Last Dance
Over the Calm Lands came the sunrise. Still life, at first, for the clouds had gathered to block out the light of the stars during the night. Black and white, like a photograph snapped, a memory tucked away. Then slowly color came into view, gold along the horizon, mauve against the clouds. Within minutes the sun lit the skies afire, melting the horizon to bleed into the waves of green-gold prairie, stirred by the restless susurration of dew weighed grass.
Auron watched it all from his perch against a boulder, red robe left dangling on his left side to free the arm there, both hands clasping his legs to his chest. How the world birthed itself each morning, anew, paralleled their own lives in Spira. Each time night fell, Sin road the world and drove the dark shard of fear into the hearts of the people. And then came the Summoner to lead those same people into the daylight, bringing the color back to their bleak lives, renewing their hope. The night must die to give birth to the day. The day must perish to the night in order to be reborn.
But, what if the Summoner did not bring the sun? What then for the people of Spira?
The sound of Braska's voice brought Auron out of his revelries. He turned his gaze quickly, a protective reflex that had become second nature since undertaking his role as Guardian. The Summoner lay on his back near the dwindling firelight, the golden light of dawn reflected off his face, gave color to what Auron already knew was deathly pale. Since they went to the ruins of Zanarkand he'd been that way. Since Jecht became the fayth.
Auron hadn't been there for that. He wanted to stop them, tried to reason with them, but Jecht stood resolute. Braska remained single minded in his quest-- their quest. Two men left that day, to speak with Yunalesca, and only one returned.
Auron had his promises to keep, then. To Jecht and Braska both, to see this to the end. It was too late to go back, now that Jecht had literally been transformed and the final Aeon only awaited that moment when it would be summoned. Their journey back through Zanarkand and then down Gagazet had been cumbersome and slow going. Braska's frame had grown suddenly frail and he winced occasionally, pained in some manner that Auron couldn't fathom. Asking him about it only earned him a shake of the Summoner's head. He wouldn't speak of it, not wanting to worry his only remaining Guardian. For once, Auron missed the impatient voice of Jecht insisting they move faster, running up ahead to demonstrate this and throwing one of those blasted blitzballs directly at his fellow Guardian for the hell of it.
Strange to admit, but Auron realized he truly did miss Jecht. Sometimes Braska would mention his name, speaking to himself or perhaps to the fayth now merged with him, inside of him. Or, like now, he would mumble that name in his restless sleep. Auron reached out, settling a hand on Braska's shoulder till calm returned to the Summoner's features, stilling his nightmares for sleep.
Fingers curled around the Summoner's arm, no matter how Auron wanted to let him sleep. Waking him was the furthest thing in his mind, for today would be the last day of Braska's life. His last chance to sleep, to dream, to breathe, to live. The last dance. Bowing his head, he engaged in a ritual he'd long ago abandoned. With the sun now warm against his back, tempered by the cool morning breeze, he bowed his head over the slumbering form of the man he guarded with his life and he prayed.
He prayed to Yevon. Then he prayed Yevon was listening.
