History
FFX Auron/Braska
Completed 05/17/09
For the LJ community comment_fic
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Memory is a funny thing.
But in his long life--and unlife--Auron has learned to be grateful for the blessings he's had.
"Hello, old friend," Auron murmurs, looking up at the statue of the Lord High Summoner Braska. At ten feet tall and exquisitely carved out of Macalanian marble, the monolith is both imposing and beautiful, glowing in the dim light.
He cannot bring himself to make Yevon's bow but gently touches the statue's feet instead. The stone is dark with the touches and kisses of other pilgrims, the ghost prayers of supplicants to an elaborate lie.
History is a part of memory, Auron knows, a public knowledge of events and people who shaped the land. But it can be twisted to hidden agendas, victim to the political machinations of the Yevon religious elite.
He wishes he could forget.
Life had been simpler then. Simpler, following Braska and protecting him against the fiends and other jealous summoners. Watching him dance the pyreflies and singing them to eternity. Watching Jecht recording yet another of an interminable series of spheres and helping him hide them along the roadside for the son who would follow. Bickering over food, over lodging, over anything that would make Braska smile as their journey grew to a close.
Making love with Braska in the flickering light of a campfire. Snatching fleeting moments of sweetness in inns, on chocobos, among monumental ruins, under the shadows of cliffs no natural force ever created.
He has also learned that some memories are better left dormant.
Waking to the feel of Braska silently shaking in his arms, in the grip of his own nightmare, feeling their lovemaking growing increasingly more desperate. Braska silently embracing both Auron and Jecht for a long while, and looking at them with the calm acceptance of things to come.
And the final Aeon, and then Sin.
He uncorks a bottle of the finest Luccan wine. "This was your favorite," Auron says, ignoring the tickling wetness on his cheeks. "Just one promise to keep, for Jecht. And then I'm coming," he promises, and pours it slowly over the statue's feet. The dark liquid pools at the base and the heady aroma fills the arched dome of the temple, and the settled hush is broken only by the shuffle of the temple priests.