Chapter 1: When he rises…

Zell ran. He ran until his legs begged him for rest, or for destruction. Then he slowed, walked, stretched, and ran some more. He stopped when he came to the far north-east along the shore-line. Out of sight from Garden, and the town that was his home. Balamb was pretty mild weather-wise. It was chilly now, but nothing like Trabia. Was it any surprise that Selphie hadn't returned there?

The shore in this area was rockier than the rest of the island. Zell would know. In all his years here, he ran its entire perimeter leaving countless footprints in the sand beneath his feet. Zell wished Edea was there right then. "Ma-Dinct" was his "mother" no matter what, but Edea was always matron, or "Matwyn" as their young voices used to say. She was a guide, a care-giver, and she had been central to all of them.

It had been over a year since their returned from Ultemecia's Realm. The final battle had left them all exhausted, which was not surprising. The shear power of the sorceress had been amazing. According to Matron, in ages passed, those with natural ability in magic and Guardian Force affinity had been either persecuted and killed, or worshiped as living gods, which led them to kill those like them to ensure their sole divinity. Those old stories people told about legendary demi-gods or heroes—they were all exaggerations of people who had gotten over their humanity, and accepted the fact that there were things far older and far more powerful than them.

He'd spent months on Centra learning from Edea. It was a calm and peaceful change from the chaos they'd all lived through. After leaving her, he'd found himself much more articulate than he'd even been. People had been worried about him for awhile, but then he just dropped a few "dudes" and they were fine with him.

Frothy ocean waves lapped at the shore with its khaki colored sand and charcoal-like rocks. He could taste the salt at the tops of his nostrils. There were memories of scene like this—often repeated. Were they real? In their Psych classes they learned that childhood memories were often constructed by people using specific concrete details that may have been true, but the bulk of the memory was a self-serving fabrication. But these—they all remembered them, didn't they?

Using Guardian Forces did have an effect on long term memory, especially the childhood. It was likely that it was true though. Edea, standing at the shore, gazing out at the sea. She still did it. "The sea," she said once, "It has no true memory, but it still absorbs everything. I have tried to be like the sea for so long, but I am human, so I have failed."

"But, don't you want to remember the past?" He'd asked her.

"Yes—I love you children, but the fate of being a true sorceress is cruel and dangerous. Adel and Ultemecia were obsessed with memory. Adel wanted to create a legacy—use Ellone to alter the past so there would be no escape for her enemies. Ultemecia wanted to compress time so she would always be. A sorceress is shaped through memory and passion. Ultimately, they are victims of them, so those sorceresses sought control of them."

Zell hadn't understood her, but it still played out in his mind. There were many lessons. Some were not for him. Rinoa had been there as well—learning the responsibilities and limitations of her budding power. At times, Zell may have believed the lessons to be harsh, but Edea told him that any suffering she caused Rinoa would save the younger sorceress and others from harm. He had no choice but to believe her.

Along with the salty flow of water, there was something else in the air. It was like going to the fish market in the late afternoon when it's really beginning to smell. He'd never been a fan of fish, preferring instead the processed oily smell of the hotdog, but they did live on an island, so there was no avoiding it. Well, he'd been out for long enough this morning. How many others in Garden ran like he did? The time had come to go home.

X

In the house right next to the one where Zell Dinct lived, was an old man. This old man's name was Onaki, an old fisherman, who'd been the first one to tell Zell about the greatness of Hyne. How long did Zell really listen to this? The old man couldn't say. Young people and their attention span were a mystery to him.

Onaki had lived in the house for many years, though only in the last few had he been home often. The life of a fisherman is hard on the man, but harder on the family that he leaves behind. Onaki's children were all born while he was at sea, and so were their children.

Eight years ago, when his wife died, he'd just left to go fishing off the coast of Centra. He did not learn what happened to her till a month later. When he was too old to go out on far ranging fishing expeditions anymore, Onaki came back home for good. He was an old man with a young family that barely knew him. Those that did were reluctant to take this never present father back into their home.

They did eventually, but Onaki knew that it was out of family-duty, and not love, regardless, he could do nothing about it—he was an old man now. Once, he could stay awake for days with only sake and raw tuna to sustain him as he battled the great monsters from the deep. Now he needed frequent naps, and the bathroom had to be close-by. Life had given up on him it seemed, but he still had his grandchildren.

While their parents worked, he was there, and in time he was no longer a stranger. They got to hear all of his stories, the wisdom of his own parents, and they loved the cat that followed him home from the docks. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Sitting in his house, waiting for someone to come home, or maybe even a visitor to stop by, Onaki heard something.

A gurgle.

No, he thought, that was nothing. But then there was another gurgle.

Onaki, though an old man, considered himself to be formidable. Still sitting atop the pad in his den, Onaki was still. With his weathered dark-brown skin, he looked like some leather wrapped statue. Some old culture's idol of a once mighty hero cut down by time.

Years of waiting for fish to bite in the sun for hours had taught Onaki patience. There were fish that would never bite unless the fisherman was a voiceless statue.

Gurgle.

Close, he thought. And he remained still. His left arm slowly curved towards his chest, and into his shirt. The skin of his sun beaten chest was covered with scars from dock-fights, and battles with dangerous fish. It was also where he kept an old sheath. In it, an old fillet knife that his father had given to him. The hue of the blade was old and dull, but Onaki sharpened it everyday, after praying to his ancestors.

A gurgle, and then the sound of something sloshing onto the floor. It reminded Onaki of when they cleaned larger fish on the boat. They were too big to be brought in whole, so they filleted them on deck. When his own knife slid into the bellies of these monsters, and everything soft and gooey spat out onto his bare feet—that was the sound.

Yet another gurgle that blended into something like a moan. Memories shook within him. The nerves in his legs trembled. It had been so long ago, but he could never forget the horrors they had seen. Half the crew killed or vanished without a trace. For the survivors, their minds had never been the same.

Onaki's hand felt the handle of the knife. The whale bone was smooth and welcoming to his touch. He thought he heard a footstep, though it sounded like a fish hitting the floor. Now, his mind told him.

Onaki came to life: unfolding and rising up—slashing out at whatever was there. He fought hard.