenty to answer for, but not in blood. Someone else did that for you a long, long time ago. You've been given a second chance."

"To do what exactly? I've lost everything!" Temper made his cool, smooth voice hard and jagged, "I can't cast the simplest of spells and I have no connection to my Aeons anymore! What good does that do me?!"

He'd rather suffer with his ribs for all eternity rather than admit this, but the one thing that might have comforted him in his moment of rage and grief might have been Anima. Few knew the real story behind the mysterious dark Aeon that was bound in chains, but he and Anima had a lengthy history. He and Anima had known each other since they day they were born, for Anima had once been his mother. She had been unable to protect him from all the terrible hardships he'd faced and it had been her last-ditch effort to help him. Her frail body had failed, but her powerful spirit had not. No matter what he'd gone through, Seymour had always been able to call her to his side at will. Now, even the most rudimentary comfort was gone. He was truly alone now.

"It does everything," the woman said, snapping him out of his hidden hysteria, "you get to start over. Completely over. Without the Unsent madness clouding your mind and the usual shields you hid behind, you can become what you were always destined to be."

"And what, pray tell, is that?" he asked, clearly annoyed.

"I'm not sure. Father would know."

Seymour wished that this "Father" would show himself so that he could give the guy a piece of his mind. Who did he think he was, bringing him back from the dead? Who was he to say who Seymour should be or what he should do? It was infuriating. So far, only the woman's scent permeated the air. He couldn't smell any other people around.

"Who is this father you speak of?"

A hint of great fondness and affection crept into her voice as she answered him: "The Creator. The real God. Not Yevon like everybody here once thought, though most wouldn't believe me."

Seymour would have face-palmed if both his hand and his head didn't have wounds. That was just great…he was out here in the middle of nowhere with some religious nut. Gathering what was left of his patience, he said (in a very strained calm tone), "I believe you are a very skilled white mage, but that hardly makes you a goddess or a demi-goddess. True divinity is only the stuff of legends."

"I never said I was one," she responded, "that would mean I could do it all under my own power. If it were up to me to get us out of that dungeon, I don't think we'd have made it."

"I suspect you had your share of injuries as well?"

She caught onto this being a subtle insult, as the old Seymour's smugness was creeping through.

"Not a one," she answered, "and that in itself was a miracle."

She managed to get the fire going into a decent blaze. Unable to stay like he was, Seymour finally gave up and staggered back to his bed. Seeing that he was much less likely to fight him, the woman changed all the stained dressings, checked the clean ones, and placed her hands on him to heal him. Seeing as she was ultimately harmless (at least for the time being), he allowed her to do it. Though his cheeks still burned with fever, his eyes had been clearer today which was more than she could have hoped for. While he was asleep, she got to work on dinner. She wasn't much of a cook, but she knew just enough to get by on. She made a simple stew and sliced up some bread. Though Seymour probably didn't feel like eating and would just refuse, she filled a bowl for him and left it at his bedside in case he woke up. The sun was entering what photographers often referred to as "Golden Hour" where the light turned gold and soft. The hard shadows of midafternoon were turning soft and blue-violet and the world seemed a gentler place. At a loss as to what to do now, she walked among the ruins and was very careful not to get too close to the water. Some of the piranhas had been giving her trouble lately. While they were very good eating, they were still a bit too much trouble. She didn't feel like fighting with them unless she absolutely had to. Here and there, she found some flowers that had begun to reclaim the abandoned temple and picked them. She'd seen plenty of sick or hurt people in her day and flowers always seemed to have a positive effect on their healing. Even if it didn't do anything, it gave them something nice to look at and it didn't hurt anything. Once she'd gathered an armful, she strategically placed them around the large circular room where they were staying. Then, she picked up a slightly beat-up drawing book and a makeshift pencil that she'd made by charring the end of a stick in the fire and went outside.

When Seymour woke the second time, his skin felt less clammy and his balance wasn't quite so shaky. Though the ever-present soreness was still there, he didn't feel as weak. The still-warm stew even tempted him a little bit. He felt full after only a few bites, but he kept going because he was tired of feeling so weak. After his shrunken stomach couldn't hold anymore, he put it aside and looked around. The assault of memories did a number on him. For a brief few seconds, he wondered if he was hallucinating. Though the temple was still ruined, the flowers that his mother used to always pick and gather in bunches were back. They were even in the same arrangements that she favored: the red-orange ones were always in the brightest places where the most sunlight came in. They were contrasted with blue and purple. In the shadows, the cooler pink, white, and warm yellow had been placed to brighten darker places up. The air was heavy with their perfume and he believed for one heart-wrenching second that she was here and just out of his sight. When he caught his caregiver's scent wafting in from the doorway, though, he knew it was only a child's foolish hope. His mother wasn't coming back. They would be separated by the great chasm of life and death once more. He mentally scolded himself for hoping for such things—what kind of a man couldn't handle life on his own? He hadn't been a child in decades. The woman must have put the flowers here. He crossed his arms over his chest. Thinking some more things over, he decided that she might be mentally impaired or just foolish due to her flawed beliefs, but she was ultimately harmless for now. She had put her life on the line to keep him from being eternally destroyed by fiends. He decided to go and talk to her, but he wasn't going to go outside like this. Looking around for something that he might be able to wear other than the ratty old blanket, he wondered if his robes had been salvageable. They had been torn pretty badly and silk was hard to repair due to its delicate nature. He was surprised when he actually found them laying draped over a nearby pillar. Most of the damage had been repaired though she didn't have the same delicate hand with it as the tailors and seamstresses at home. With great difficulty, he managed to get them on. It seemed to take forever because he kept having to stop due to the pain. Being in the middle of nowhere with no magical abilities or weapons was still intimidating, but at least he had some protection. It was easier not to think about his injuries now that most of them were covered. A few of them couldn't be helped like his bandaged hands. One of his feet was also causing problems—he suspected a sprained tendon in the bottom and it wouldn't bear his weight for long before it started to twinge every time he stepped on it. It took a while to figure out how to move so that it didn't take so much impact. He limped out the door and felt the sea breeze ruffle his messy blue hair. He saw his nurse sitting on one of the stone docks with her drawing book, her skirt ruffled by the breeze. It was hard to see her face at first because her inky, messy curls kept blowing across it. She seemed oblivious to that, though, and they evidently didn't obscure her vision. The Pyreflies were coming out more now that it was getting dark and they seemed to have an affinity for her. She watched them with a soft childlike smile before returning to her sketch. He came closer and peered over her shoulder. A nearly exact replica of the scene before them filled the page. The way she'd drawn it, though, gave it a different tone. It was more mysterious, more exciting. Sometimes she included a ghostly snapshot of what memories the Pyreflies held. She didn't even seem to notice him until the sun sank further and caused his shadow to eclipse the page. He was already a lot taller than she was to begin with, but she had to tilt her head almost all the way back to see his face from where she was sitting.

"Better?" she asked.

"Yes."

They were silent for a moment. She knee-walked around him, brushing back part of his robe so that she could see the sunset.

"After all the trouble you've gone through, I should at least know your name," he finally said as the last bit of redness began to sink below the horizon. The light turned his lavender eyes into a brilliant red-violet and hers to almost orange.

"It's Melody," she said, grasping his offered hand in hers. The difference was laughable: her fingers and thumb didn't even reach all the way around. She was glad she'd wiped all the charcoal off of her hands.

"Why, Melody, would you choose such a desolate place? It's so far from everything."

"I didn't pick it," she admitted, "though it's beautiful here in a very sad way…it was the first place I landed. After that bright flash of light, I was flying so fast I couldn't see where I was going. My own body was forming, though, and I couldn't stay in the air. We both fell in the water, so I got us to the first place I saw—this old temple."

"How convenient."

"It was—I got a little scared that you were going to drown," she admitted, "and then there were those nasty green fish with big teeth. It was like everything in the water was determined to eat us. There were a couple of times I almost lost my sword. Once I got you out of the water, it was much better, though. I didn't have to do everything one-handed anymore."

In the dying light, he could see some half-healed cuts on her hands and arms. There were a few bite-marks on her legs as well, though they seemed to be older injuries. He had even more trouble believing that she could handle a sword than anything else—her flesh was too soft and baggy to have had any training. He almost asked her how in the world she'd managed it, but decided against that. Instead, he slowly breathed in so as not to jar his ribs, then said, "You have my highest gratitude for what you've done. Thank you."

She smiled.

"You're welcome," she said warmly, "just try not to make a habit of getting hurt!"

The ghost of a smile played on his lips despite still being very guarded.

"How long was I unconscious?" he asked.

"Days," Melody responded, "maybe even weeks. Then there was how long it took to get you out of the Via Infinito. That took even longer—I'd have to see a calendar to be sure."

The doubtful frown was there again. True, he had felt as if he'd been wandering around in that dungeon-like maze for hours, but he didn't think it had been that long. Being out here, on the other hand…well…losing track of time was fairly easy, as there were never any clear-cut seasons and hardly any ships that passed by.

"If you haven't anything better to do, we should find out," Seymour suggested, more for his own sake than hers. With no power and in such bad physical shape, he would need someone to help him out on the roads.

"We will," she promised, "but not for a while. You've still got a lot of healing up to do. Even breathing sounds like it's tiring you out."

She yawned so widely that her jaw popped.

"Ugh…speaking of tired…I forgot how fast flesh wears out. I don't see how all of you do it all the time. Then there's having to stop constantly to eat and sleep and empty…it amazes me how you all get so much done despite that."

She hauled herself upright, picked up her book, then followed him inside. It was a warm night, so there was no need to mess with the fire. She lay down on her makeshift bed and was asleep within minutes. Since he'd been asleep so much during the day, wakefulness lingered a bit longer for Seymour. He lay awake for a long time, gazing absently at the stars through the holes in the ceiling. Moonlight poured in, throwing silver pools of light over everything that wasn't in the immediate vicinity of the fire. Every chain of thought he chased for the moment boiled down to one thing:

What will I do now?

A lot could happen in a matter of weeks or months. He wondered how the rest of the Guado were doing—probably not well if word of his actions had gotten out. The Macalania Temple might be in trouble as well. Now that everyone believed him gone for good, his responsibilities had no doubt already been handed off to someone else. He knew that most people would still remember him and a great deal of them might be hostile if they saw him. If this "father" that Melody had so lovingly described was still around, why hadn't he made Seymour look different? His spiky blue hair and purple eyes and massive frame made him too easy to recognize. Sighing, he gently probed a few of the gauze-covered wounds. He'd get worse than this if they got ahold of him. Maybe this Melody would know of a safe place for him until he'd faded out of people's memories.

He wondered, then, what had become of Yuna and the others. A lot could happen if he'd been gone as long as Melody said he had been. They might have all made it or they might all be dead. He wondered what had become of Sin and whether or not there would be a new one soon.

He looked over at Melody and didn't bother to mask his surprise, as no one was watching. Pyreflies had been weaving in and out of the temple for quite some time now, but he was so used to them that he paid them no mind. Now, he noticed that there were at least ten or fifteen of them floating around Melody who seemed blissfully unaware of the sparkling lights. How strange, he thought. He wondered if they whispered to her the way they did to Summoners.

Something locked into place then.

Perhaps that's what happened, he thought suddenly, maybe she is a Summoner and the one she calls Father is an Aeon—if my mother could do it and become Anima, then maybe she has one of her own. Feeling better now, he closed his eyes and rested. Any explanation no matter how slender was better than a completely impossible one in his opinion.