Born Within
Written By: Sixto L. Limiac III
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy Tactics Advance is a property of Square Enix. Their characters, monsters -- right down to their creations are sorely theirs. I simply use them to sharpen my craft!
The eighteenth day of Madmoon stretches its grasp of Ivalice. The month, famous for its full moon shooting off a radiant, fiery glow, seizes every damned thing across the lands. On a cloudless sky, the detonation of light is broad and supreme. On another night I knew Marche would share the irresistible urge to bring up this utter, surreal splendor. It was as if the entire surroundings were rife with a fountain of sparkling gold. Marche, along with our head ninja Nume and our authoritative sage Marana, chose to ignore it. After witnessing the first deaths of Clan Nutsy, they will believe beauty has been ripped apart.
Ivalice hasn't dealt with a fatality for years. Or rather, hasn't reported one. It should be a true rarity for anyone to be slain. No one shall die within beloved Ivalice, for Queen Remedi has ordained it. Her heart sets out to maintain the precious promise of life. Fully resolute, she established a grueling training ground for the future ranks of fearsome, almost invincible guardians. I have come to know them as the loathsome Judges.
The remaining party were so drenched in their fund of lost and exhaustion, neither of them seemed harassed by the stench of death. It was ridden on them, fouling their battered souls. Marche leads us in an unrelenting stride towards Clan Nusty headquarters, he proceeds in uncharted land. Following behind him is Marana, Nume, and I took up the rear guard. Flying insects buzzed around us, siphoning our blood. Nume waved them off futilely and missed his footing on what looked like a secured stone, he nearly tripped. After regaining his poise, he looks behind and sees me.
I am unshaken by the ordeal and he cannot fathom why there are no markers of grief etched on my face. Why I hadn't given any of them condolences or comforting words after the brutal trial between the ferocious dragons. Against Adrammalech! The declaration of his name rung in my ears as he conjured three of his minions. Whatever ever miracle averted us from the perilous plight, I was far from being a part of anyone's debt. I am the one who ended him. I gave the orders while Marche quailed in his boots, I saved all of us!
Nume, why aren't you thanking me?
The ninja did not speak, he ruled to discount me. His wary eyes turned to the terrain he never walked on. This path was forbidden. We were walking against another of Queen Remedi's endless list of laws, entering the outlawed passage of the forest I have known as the Goning. Compass in hand, Marche knew geographically it was the fastest way to Cyril. He defied the Queen for the mental welfare of his fellow clansmen.
I knew if someone spotted us in our decent they would mistake us as the supernatural supposedly haunting the wretched place. Dragon gore toweled our ashen faces, and our armor were severely dented or tattered altogether. Marche signaled us to stop and set up camp. We grounded our packs, sighed as we sat, and I found no taste in the meat or rye bread I chewed on. It has been four days since the bangaa bishop and the viera elementalist met their demise.
The party could not locate the desire to eat. They quickly scrambled their fingers in the insides of their packs, yanking out their sleeping gear. They wanted sweet slumber to smother them in its peaceful accord. To become free from the clutches of a nightmarish memory.
I leisurely took my time eating the antilion jerky, gnawing at the rough fibers, slowly and deliberately. Done with what was far from being a fulfilling meal, I pulled my doeskin boots off and massaged feeling back into my feet.
Nume pulled back his purple veil and unclothed his ninja outfit. He kept an eye on me as he looked forward to rest. My eyes hardened and he stubbornly gave up. He hasn't eaten since the battle, his face ethereal and frail, it was obvious that he lost some weight. I was beginning to worry that if we ran into trouble, he wouldn't be able to lift his own sword, let alone defend himself. At least he was sleeping though. Sometimes the momentary retreat of it can become your hopes and dreams. A refuge to forget what transpired. By morning, however, it'll be there for you, as if it never left you, as if you never slept. Waiting.
Sleep tight, Nume. And don't be too hard on yourself. Remember you were brave or stupid enough to get into this mess. Mission Pale Company will live in infamy. You, Marana, Marche, and I were foolish to go. Teshona and Woolworth wished to win Marche's respect. Their efforts cost them their lives.
Only six of Clan Nutsy mustered the guts to venture. Even Montblanc faltered to locate where his balls ran. He forced it into hiding.
Bah! How he expected me to look after Marche!
----
"Kupo, the undead cannot be beaten. Hence their title of 'undead.' The Judges may not attend your mission at Nargai Cave. You are on your own. Till then, advance with Kupo and return safely. All of you." After addressing the clan, he visited me in the corner of the Pub. I didn't need anyone's jargon to succor me, I was best to be left in solitude in the privacy of my sanctum. He said "take extra care of Marche." I grunted. "Understood, Jon?" Another grunt and he leaves the pub with his humble buddy Marche.
---
Its sickening to know that all of the clan recoiled in fear! The few who accepted the suicidal endeavor were scarred for life, and the unfortunate two sacrificed themselves. I can remember Adrammalech's countenance, his sinister smile. The two protruding horns on his scalp, and to make his appearance and our odds far worse, he wore an extremely rare armor. Imagine that, a dragon with armor, as if his scales weren't hard enough to pierce! In haste, he screamed howls of rage to hinder our speed, then struck our bangaa bishop and viera elementalist with Firestream. Screaming and burning, they melted in their ablaze funeral. No Judge came for their rescue.
Marche watched the malicious guardian in horror, then cried the names of the deceased. Before he knew it, he was sizing things up and learning that we were very, very venerable. Even if you thought you were on the side of good, you cannot always prevail. Nume's warrior stance crumbled and Marana was caught in mid-sentence before she could cast Aero, I grew disgusted by everyone's expression of horror. Dashing at two dragons, I ordered Marana to get on with her spell and Nume to engage the last minion. I threw Marche to the front of Adrammalech, and hacked at his underlings. Done with them, I watched Marche sullenly fight Adrammalech while Nume slain the other. Studying the remaining dragon, I found a fissure within his defenses, and exploited it with a warhammer deep in his left eye and out his skull.
The entire party was useless!
But then again, can I really blame them?
Queen Remedi's Judges were the neutral protectors of life, ordered to monitor every battle. They instinctively detect a drawn out sword and identify the magic altering the air. They mastered a sixth sense and fell short to join us in Mission Pale Company. I guess sometimes fear can be just as impregnable as the radiance of Madmoon. Fear exposes how little your courage and bravery truly is. Marche thought the Judge would arrive, and if he didn't we could manage. What a joke! He was mislead by his hopes. The Judge dreads the doughty dead. An intangible form, it is possible for the ghouls to penetrate his thick, magical armor. And who could possibly discipline a ghost? The invincible JudgeMaster Cid?
My ass, the bastard. And, you know what? This wasn't the first time he failed his duty. Failing me, failing Miguel.
Encampment was made in a hurry. The rush for sleep was a race for a reinforcing mindset. We were deep in the campground of the sacred woods. The Queen did a good job to imprison those who spoke of the Goning, and no one except herself knows why. I was unready to reveal my knowledge of it to Marche. Simply for precautious reasons. Trust no one. For everyone's sake, no one was supposed to find out, find it. Yet here we were, in the forest. Brought into it by the desperate compulsion of our leader and the party's dwindling morale. It was the quickest path home, the compass read so and the green Zodiac Star was further indication. Marche was acting irrationally, but no minded. He couldn't wait to pout on Montblanc's comfy shoulder.
Before Marche asked who'd take first watch, I fitted my doeskin boots on and volunteered. My eyes probing Nume's as I walked through the circular encampment, then in front of it. Nume shrank into his covers immediately, not because of me, but because the day finally drew to a close. Marche saw my little eye action, seemed puzzled by it, dismissed it, and wrapped himself in his blanket. Marana had been asleep since we grounded our gear. It was far too risky for a fire and I was smug in the lack of a fire's warmth.
It wasn't long before the three were snoring, fastened into the unreachable depths of slumber. My eyelids felt as if they were stones. I shook my head instantly, trying to ward off the sleep reaching out for me. I pinched each of my eyelids, tightening the grip, and softened the hold. The excruciating pain left its tendrils with me. Pain keeps me awake. It is warmer than a fire, sharp and snugly. Even if I chose to, sleep would not come. Nor will I awaken Nume as my watch relief. All of them will rest into daybreak. This night belongs to me and Miguel.
My slaughtered brother.
He, too, was lost in the absence of the Judge. The Judge allowed the Toughskin to ignite the flames of complete ruination upon me. Queen Remedi, her line of Judges, and the Toughskin -- I detest them all with a hatred so palpable I swear I could taste them on the tip of my tongue. I had to get rid of it. Them all.
Queen Remedi is blind, she cannot comprehend how the magnitude of Ivalice is changing. She can discern it, but she chooses to snub the truth. The old ways of Ivalice is passing. It is becoming violent, and soon death may replace her ranks of Judges. Her whiny son, Mewt, has triggered the multitude of ridiculous laws which infuriate the masses. Mewt and his mother are a disgrace to humankind. The weaklings are blind. I want to choke them both as JudgeMaster Cid watches, doing nothing.
As for the Toughskin, they were to be exterminated from this world. It is my decision, my comfort, my dreams. It was a monster who stripped meaning of a thing I once called a world. My brother. Perhaps if I were a little more stronger back then, maybe if - who am I kidding! I was nothing then, I am nothing now. The instant the four of us set foot in this particular region, I knew slumber was irrecoverable. In sleep I would be taken back to Miguel's lifeless form. I cannot withstand the sight of the unbearable. Miguel dreamt to be here. He would stand exactly where I am this night. In Clan Nutsy. That is why I decided to be here, only I am no where near his measure.
It's been months since Marche joined our clan. Look at him, sleeping unnervingly. What's this, is that a tremble? Are you shaking, Marche? You're shivering aren't you? You have no idea of pain! You trembled at the presence of Adrammalech. I know you despised the cold, but how you quiver! When Adrammalech summoned three of his dragons you let cowardice breach. Searching for the Judge, you relied on him to save you. I am your savior, boy! I took them down, I held my warhammer reverently in my hands. You joined me only when you were certain I would be the victor. You don't have what it takes to be a leader. Of all the clansmen, why are you particularly beloved by Montblanc?
Bah!
The hours dragged by. I wanted to flee from the party and have my pain uplifted. I wanted to mourn once more. For Mig. Before I could, a disturbance alerted me. A ruffle of leaves sway in domino-effect a few meters behind Marche. Gingerly planted footsteps, twigs snapping here and there, I am certain movement is behind the foliage. Already on my feet, I run, jump over the sleeping Marche, and inspect the fillings of the forest. Hands, hot with blood, tighten the grip on my warhammer. I scan carefully to the left and skillfully to the right. A glint of glimmering red slits. . .were those eyes? They reflected the moon. Did I see that? Before any chance of confirmation, it dissolves as one with the forest.
Gone like my world! An instant snap of the fingers. With its departure came an onrush of memories. Those eyes, how they shine! I know you.
I have to sit down. I need to recollect the tragedy and unfastened my heart. My cowl will muffle my mouth, and I will let all the tears out.
Heading back to the encampment -- what, Marche is up? He is feeding a fire, speaking magic. A mild light shimmers and a spark crept into the bundle of branches he piled. Flames arise booming and dancing. I wanted a cold night to help cast memories and despondency. I cry because it was sheer ecstasy. A reminder that I am still human and this addiction kept the thought of suicide at bay. And yet you erect a fire with danger encircling us?
All the sleep left him, those goddamn blue eyes were clear of sleep's residue. Sometimes I felt I needed to stab his eyes out, the blue menaces. All seeing, all knowing, I was caught in a trance. He used his eyes to quest in my mind. They were warm and as raw as an abusive father's whom I know too well.
Marche is sitting as comfortably as he can, his stupid look of concern fixed on him. Careful not to make eye contact, I concentrate on his cut forehead. Going down to his mouth, his lips are wind-blistered. They start to open and shut, inquiring if there is anything that may endanger us.
"No, not a goddamn thing. Nothing to add to this already dismal trip. Shouldn't you be asleep, Marche? Those wounds of yours are nasty."
I chose to train as a fighter, I was unrivaled within the clan. No other in Ivalice took up a warhammer, I was the strongest one within the lands. Yet, as strong as I may be, Marche was the most skillful. The quickest learner I have ever seen. A twofold superiority before Miguel. If Marche hadn't persistently participate in every battle he wouldn't be in the level he is in. At every battle he was guaranteed a spot on the field. It was his duty, he told everyone, that he must lead by example. My leader denied me several chances to go off beside him, he wanted to be the greedy. But I'm supposed to be the selfish one! This night is supposed to be mine. I need this! How can I regain the remnants of memories, the death of Miguel -- of the Toughskin! Goddamn it, leave me alone, get the fuck out of here!
Marche explained he couldn't sleep. Not after what happened. I thought it was a sheer miracle that Nume and Marana were serenely asleep. I could still make out the burnt skin and charred bones of our dead comrades. Nume and Marana shifted comfortably at the newly awakened fire. They loved Marche, they were proud to have served him under the recent, perilous encounter. He showered them with his eyes of thoughtfulness. God, I could wear my spiked boots and stomp his eyes out, take them with me, and squish them on the outcropping of rocks.
I kept my eyes away from Marche, I then realized the similarity of my brother's and his were impossibly identical. They were gentle, secure, and sometimes I convinced myself that this is Miguel's sign. He is relaying a message from the heavens. He is alive and well. He is the missing part of me, the link to a better world. Without him, only darkness. I will never be the same. Anyone can find temporary content by avenging a loved one, but the inescapable truth was there isn't an achievable, goddamn thing to have it undone. He is gone and the only thing I could do is move on and be a man about it.
From time to time I thought religion was only a figment of someone's desperate imagination. An oath to oneself to falsely assure himself contentment in death. An eternal peace. Yet in our horrible existences the question is why would we be granted such a paradise? We don't deserve such a blessing. There aren't any exceptions, not even your mother. Everyone has done something wrong, whether intended or not, directly or indirectly. All forms of evil triumph without your knowledge. Where was our brethren during the Imp Wars? All of humankind minded their own business as the moogles were massacred.
Marche uneasily shifted his sitting position. He was bored, I knew he wanted to have some sort of conversation, but in some way he felt me as untrustworthy. My face was expressionless, it has taken months to toughened it. I had the face of a man who has seen far too much, so much for a boy in his middle teens. I was rapt by an uninviting past which muddied my once princely looks.
For Marche's sake, I spoke.
"You think there's one almighty God for humankind, Marche?"
His attention jolted, he nodded enthusiastically.
"If this God were to be an entity, you know what he would look like?"
He doesn't.
"The Judge."
Marche's face contorted, the sheer absence of our protector has taken an enormous toll on him.
"Yes, Marche. The judge on his loyal chocobo. That chocobo. You know what the chocobo portrays? The perfection of humanity. How it is so damn obedient. The way it sprints its heart out wherever the Judge tells it to. The chocobo, I think, is devoid of feeling, it lives only for purpose. Only to serve its master unquestioningly. Aren't we inclined to do as such?"
Marche looked dumbfounded. Our catastrophic expedition couldn't get any grimmer, but it did. If he didn't want to hear what I had to say, he could simply tell me to stop. I didn't want to change the topic, nor did he asked me to. He may actually want to hear me out. Behind the magnitude of his dour fear seeped concern through his wistful eyes.
"Now Marche, my next question is, do you think you are a sinner?"
Nope.
"In the sense that the Judge is the One God, then all members of Clan Nutsy are sinners. How? If the Judge were 'Him' then Ezel must be the Antichrist. His Antilaws are sins, destroying the commandments the Judge upholds vehemently. I cherish my deck of cards," I pat the pocket they're kept in. "I can't live without them, even Montblanc can't. So can't you. . ."
His expression darkened. All the wrongs in my world, being my normal defeatist self, I felt dirtier than usual. I wanted to strangle myself after seeing that sadness envelope on his face. What am I doing? No, its his fault, he should have been asleep. Away from me. Montblanc warned him not to get close to me, to avoid my talk of poison. The blight were eddies swirling within me. I wanted to cry so hard that the miles between us and Ivalice's borders would shake. The sound of my powerful shrieks would eventually cave the whole of Ivalice in. Who cared about those who were asleep, I couldn't release my tears tonight. All because of the fucking hero in front me. I will not cry here, hell no. Not in front of him. Marche wishes to be exposed to my torment, so I will give it!
HELP ME!
"You like tales, kid?" I pause. "Since we're both apparently not going to rest, I might as well enlighten your load. About my past, my brother, and an enemy I devote to eradicate. You know its kind, the giant turtle with a broadsword attached to its back. It's a rarest creature, the Toughskin. They are the offspring of one dead mother. Her children are very upset. Especially her immediate son. It may be hunting us as I speak. Or rather, hunting me. Would you like to know Marche? Do you have the stomach to journey into my misery?"
Lifting his face up, Marche cast those eyes on me, as if saying, "do I have a choice?"
Wading closer to the encampment, I sit across Marche, the fire separating us. Warhammer on my lap, I peevishly caress it and began.
-----
"It has been a year since I felt the specter of the Goning. This woods is as lawless as Jagd Dorsa. It owns a deeper share of ominous surprises. If Queen Remedi held the power, she'd erase every thought of it. Perhaps it connects to her questionable past or something beyond our understanding. We of the general populace can only surmise or instigate rumors. I, myself, feel that this forest is sacred and mustn't be related to an original Ivalice. Remedi holds the secrets, though she will lock it to her grave.
Her warnings and Judges reconnoitering the borders held no effect on my brother from entering it. We built a house there by scratch. I can't say we lived here, because all we ever did was chase his dream. Miguel sought glory and I tagged along because my mother and father never stopped berating me. They were sure their youngest son will amount to nothing in life. I stormed outside the house and began punching the air. When I fell in exhaustion my brother gave me his hand, asking me to join his silly crusade. On the same night, we ran into the Goning, bereft of any and everything.
My wits were shaken by the first weeks, and I ached to crawl back home. Imagining my mother and father on their doorstep weakened the impulse. I forced myself to stick with Mig. His crusade wasn't as silly as I originally thought. I marveled at him under the moon, his broadsword shining magnificently. The fact was he inspired me, like he always had. His unruly will to give up worldly possessions captivated me. Maybe if I practice and perceive life as he did, then perhaps I could help him gather the peace he searches for.
We seldom went back to the city for fighting and spell-casting books. Mig and I immersed ourselves into the tomes. We recited several passages, chanting them throughout the day. By nightfall we barked them at each other, battling until I noticed unconsciousness closing in on me. No matter how hard he hit me, I never allowed anger get the best of me. My body became his tool to hone himself. By day we rehearsed and practiced, once dusk screened the skies, we tested them. It wasn't long before our bodies became as hard as the hide of golden chocobo.
Queen Remedi would never approve a human to entrust to the bloodlust of the bangaa, but in the isolated Going no one knew. I took up the forbidden class of the white monk. Early in the morning, before Mig woke, I secretly trained in white magic. The idea was to protect him at all costs. He was all I had.
He chose to take up the class of the Ninja. His respectable decision enhanced the sheer freedom of his soul. His mind, body, and spirit were soon challenged by his greatest nemesis. Himself. With lassitude blown at him daily, he needed someone to nurture and comfort him. I chose him and he cried for the Goning. She suited him as a flawless mother. The Goning lent him the power to manipulate her garden. He was one with her, meditating and offering his many offerings. She, in return, provided meager necessities to sustain our lives.
For seven months we were utterly secluded. When we weren't throwing up from exertion or jokingly harassing each other, we talked of a better childhood. Every ounce of muscle in our body felt like magic-fodder, but I felt free, and Miguel's company added to it tremendously.
On such an afternoon, he decided that we were aptly prepared to challenge his mother. The Goning. Miguel imparted how much self-worth means once you turn your back on those you depend on. I wondered what it would mean for me. I didn't know how long his idea was implanted in his head, but he knew exactly what he was talking about. It was a part of his glory. Through the thin and through the thick, I trusted Miguel.
We took up nightly hunts that lasted for weeks. I hesitantly followed my brother in cutting down the trees. I summoned every once of energy surrounding my field of focus, felt my neck throbbing, and roared to execute Air Render at a bundle of trees. They cracked and toppled. Miguel shouted at me approvingly. He was proud of me and it was enough to continue razing the Goning.
I endured so much in a short while and I spun with a rage of emotions. The urge to retreat home thundered back. Miguel sensed it, but he never addressed the matter. He was intent to further his skills in combating. The nights were filled with death as we slain our unnamed enemies. The clangs of his sword were so audible and the profane words of magic were vocalized, still no Judge appeared. I paralyzed or wounded the several beasts we hunted. Miguel finished them off. His glory was beginning to worry me. He was satisfied to see his skills maturing, but it had been taxing on him. He was beginning to lose touch with me. Following each hunt he arranged more expeditions. Everywhere we went, he slickly ran within the cover of night, and every time I kept cursing him under my breath.
It was the second of Madmoon when we finally decided to return to our house. It was ravaged, all our training gear, the countless books, our small harvest, the thin creek of drinking water, every essential ingredient for human existence fouled. My brother's dreams were vandalized. On top of the rubble that was left as our home, he searched for any sign of who or what could have done this. He knew several creature scents, but he instantly recognized it as an enemy we never crossed. It used magic to cover its tracks. The Going was challenging Miguel. My brother was breathless, for the first time he felt the pang of his heart clapping in a thunderstorm.
'For it hadn't been for our intense training,' he said, 'we would be moping onward home.'
The next morning we handcrafted our packs, set equipment and a month supply of food in it. The darn thing was far heavier than anything I ever bore. Looking at the remnants of his initial dreams, Miguel assured we were going to trace the beast. For weeks we hunted the Going's weapon. My back, sore and numbed, objected at the torturous pack. Large hills littered every so mile. They emerged as if it were trying to tell me to fall back. I unceasingly ran to maintain a reasonable distance with Mig. Blisters were knifing my feet and shin splints were pounding on my legs. This was ridiculous! We were going to find nothing. You have been beaten, Mig, live with it. Mope onward home then, I thought. He never slowed. Soon, my brother's back-up sword felt so heavy I wanted to throw it down and dart home.
Mig, on the other hand, was restless.
Obsessed.
Before sleep, he offered to take every watch. During our meals, he gave me his food which he suggested lacked comfort. I hesitantly took his food. Only during meals did he speak to me, often as the brother I once knew. I wished we invested our lives into a different journey. The ordeal was too much on me. I wasn't made for this. He was getting more gossamer than a woman should be. I grew worrisome. At the same time I was powerless. I was his extra baggage.
Miguel spoke highly of the enemy, augmenting his desire to face it. The following night, on the eighteenth night of Madmoon we confronted her.
There was an eerie waft in the air, the same strange magic that stained our ruined home. Blending with the foliage, in the prone position, I took off my pack as did Mig. He checked his equipment, drew out his divine blade shaped from the tail of a fabled dragon. The broadsword was held in his hands, his precious Heaven's Cloud.
'This is it. We didn't train for nothing?' Mig droned particularly to no one. "It is time, she calls for you."
I followed Mig as he advanced closer to the magical scent and saw a deathlike splendor.
It was a behemoth of a beast. It was as if the species of the turtle had a goddess and it decided to invade the mortal planes. A series of spikes ran down its back in a pattern. On four powerfully stout legs, she walked steadily with an immense shell covering her entire body and face. Her eyes were crimson and piercing. It was everything Mig wished for. While I was terrified beyond anything. Absorbed to her surreal dignity, I thought it was practically metal. We have come to know it as the Toughskin, except no sword was driven in its back.
Mig saw me cringing in fear, I wheezed hysterically. The Toughskin tilted its eyes on us, those red slits of a nightmare penetrating through me and all that mattered.
'Shut up!,' Mig reproached my wheezing, then dragged my head near the ground. 'I know you are scared. Hell, I am. But now is our time. You said so, you promised me! It knew what it has done to our home, no creature simply picks a home and terrorizes it. Let us show it what we are made of. How long we trained. The sweat, the tears -- all of it has amounted to this. I didn't hide in this place to run any longer, once we conquer all of the Going. Then we take Ivalice itself. Queen Remedi and her Judges. Now come on, get up,' he cried, fire increasing in his eyes. 'Get up!'
Miguel's quest was more than training. He was set on a personal vendetta with a majesty he saw unfitting. He isolated himself from the populace of Ivalice. He saw a new world order of incredible discipline awaiting for him. This was his first step of personal attainment, then he would further range his future feats. Everything else could fall in ashes and burn, he sought to have the entire world bow at his feet, revere him so much that they wouldn't dare speak to such royalty.
He tossed me a weapon. It was his back-up sword. I pretended to see it in relief. The night before I apologized for losing it. I lied to him, I threw it in a creek when we decided to move earlier the previous sunrise. I shrunk when I saw it lying on the grass. Pale, my soul sunk along with his. Miguel shook his head in disappointment. I wished I had said something. He breathed in, beckoned me to advance, and charged into the clearing. Heartlessly, I followed after him.
The Toughskin was unaffected by physical attacks. Every one of Mig's blows came a hallow clang from the skin of the Toughskin. I strode far from her maw and boiled my fist in the windy night. The energies surrounding the three of us mustered within my fist and I launched it into her face. Nothing, Air Render could not hurt it. I tried Air Blast, the soaring force pushed her back. No damage from it, she roared out of irritation. If futilely attacking a monster beyond our skills was Miguel's sense of glory, I began to want no part of it. Mig caught my worried expression. My chocobo hide went flimsy.
Sword high above his head, Mig ran to the enemy and yelled, 'stand firm! Go around her, and locate a weakness.'
She ignored me as I circled around her. The only danger she sensed was my brother, it was as if I weren't there at all. I unequipped my Mythril Claws, reached at my back and pulled free my brother's secondary sword.
I was growing tired and the thing was learning, biding its time, waiting for Mig and I to tire. She was too slow to gain an upper hand on us. The only thing I could think of was to prepare a coating of Protect on my brother. Yelling the words, I cast the spell and it closed all around him. Mig nodded his head at me. Immediately, the Toughskin shot an eye at me. The magic. She was terrified of magic. She cast an incantation which brought a magical hourglass above me and nearly dissolved all my magical energy. Suddenly I felt like vomiting, I felt weaker, and before I could realize it, a massive tail swung at me waist level. I flew back and landed a couple of yards back. Blackness began to fight for me.
Miguel was infuriated. He saw how alarmed the Toughskin went when I performed a spell. He cried for Thundara and let Heaven's Cloud absorb it. Merged with magic, Miguel was ready to strike his blade. He accomplished a blow to her head, the creature screamed in agonizing pain. Its screams were so loud and sharp, I was surprised my ears didn't bleed. As Mig readied another slash, the Toughskin feinted back, rolled on the ground, and leapt at my brother. It clamped his fighting arm and his sword fell. I could fell the tension of my spell beginning to ebb. I closed my eyes and tried to remember any passage from the magical tomes. Deeper and deeper I delved until I found the words. Fira laced at the Toughskin's face, and she shrieked in horror, freeing Mig.
She went ballistic, beginning to lose all self control and went into a rage. Gathering his hold on Heaven's Cloud, Mig shielded himself. I couldn't imagine what would have happened to him if Protect was not with him. Deafening blow after another, the Toughskin threw a barrage of tail whips at him. Slam and slam. All traces of Protect shattered. Mig's sword no longer glistened with the power of Thundara. Mig was on his own, I convinced myself I could no longer fight. Under all the blisters firing my feet, the sore muscles, I did nothing while Mig fought for his life!"
Suddenly the world went hazy. The fire between me and Marche is dead. Before I knew it I was weeping, while Marche was watching me.
What a fucking loser! Crying in front of your leader!
"Jon," Marche called comfortingly. He tried to come up to me, but I pushed him back. He tried again, and again he went back. He fell into the dirt. My hands went up defensively, they were fists and I had struck him.
Don't you dare lay a finger on me, Marche. You aren't family! What right do you have?
I resumed speaking. I couldn't verify the voice as mine.
"My brother frantically defended himself from her tail attacks, but under her breath she summoned a spell which prevented him from doing anything physically. Heaven's Cloud fell form his hands, and I was sure he was dead. I couldn't bare to watch, I looked the other way. The Judge would appear any second now. In minutes, I began to hear loud footfalls galloping towards me. It had to be a chocobo. I looked at the direction of the sound and saw the Toughskin charging at me, stampeding everything in its way. No knight in shining armor was coming.
I was ready for death, closing my eyes I mumbled incoherently about my first girlfriend and how I missed her singing. She held my face and I never wanted her to let go. Then my favorite dog Sleepy. I remembered when I threw his favorite toy and he was running to fetch it. He caught it and before he could return it to me, I heard the most desperate shout.
My brother was in the air. Alive. He was high into the heavens with his blade behind his head and ready to perform Sword Dive onto his enemy. He drove Heaven's Cloud into the center of the beast's shell, it penetrated through and an explosion of power exploded. The impact of Mig's force and the magic of the Toughskin created a blast. Miguel released his grip on his blade and fell back. The Toughskin staggered wildly and focused all her might to give one more tail snap. Her attack connected at the forehead of my brother.
The Judge didn't come, for we were the foulest of humankind."
I violently sobbed, throwing my fists into the air like I did before. I struck the trees around, knocking them over with Air Render. Nume and Marana immediately went awake, startled and crying.
We are all so afraid!
Marche tried once more to console me, I shot an icy glare at him. My fist recharging, he knew he was my next target.
"Jon, listen to me. Stop this, I doesn't do a thing. I too have a brother, I know how you feel in some way. Doned, my brother is in a sense dead too, he is terribly sick. Stuck in a wheelchair, he cannot walk. I am his older brother, and I am here fighting to see him again. I can relate. Jon, stop it now. Before it --"
For such a kid, he's grown up.
I wasn't going to be fooled, he just wants to take out the threat that I am. Who realizes what Montblanc told him. If I let my guard down, the next thing I may have is a date with a Judge.
I let my fists down, seeming as if I would fall for his trick. I backtracked, spun around, and ran deeper into the Going.
"Jon, no -"
The tears are burning hot. The foliage scratches me with their bony touch as I bolt through them. My doeskin boots are worn, blisters are etching on my feet, and before I know it I slam my face into a tree and collapse on my back. I drop my warhammer. I don't care, I have to get out of here. Fast! Its been at least a mile, and the draining feeling of exhaustion clips onto my chest. Instead of slowing, I run faster. I trip again, eating dirt. How could I miss that? The thing was at least three feet high. I inspect it closer, the moon revealing it. It is the shell of the Toughskin and my brother's broadsword encased with it.
I longingly look at the broadsword, I put my hands around the hilt and yank it free.
"Miguel. Oh, Mig." I take the hilt, the blade itself against my throat. It's cold and still sharp. Why haven't I thought of this sooner?
"No, Jon!"
Goddammit!
"Get away Marche. This is my life -- mine to deal with! Mine, you got it? You know what happened when Miguel died? I thought what was I going to say to my mother and father? I couldn't bring the news to them. Before I began to grieve for Mig, I worried about my own problems. I'm so fucking selfish! I screamed and screamed to let the thought go away and ran to him. You know, its not like the stories, where those you love and respect die heroically. It was repulsive!
The massive strike sprawled Mig's body in a twist. His head was open and everything was in a thick, rubbery red. Half of his skull was sticking out, holding it in place was a pile of his brains. I could only identify the half of his face soaked in his blood. I threw up, lobbed his secondary sword in the forest and feinted.
I can't live with it anymore, Marche. I just can't!"
Every part of me ached, I bawled and moaned. For I am the foulest of humankind.
I was in a stand off, I was willing to take my life, but Marche wouldn't let it happen.
Then save me Marche. Save me!
"This isn't the answer. You must find another way to deal with it, Jon. You are respected in Clan Nutsy. Montblanc may not like you, but I am willing to give you the chance. As for your brother Miguel, he wasn't right in the mind. You said so yourself, he was out to conquer the world. You truthfully did not want to be with him. Maybe you stayed with him to prevent him from doing as such."
Although I loved Miguel with all my heart, he in fact grew darker. Nearly as sinister as Adrammalech.
"I don't want to live his life anymore, Marche. I'm weary of fighting. Just let me go, just let me leave now. I quit Clan Nutsy."
"Not after what you did for us back there. You saved us. We need you. We need someone as skillful and brave as you. I am behind you all the way."
I was tired of being alone. My pride was devilish, turning my back from everyone who was willing to comfort me. Pride shoved everyone away since the ordeal of last Madmoon. I altered myself together, I couldn't protect anyone, but I took my brother's way of life because I had nothing to do, I was meaningless. I thought I would try to fulfill himself, through me he could live again. He could be given the chance to pursue everything he wanted, I was his body and he was my soul. I've been doing it for a year and everything is so wrong. Nothing has been solved. I have to let him go.
I dropped Heaven's Cloud and for the first time I cried as someone watched. Slobber and saliva dribbling out my mouth, I shut my eyes as Marche held my shoulder firmly.
Thank you, Marche.
I felt renewed. As if I were born again.
"It was the next morning when I came to my senses. The Judgemaster was before me on foot, without his chocobo. For a good five minutes silence enveloped us. Judgemaster Cid looked at the Toughskin then at my brother. He then whistled and waved his hand, the body of my brother disappeared in a whirl of Aero. He left the Toughskin alone. Out of fear, I refused to ask him where Miguel went. I only stared. He started to walk away and left me. I felt eternally lost. I sat there for hours, pondering what to do and grieved.
Then I saw it. The Toughskin began to move. At first I thought it was still alive, but underneath the shell came an infant. She had given birth. Her newborn had a miniature broadsword on its back. I didn't know whether to be horrified or amazed. Miguel had left his mark on the future creatures. Then it hit me. Seeing such life, I figured why the Toughskin destroyed our home. She was decreasing the potential threats surrounding her forest. She was the guardian of the Going.
Her first-born looked at me, and then its dead mother. It scorned at me and hissed. I told myself to stomp on it with a boot, but I let it live and saw more entering this world. I wasn't welcomed there. I stalked out the forest, walking in the direction of an unknown road. You know the rest of my story."
"Then what now, Jon?" Marche said coolly.
"'What now' what?"
"What are we going to do?"
I caught hold of his hand as he lifted me up. I forced my other hand to wipe all the tears and grim cluttered on my face. I had heard the rumbling again, Marche did not notice. The glint of eyes were watching, the eyes weren't as threatening as they were before. It softened. This is where it was born, her first born son. The Toughskin revealed its face and nodded. For a number of seconds it drove its thoughts into me. As if pleased, it vanished into the night.
"Well Marche," I finally returned, "I'm going to find out who I am. I am not Miguel. Now is the time for my glory. And as for we, we are going to describe our account to the rest of the clan in Cyril and take it from there. I'll be damn if Montblanc doesn't give me my deserved credit. And from there we keep going."