As I said, this is Auron's story, from challenging Yunalesca to Kimahri finding him. It's not going to be exactly to the script: I took some liberties with this, and I TRIED to capture Auron's hopelessness in his final journey alive.

Disclaimer: I don't own FFX. Shame on you for thinking I did ;)

By the way, the things in italics are memories that come up as he's going. Just to clear that up ^^ (it looks a lot better in the actual document)

x.X.x

"No!" the yell filled the space around them, filled with anguish and almost too heartbreaking to bear. A man stood before Yunalesca, donned with robes of deep crimson and darkened still with blood in some places. A long ponytail hung down his back, the black hair clearly once silky and soft, but now dirty and matted, as if the man had long since ceased to care about his appearance. He wielded a long katana almost as large as he was, resting on his shoulder as he took a step toward the woman. "Where is the sense in all this? Braska believed in Yevon's teachings and died for them! Jecht believed in Braska and gave his life for him!" His voice was choked with sadness and an anger that smoldered deep in his auburn eyes.

Yunalesca stared at him as if seeing something in the young guardian that no one else could. "They chose to die…because they had hope," she said slowly, knowingly, and agony flashed across his face.

"No," he whispered, his grip tightening on the leather-wrapped katana. "No!" He lunged for Yunalesca, fire burning in his irises, and raised his sword with the strength of all of Spira, all the summoners that had died for this false hope. Hope that Braska had, he thought as he leapt. Hope that Jecht did not have, but that he gave himself up for anyway. Hope that plagued the minds of summoners and guardians alike. A false power that he wondered if he had the strength to stop.

Yunalesca said nothing, only raised her arm and sent a bolt of silver magic that slammed into the young guardian, changing his movement and throwing him violently backwards. His skull cracked against the stone, and as he landed, scarlet blood pooled from his torso and soaked his robes.

She stared unsympathetically down, silver hair swinging, and trailed her hand across his cheek with a feather-light touch. He stared at her with eyes glazed over with pain, and Yunalesca smiled coldly. "Hope is a primitive thing. It is blind and irrational, and you would do well to leave it behind," she murmured, kneeling by his side and letting her tresses fall over him. "Remember those words, Auron." Then Yunalesca spun on her heel and melted out of existence, and it was a long time before the guardian gathered the strength to move.

He lifted one arm, digging his fingers into the stone, and pulled himself over, summoning only enough energy to gasp as a flash of pain shot through his whole body with that simple movement.

Braska chuckled as Jecht dragged Auron over to the chocobo, saying, "C'mon, man, have some fun!"

"This is far from my idea of 'fun,'" the guardian growled, but allowed himself to be forced onto the bird. The summoner burst into laughter at the sight of his serious, tense guardian sitting awkwardly atop a creature such as a chocobo. After a moment, he sighed. "Am I allowed off now?" Auron asked, and Jecht grinned.

"No way," he said. "Drive it around a bit!"

The red-cloaked guardian forced his one good eye open, barely registering the blood that obscured his vision, pouring from a long gash given to him by Yunalesca's magic that completely disfigured one side of his face. Summoning his strength, he pulled himself forward with only his hands. The guardian inhaled sharply as patches of darkness danced across his vision, and figures of Jecht and Braska stood before him, flashes of the pilgrimage coming to life in his mind.

"Auron, when this is all over, will you bring Yuna here?"

He crawled agonizingly slow toward the exit, leaving a stream of scarlet behind him, and his arms quivered and jerked with the task he was asking them to do.

"This is the only thing we got now! Fine. Make me the Fayth. I've been doing some thinking. My dream is in the other Zanarkand."

He reached the Cloister of Trials, and dragged himself across the tiles, stopping as he reached the exit. There was no way he could make it down the mountain. He was going to die, and it was going to be for nothing. Just like Braska died. Just like Jecht gave himself up. And he had done nothing.

"I wanted to make that runt into a star blitz player. Show him the view from the top, you know. But now I know there's no way home for me. I…I'm never gonna see him again."

Visions of their journey swirled in his mind, the colors dulled and the voices muffled, as if they were speaking through water. Perhaps in the sphere pool, he thought numbly. Maybe they were playing blitzball, and speaking through the water in the arena. Yes, that was it. They were on the opposite side of the sphere pool, or one of them was in it, and all he had to do was swim. One arm in front of the other, pulling himself forward again.

"Braska still has to fight Sin, Auron. Guard him well. Make sure he gets there… Well, let's go."

He had failed. Again. He was not supposed to be the only one living.

"Fine. I said my piece."

"Well, I haven't! Lord Braska, let us go back! I don't want to see you…die!"

"You knew this was to happen, my friend."

"Yes, but I...I cannot accept it."

He had made it to the ruins of Zanarkand, sweat pouring down his face and blood smeared on his hands, his arms. His whole body trembled with fatigue, and his mind was numb and unthinking with pain.

"Auron, I am honored that you care for me so. But I have come to kill grief itself. I will defeat Sin, and lift the veil of sorrow covering Spira. Please understand, Auron."

The jagged edges of the fallen stone dug into the guardian's arms, sending fresh streams of blood running in rivulets down his skin, and he was forced to stop again, with barely the energy to draw breath. His hope had long since deserted him, or so he thought. But despite his constant feelings of desolation, he kept going, crawling across the rock and stopping again at the edge of the ruins.

"Journeyer of the long road, name yourself."

"I am Braska, summoner of Bevelle."

As the guardian pulled himself into the freezing cold of Mount Gagazet, he was battered with winds and shards of ice that almost immediately halted him again. His blood pooled on the ground behind him and soaked the snow, staining it vivid crimson as he half-slid, half-crawled down the mountain, his energy having almost completely deserted him now. His head swam, and he only barely registered where he was. All he knew for sure was that he had a promise to keep.

"I want her to live a life away from this conflict…"

A quarter of the way down the mountain, his body betrayed him. He had used his final reserves of strength, and his muscles screamed in protest when he tried to move any farther.

Kimahri Ronso, the smallest of the tribe and in constant shame because of that fact, was on patrol. It was really to get him out of the way than anything else: he knew that, but it did not stop an icicle of pain from piercing his heart when he thought of his virtually nonexistent ability to help his village.

He stopped, his grip tightening on his lance as he saw a flash of red in the snow. He walked warily closer, opening his mouth to taste the scents in the air, and dug a little in the snow as the corner of a dirty red robe flapped in the howling winds. Almost buried in the heavy white powder was a young man, no more than twenty five years, and behind him was a trail of scarlet that had soaked into the snow and was almost covered up. Kimahri firmly took the his shoulder and flipped him over, displaying a frail, dying man with a long gash traveling down one side of his face.

He gasped, one eye flickering open, and immediately looked to the side, one hand rising weakly in a miserable attempt to grab the hilt of a sword protruding from the snow. Kimahri, knowing the importance and symbolism of a weapon among the Ronso, took it for him and placed it in the man's outstretched hand. His fingers curled around it, and for a moment his eyes glazed over, though with pain or memories the undersized, catlike Ronso could not tell.

"Yuna," the man finally croaked in no more than a whisper. "Besaid…" He saw the confusion in Kimahri's eyes, and seemed to try to clear his mind, saying again, "The daughter…of Braska. In Bevelle… Take her to…Besaid." The Ronso nodded to let him know that he understood, and the man's grip tightened on his forearm, his hand shaking. He opened his mouth as if to say something else, but his eyes truly clouded then, and his fingers loosened, falling slack into the snow. He had traveled this far, made it through the ruins of Zanarkand, and fulfilled his promise to Braska. But his task was not done.

Not yet.

x.X.x

Now that you've read it, I want some feedback! Pllleeaaasssee? Please oh please with a chocobo on top? Tell me if I kept Auron in-character, if I portrayed his journey well enough, or if the story stunk altogether ;)

I AM pretty proud of this one, though, so please--no flames. Obviously, Auron's my favorite character, so don't go insulting him, either! Yevon will disapprove...

Thanks!