Yunalesca drabble. One thousand years pulls at the soul. Mild spoilers.
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There is a magic in the dances. It is not the magic of fire and ice—not the magic of destruction that everyone is so eager to learn these days. It is an older magic, a simpler magic that does not require words or conscious thought of the end result. It is a magic of movement, of emotion and the music you hear inside.
This magic is why only certain people can become summoners and why even fewer succeed in what they set out to do. One cannot be taught to hear the music or feel the emotion. Even the movement must be almost a thing one is born knowing. To be able to hear and to feel is the essence of what a summoner must be.
I have seen many summoners. Very few can hear and feel. They all know, but to know is not enough. I turn them away. Some though, only a handful in these long centuries, I invite inside. I can see the music in their eyes, read the emotion in the set of their shoulder and the length of their stride. I can hear the magic in their voices.
I invite them inside and give them their Final Aeon They all falter when they learn the method they must employ to reach their goal. Foolish, to expect any less. How could Sin be defeated without a sacrifice? For all their quiet magic, they are still children. Or perhaps it is because I am so old. Centuries pile on like dust and the time is immense. I have had time enough to ponder all the questions, to find all the answers, to doubt and disbelieve and return to faith.
These summoners and their guardians are no more than children, eyes still bright and cheeks flushed. They don't understand the weight of what they do, cannot begin to comprehend the magic behind the dances or why thing must be as they are.
But I sense things are changing now. The world is growing weary of the spiral, of the endless dancing. It can be seen in the guardians who question and plead, in the weary lift of head and the quiet steady stride of summoners. They begin at last to feel the weight of the world on their shoulders, the press of countless years of dust and blood and pain. They feel at last the subtle magic of the dance again, pulling at their souls like a hushed plea. They being to search for a way out of the spiral they willingly flung themselves into.
I have grown weary with them. I, too, tire of the suffocating dust centuries think and the weight of bodies and souls innumerable.
If there is a way out of this spiral, I hope it is found soon. I long to follow behind those that have gone before me. I will need no summoner to dance for me.