INTRODUCTION:
This is a what-if story. At a critical part in the story a complete departure from the original source material will occur. I wanted to be up front with this from the start. I wanted to explore the Pilgrimage of Braska from inside the heads of the three men who completed it. And, I wondered what would happen to the story if Braska had chosen Auron for his Final Aeon. What would happen? How would that change the story of Final fantasy X?
So, dear readers, if you would walk with me a bit down the pilgrimage road and allow me the joy of playing with our beloved characters once again I hope to not disappoint.
For those that want to see my early work, look up my previous account DeGonGin.
SOUNDTRACK: (This is the music that inspired / played as a soundtrack for this piece. Check them out!)
"Opaque" – Amethystium :Odonata
"Enchantment" – Amethystium :Odonata
"I Am" – Blueston: Breathe
"Adrift" –Bluestone: Worlds Apart Remixed
"Worlds Apart" – Blueston: Worlds Apart Remixed
"Runaway"-Linkin Park: Hybrid Theory
"In the End"-Linkin Park: Hybrid Theory
DISCLAIMER:
All rights to the places, events replayed from the game and the characters used belong to Squaresoft. (Square ENIX)
The Road Less Traveled
Chapter 1:
Auron was, for perhaps the first time in his life, full of conflict. His eyes looked out over the balcony of the temple, unseeing the beauty of the sunset. His thoughts swirling with fear, rage, and confusion. He was alone in a hoard of holy people, grasping at the railing with both hands as if the temple of St. Bevelle was a ship tossed in an angry sea. Acolytes scurried past the tortured man, most giving him a wide berth with a glace of nervous fear. A pair of Warrior-Monks, geared and heading out for patrol, stared at him. One held a frown, the other an embarrassed look, his eyes sliding away. A priest, wearing the robes of office, tisked to himself as he passed the distressed young man.
"Do you have no shame?" the Yevonite asked as he walked hurriedly by. "Just go."
He ran his right hand through his black hair and closed his brown eyes as he tried to find his center, His inner balance lost as he looked at the bleak options left him. His right shoulder felt exposed without the familiar weight of his Katana and he felt his left hand drift to his belt. A coin purse casually stuffed there making little sound as the meager contents shifted.
"Where do I go now?" he asked himself. "It's not like I have a home anymore." He sighed heavily. His face, usually so stoic, was awash with emotion. He stood and looked down at himself, it was time to take inventory. A black sleeveless shirt, black paints with a single blue stripe along each outer cuff, black boots with metal spats, 17 gill in his coin purse, and a large, red-lined coat with blue trim. He shook his head, exiling him from his brothers was like a kick in the stomach, taking his favored blade… they may as well have slit his throat right there. He snorted at himself. With a sigh, he turned away from the deepening evening view and slowly walked out of the temple for the last time.
Auron wandered the streets of Bevelle, he looked at the city, the bright shops, and the open parks filled with laughing children. He had given his entire life to the order, and he had thrived. Though not required, he had followed the strictest of precepts of the Order. Exercise, good solid food and discipline had sculpted a trim, muscled body and genetics had handed him a tall 6 foot frame. His hands showed the calluses of an active life, and his face showed little of his experience.
He found himself drawn to the sounds of laughter and clicking glasses, he had stopped in front of a sake bar. Auron knew he should be looking for somewhere to sleep this first night of freedom, but he could find nothing to stop him. He just didn't care anymore and his soul was broken, he needed medicine. With a grimace he walked into the shop and settled on a stool near the back of the long bar. He looked about and saw a display of large white clay jugs. When the bartender made his way down to the young man, Auron ordered one of them.
The bartender smiled, "Haven't seen you before, friend. What kind of poison do you want that filled with?"
Auron looked at the man, "Whatever will get me to a state of oblivion the quickest."
"Ah!" he smiled even deeper, "You don't want something refined, heh?"
"No. Nothing refined. Just what everyone uses to take their mind off their troubles. Fill it up. I have a lot of troubles that need drowning."
The bartender reached behind the bar and pulled the large white jar up to the counter. "This thing can hold quite a bit, y'know?"
"Good."
The bartender just grinned and grabbed a black grease pen. With the flowing script of Spiran he wrote the word "Nog" on the side and slid the tokkuri down to his apprentice. The young boy started carefully filling the jug as the bartender turned back to Auron.
"So, friend, want to talk about it?" he gestured to the rest of the nearly empty shop, "I got very little to do at the moment."
"Ah, no." Auron shook his head, "I think I'll just enjoy my drink in private, thank you." His baritone voice quieter than usual as he struggled with his racing mind. He gladly took the now full tokkuri and a glass moving to a darker corner of the shop. The first taste was foul, burning and bitter. He stared at the glass and frowned. "People actually LIKE this?" He shrugged and downed the entire glass, gulping it so he did not taste it. When he finished he sat back and looked over the shop, his mind slowly succumbing to the alcohol. The second and third glasses went just as quickly as Auron found he could forget how bad things were.
The bartender watched the young man as he hit the drink pretty hard, obviously his first time from the range of expressions on his open face. He shook his head and went back to wiping the bar.
The small dingy bobbed at anchor in the slowly rolling waters off the coast of Zanarkand. The futuristic city far enough away that it was more a model than the actual city. Inside the little boat there sat an athletic, black haired man, clad in an outfit of black and orange. A bright red headband circled low on his brow as he stared off into the distance. His face was weathered, the nose had seen its fair share of blunt force trauma. His full lips smiled as he looked out at his home, the city of Zanarkand gave him all the accolades of a prince.
Jecht stretched as he dug into the pack beside him, pushing the health drink and sandwich his wife had thoughtfully placed in the ice with a grunt, he settled on the beer underneath it all. With a small smile he popped the tab. The familiar POP-FIZZZZ made his smile grow into the self-satisfied grin that usually ruled his tanned face. Red eyes scanned the ocean during the time it took for him to finish his can. With his ritual complete, he grabbed the blue and white knobbed sphere that had settled in the prow of the little rowboat and dived off the side.
Under the water, Jecht was a master. He had trained so long in the water he could hold his breath for quite a while, even under activity. He practiced his kicking, sending the ball far out to sea and then timing himself as he sped through the water to where he had placed it. Swimming back toward the white boat to start all over again with a fresh can of beer.
The forecast for today had been clear skies and calm seas. So, it was with a bit of irritation that Jecht surfaced to a cloudy sky. He swam quickly back to the dingy and climbed aboard. Shaking the excess water off his face he searched around the little boat for his radio. Empty cans tossed this way and that until he found it, nestled against the rudder so that it would be easily found.
"Humph", he wordlessly picked up the device and tuned it for the houseboat. He nearly dropped the darn thing as the dingy began to swing to and fro. Cans underfoot, he more threw himself back to the middle of the white row boat instead of moving with the usual self-assurance that he maintained. He frowned as he took another look around, the sea was getting really rough, bobbing the dingy and splashing him with more sea spray.
He thumbed the talk switch, "Hey! Wha's wi' the weather?" He listened for a reply as the water continued to swamp the little boat. Cans surrounded the blitzball as it bobbed a bit away from the dancing dingy. "Hey!" To the port, a large swelling of dark water rose quickly as the sky broke open, dousing the veteran athlete. He waved at the monstrous swell, "NO! Not now! Back off!" he commanded the sea threatening to push his small boat into the depths.
The sea, or rather what was in the sea, ignored his commands. The large nearly black waters rose to great heights above the small white boat. Jecht grabbed the sides of his craft and held on for dear life. The water broke and a great gray beast rose towering over the man. "Oh…sh-aaaaAAAAAH!" He yelled, words dropping into a scream as the rolling water threw the dingy up and crashing into the …flying whale?
Powerful waves slammed the man hard into the gray side of the beast. Jecht lost his air, and his consciousness at about the same time. The howling sounds of sirens and the soft moaning of pyreflies filling his ears, blocking the last of his scream.
Deep in the archives of the Temple, far from the streets of Bevelle, sat a quiet man. Bent over the scrolls and books before him on the table, he sighed and brushed aside his blue-gray locks. Distractedly he pulled the red ribbon from the back of his neck that had failed to hold back his long hair. He stretched and sat up straight, taking the opportunity to gather it all up and restrain it back into its utilitarian pony tail. Bright blue eyes looked over all the writing and a small frown graced his lips. The man was dressed as a white mage, flower petal robes in shades of red and purple covered his frame. Delicate hands, scholar's hands with smudges of ink, picked at the scroll he had opened to study. Beside him was an intricate helm, made of silver with a long feather of metal that flowed along the same line as his spine when worn.
He sighed and closed up the materials he was working with, placing them at the end of the table for an acolyte of the temple to replace in the stacks. He shook his head as he glanced at the windows, seeing that the evening was rapidly approaching. He snagged his helmet, tucking it under an arm so as to not cause destruction with its flamboyant metal tail, and headed out of the Temple of St. Bevelle. Popping on the helmet, he passed quickly through the city, stopping at a grocer for a loaf of fresh bread and some vegetables for dinner. He nodded at a few others that also seemed to be on the trail for home, a calm smile on his face. The others that knew him waved or smiled back, sad to see that the smile rarely reached his eyes anymore.
Carrying the bag with his provisions, he quickly passed by the market district and into the quiet residential blocks where his small house sat. He waved at a neighbor as he turned into the tidy front yard. He stopped near the door, a young hand wielding a few different colors of chalk had artistically graced his walkway. Bright yellow chocobos paraded past red and blue flowers with an equally bright yellow sun smiling down at them. Among the child crafted scene stood a family of three, a priest in red robes holding the hands of a little girl in a white dress and a woman in a yellow jumpsuit. To the side, in the grass was a stuffed animal, the very model for the bright yellow chocobos. He smiled and gathered up the abandoned toy. He shouldered open the door, as his hands had reached maximum capacity, and called out to the house.
"Yuna! You left Mr. Feathers out in the yard again!" His voice was a calm and smooth tenor, not angry, more faintly amused. "If you keep doing that, you are going to have to study Cure so you can heal the cold he is going to get."
A small girl, dressed in a little white and blue dress looked up from her place on the couch. Her face blossomed into a full smile as she jumped up, "Daddy! Did you see my picture I made for you?" She clasped her hands together in front of her, joy at seeing her father lighting up her eyes.
"Yes, I did! What a nice picture. Where did you put us today, my dear?" He answered as he kicked the door shut behind him and moved to the kitchen. He set the groceries down on the table, turned back and looked at his daughter, absently cradling the stuffed chocobo in his hands.
"Um…" her smile slipped, "I missed Mommy so…" She shrugged. "I 'magined her with us again."
He smiled at his daughter, deeper than before, "How wonderful!" his voice betrayed nothing of the stabbing loss that struck his gut. "I miss her too, you know." He looked about the room, "Where is Gemma?" He asked, not seeing the housekeeper.
"She is out back, getting herbs for dinner. I wanted to wait for you here, so I did." Yuna gestured to the back of the house and then to the couch, a few picture books scattered on the cushions.
It was then the older woman bustled in, white hair in a bun and a bright green apron over her simple brown dress. She held the bottom of her apron up to form a pocket for the fresh herbs gathered there. "Welcome back, Mr. Braska." Her voice was deep and pleasant, a woman in her later years, working to maintain a house for the widower after her children had left and her husband had passed. She looked at Yuna, "Get your hands under some running water, little one. I'll have dinner ready in the time it takes a dog to wag its tail." She headed straight to the kitchen and looked into the bag, "Ah, you remembered!" She smiled as she got to work chopping up the vegetables.
Yuna nodded to the woman and then looked at her father. His smile was still there, just the same, she noticed, it hadn't traveled to his tired blue eyes. She ran over and threw a hug around his waist. She sighed as he leaned down, holding her with his arms in a warm embrace. He copied her sigh and straightened up breaking the hug. With a gentle push he sent her down the hallway to the washroom. He turned back to the kitchen, his free hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose and setting the yellow chocobo toy on the table next to Yuna's chair.
"If you don't mind me saying so, sir. You look a little rough, get a bit more done in the archives?" the housekeeper made conversation as she stood stir frying the vegetables in a skillet over the hearth.
Braska nodded as he set his ridiculous helmet on its stand and walked over to the doorway, pulling off the red robes and hanging them on a peg revealing a simple outfit beneath of a white cotton shirt tucked into a pair of gray pants. He stretched and rubbed his shoulders. "I have the last bits down. And I feel that I have the stances and steps memorized. Now I just have to work on the actual casting." He frowned. "It's not at all like white magic, or black magic even. No words, just movement, focus and redirection of energies. I must say, it's quite different from what I expected."
Gemma nodded and pulled the skillet out of the fire. She moved back to the table and placed the freshly cooked herbs and veggies on the plates, placed the bread with a pat of butter in the center of the table and scuttled off to the cold bin for juice and water. Yuna walked back from the washroom, holding her hands out to the woman as she passed for inspection. The housekeeper nodded and pointed with her chin to the table, Braska had already moved to his seat at the head and waited for his daughter there.
The three settled down to the simple meal, conversation flowing as Yuna reported her day to her father and asked about his own studies. The fourth place at the table had a dish set, chopsticks carefully resting on their own stand, empty cup and an empty chair waiting for a person that would never return.
Auron felt more than heard the bartender calling him. He blearily looked around. The tokkuri in his hand nearly empty and his glass smashed on the floor nearby.
"Wha?" his voice wouldn't work, how irritating. He tried again, "What do you need?" he smiled, there, clear understandable spiran.
"Your bill? You have the gil for all this?" The bartender waved his hands in a grand gesture, taking in the broken chairs, damaged tables and smashed glass that was the sake shop. He glared at the young man. Auron seemed completely oblivious to the bruises, cuts and broken lip. O r that he is sitting in a sea of destruction. "You challenged those Temple guards! You broke three of them on MY Tables! YOU BROKE THE BACKBAR MIRROR!" the normally mild mannered man marched up to the sitting ex-monk, finger stabbing at every mentioned item and coming to rest on Auron's chest. "You had BETTER find some money, buster, or I call more guards. And THIS time I'll make SURE there is enough to stop you!"
"No whay!" was the slurred response from the young man, "I d'all THISH!?" he started to chuckle. "ON TEMPLE GUARDSH?" His chuckles grew into a laugh, the booze talking, not the man. "WOW!" he exclaimed. He laughed deeply, his head falling to land face first on the sake splattered table before him. He spent a good long time before he controlled himself enough to continue.
He looked up at the bartender, eyes bloodshot, one partially swollen shut. "Boy, are you gonna be mad." He dropped his coin purse on the table, its soft clink not very encouraging. "I'm BROKE!" He fell forward laughter bubbling up again, clutching his stomach with one hand and the tokkuri with the other. "I've got nothing! No hope, no future. Go ahead, call the guards, and make damn shure that they are gonna be enough. Tell 'em to bring all the weaponsh they wanta. Give me one last good fight."
The bartender blinked, his sails deflated as the drunken young man spelled out the whole picture. Insolvent, drunk, and with nothing to lose, Auron was his worst nightmare. Even completely drunk, he was more than an even match to four Temple Guards, bare handed. He shook his head, and decided on the better part of valor. "Get. The. Hell. Out. Of. My. Bar!" he enunciated every word clearly and with malice. "And don't you EVER come with in a 100 feet of my doors or so help me, Yevon, I will call the guard!"
Auron, mostly on autopilot at this point, sighed and got up. "Fine. I'ma takin' the tok- tuk- takka- JAR! Itsh mine! I won it in BATTLE!" He stumbled out of the shop. The former patrons, an unwilling audience to the guards' vs Auron "fight-to-the-coma", moved far away from the red coated drunk. Many waved away the strong smell of alcohol that wafted around him or whispered at each other as he passed. If no-one knew who Auron the disgraced Ex-Warrior-Monk was, the denizens of the lower levels of Bevelle knew quite well who he was now.
The night swallowed him up as he wobbled down the street, he was humming to himself. It was the Hymn of the Fayth. His voice was rough, but the tune was still recognizable. He didn't know where he was going, but the pleasant buzz in his head allowed him to not really care. Oh, Yevon! This was nice! No wonder so many of his brothers spoke so highly of this vice. He was a fool to have held so strictly to the precepts!
He passed the end of the market district and found himself deep in the residential area on the lower level. He looked at all the little homes. Decent families asleep at this dark hour. He looked at each one, pausing where he could find a place to lean. He looked over the pleasant doors and the carefully trimmed bushes. Tears trailed unfelt down his face as he wondered what his life would have been if he had not been left at the Temple. He shook his head and took another drink. Ah yes, goodbye dark thought, hello oblivion.
It was dark, a sliver of a moon showing in the sky, when Auron found his tokkuri was drained of the last of the sake. He stumbled. It was a testament to his superior health that he was not passed out yet, but it was coming. He felt lightheaded, a comfortable numbness in his legs and brain. He found a peaceful home, with an overhang over the door and some colorful scribbles on the walkway. Surrounded by hedges that marked a small grassy yard. He fell as he tried to turn to move into that yard, muffled chuckles were given to the ground as he slowly levered his way back up. Giving up the thought of upright movement he crawled his way to the door, and leaned against the hard, cool wood. His brain was on fire, the potent liquid having moved from buzz, through drunk and into near poisoning. He curled up around his precious clay jar and slipped away into the darkness of the quiet night.
Jecht woke in the water, he looked around with surprise, the water was…wrong. Colder, denser, if flowed with a different kind of weight. He was floating on his back, on the surface. "Weird." He said to the sky, there was no one else around him to say it to. "Shouldn't be floatin' up here." He pushed against the water. It gave, just not as easy as the waters around Zanarkand. "OH CRAP! " He yelled and looked around frantically. "Where the hell am I?" he found no bearings, no large city, and no boat… not even a can of beer. He heard the familiar call of a seagull and searched the sky frantically. He spotted the flying gray bird heading away from him. Taking that as a clue of where to look, he focused on that part of the horizon. Far away, he could make out the dark smudge of something. Whatever it was, it was land. He had to get out of the water, and find some help back to Zanarkand. That … THING… could have moved on to his city, his home! He had to warn someone, get his family to safety.
He started to swim, man, what a workout. The water was thicker here, it made swimming harder than at home. He pushed, using a steady rhythm to eat up the distance he had to move through. The land that was his target getting clear as he put in more effort toward it. It was not Zanarkand that was for sure. A harbor wall made of stone and mortar blocked off the small cove where the docks of a fairly large town stood. He could feel his resources draining a lot faster than they should. He was getting out of shape. He would start teaching his boy as soon as he got passage back! That would work off these weak muscles.
Soon, he passed the harbor wall, the water becoming easier to get through, now that the deep weight of the ocean was gone. He stopped and treaded water for a long moment. With his mouth hanging open he looked at the tall wooden ships at dock. Paddle wheels mounted on the sides, but no place for any engine, flat decks and no railings to speak of. The draft was all wrong, flat, they must ride the water like a bucket! He watched as the seagulls flew about the stunted masts and un-furled sails. He shrugged and set about getting to land.
Few more minutes power swimming and he found his feet on dry land. He walked up a little on the beach near the docks and settled on the ground, panting. He kneeled there, on unfamiliar sand and just looked. There was not a single sign of power here. Everything was lit with fire, gas lamps or open flame. Tough sea grass lined the beach, leading to more solid ground covered in trees and bushes. Unless this was a seaside park he had never heard of, he was nowhere near Zanarkand. It was like time had spun backwards, he shook his head. Couldn't be possible! He was just shaken up by that near death collision! That must be it!
He started to shiver at that point. He was bare chested and barefoot. He started to feel the cold. It was WAY colder here, that explained the water. He sat up and then stood, holding his arms close around his chest and stamping his feet. He moved along the beach toward the docks.
"HEY!" he waved at the ships, the men moving cargo from the dock to the ships and back. "HEY! Can one of ya get me back to Zanarkand?" he growled loudly at them. They all froze and turned to look at this strangely dressed stranger, shivering on the beach. One, a boson of the largest ship, gestured to his men to get back to work and headed down to see what was wrong with this person.
"Aya! What can I do fer you?" he asked as he approached this stranger. His hand was on his knife, even with a smile on his face. This could be an Al-Bhed trick, or some crazy old sailor. Thieves had been known to act the lost fool to get aboard a well-stocked ship.
"Yeah, I'm lost." Jecht rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he could never quite break, "I was scooped up by this large gray thing an' I ended up here! You wouldn't be settin' sail for Zanarkand would ya? I can cover your expenses when I get back there." He smiled as charismatically as he could even as he shook with the cold.
The boson grunted, "Yeah… no. We ain't sailing anywhere NEAR the sacred city." He squinted at Jecht, looking him up and down. "We ain't got any room for layabouts or freeloaders either. You best be wandering off." He made a sweeping gesture at the shivering man's direction.
"Really? You don't have room for the Great Jecht? You can't be so far out that you haven't heard of the Star of the Zanarkand Abes!?" Jecht was flummoxed. Just where the hell did that thing drop me?
The sailor shook his head and laughed. "Um…nope. Haven't said I have heard of the 'Great Jecht'. So move on, crazy man. We don't need the likes o' you."
Jecht looked just as surprised as he felt…never heard of…."Now just wait a stupid minute here! Just how far out AM I from Zanarkand!?" He put his hands on his hips and glared at the boson as he turned to walk back to his men and his ship. The man ignored Jecht. This set the blitzballer off, his temper slipping loose, he called the departing man every name in the book. It wasn't long before the guards watching the docks wandered over and observed him make an obvious fool of himself.
The lead guard nodded to his partner and they apprehended the cold, angry and tired man. "Looks like you've had just a little too much to drink tonight, my friend. Let's get you into the warmth of a cell so you can sleep it off, eh?" Jecht exploded, punching the junior of the two with a huge roundhouse and planting a decent kick into the man's side. He was incoherent with rage, and the guards had volunteered to be his outlet. The senior guard solved the problem with a swift strike to the back of the blitzballer's head. Jecht fell, mid rant, out like a light.
The junior guard sat up rubbing his face and holding his side. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that guy needs to apply for the Warrior-Monks! He hits like a ton of bricks!"
The other guard chuckled, "Well, I guess you were right, we should have just knocked him out from the start." He shrugged as he reached down and grabbed the large man's shoulders. "You get his feet, since you've already met them." He said with a smile. "We should call the Temple Guards. He needs to be put in the stockade at the Temple. He's too powerful for our little jail."
"Humph" grunted the younger of the two as he picked up the downed man's feet.
The housekeeper had left after putting away the dishes from the simple meal. Braska settled down with Yuna and a good story book. With his soft voice he read the story of Yunalesca and Zaon, the first High Summoner. She loved the story, not only because she knew her father was studying to become a summoner himself, but because it had kissing and a dashing young heroine. She settled to bed as he put the story book back on the little bookshelf he had made for her next to her nightstand. She looked at him with a smile as he turned back and kissed her forehead.
"Good night, little bird." He said with a smile, placing Mr. Feathers, the stuffed chocobo, on the blanket next to her. "Sweet dreams."
"Night,night, Daddy." Yuna replied around a yawn fit to take the top of her head off. He smiled and headed for the sanctuary of his comfortable chair. He noticed a kettle of water over the hearth fire, left by Gemma before she headed out and he grabbed a cup for tea. He set the brew at the bottom of his mug, added the water and brought the steaming drink on the stand next to the chair. He pulled a large book from the shelf, "The history of Summoning". He tossed that into the chair as well and then set about closing windows, locking doors and generally closing up the house for the night.
House secure, he settled into his chair, book in hand and tea cooling beside him. He enjoyed the quiet of the house at night, humming to himself as he read.
Baska slowly awoke with a heavy presence on his face. He reached up and felt the book he had been reading just a few minutes ago now hanging open on his nose. He grunted and stretched, grabbing the fairly heavy tome and placing it closed on the table next to his stone cold tea. He felt terrible. Sighing he looked around, another night in the chair. It just seemed to happen more and more, he just couldn't face the night alone in the bed he had shared for so long.
A soft cooing sound turned his focus away from his muscle sore state. He sat forward, leaning against something that resisted his movement. He realized his daughters blanket was tucked around him, she had awoken to find him here. Dear sweet child, she had covered him up. He looked around the living room and saw that the front door was completely open. With a frown, he pushed the blanket off his chest and flipped it over his shoulder, the pink highlighted by his white shirt. He walked curiously over to the doorway and moved to stand in the entrance to his home.
He looked down and saw a sight that both angered and saddened him. He looked over the scene his frown deepening. Yuna, her innocent face full of concern, was carefully placing her other blanket over a passed out man in his doorway. The smell of stale sake and the sickness of overindulgence reeking from the drab red coat the man had wrapped himself in. She was speaking quietly to him, "Be quiet, or you'll wake daddy. Please, mister red coat man, I know you are sick. As soon as daddy is awake I'll get him for you."
"Yuna!" Braska hissed, grabbing her by the arm, "Get away from that man." He pulled his precious daughter behind his back and patted her on the head. "This is very sweet of you, my dear. But, this man is very…sick. And he may hurt you." With a continued frown, he gently nudged the bundle of drunk with his slipper covered foot.
Yuna tugged on her father's shirt, "But daddy! He's from the Temple! See? He said his name is Auron. And he's very sorry he's sick on our porch. He was so cold, he shivered so! I got my other blankie and made him warm. Can you cast a spell to heal him?"
Braska looked over the man lying on his doorstep, curled around some sort of alcohol jug. The man was wearing the basic bits of a Warrior-Monk's uniform. He was unarmed, and very much disheveled. He rubbed his hand along his chin in thought. It was just strange, why would a Warrior-Monk of Bevelle be drunkenly passed out on HIS doorway? What had convinced this man to stumble here? With a sigh, he realized Yuna would be crushed if he did nothing, and she'd be right. He was a priest of Yevon, meant to bring solace to the people of Spira. And, if things were in his favor, this may be a hidden gift from the Fayth.
He turned to his little girl, "Yuna, go to your room, and close the door. Keep it closed until I tell you it is safe. I don't think this man would knowingly hurt you, but we don't know who he is. Do you understand?" he smiled at her as he motioned to her room.
Yuna nodded sagely and with the wisdom of the innocent said, "I think he's OK. I just think he's broken somehow. Maybe you can … heal him like you do at the temple?" She turned, taking the pink blanket from her father's shoulder and flounced into her bedroom, closing the door with an audible click.
Braska turned back to the problem on his doorstep, reaching down, he could really smell the rice wine saturating the man's clothing. "Broken … more like Drunk." He shook his head and reached for the man, intending to pull him in by the shoulders. As Braska gripped the coat Auron wore by the blue trim. The man's eyes shot open, he looked around and then landed on the frowning face of the owner of the house where he had finally collapsed. Wordlessly, he tried to back up, mumbling apologies he nearly pulled Braska off his feet.
"Wait, wait…don't move….oh Yevon!" Auron rolled to his hands and knees, the first of many cleansing stomach heaves leaving him shaking in the yard. At least he had aimed for the grass. With blood shot eyes he looked up. His complexion pale, almost green and bright red on the very edges of his cheeks. "I'm so sorry, sir. Please, I'll leave."
Braska kneeled down, shaking his head. "I don't know who you are. But it is obvious you aren't going anywhere for a while. Let me help? I am Braska, my child is Yuna. And you told her you name is Auron?" He held out a steady hand to the man.
"Yes … Auron." He looked at Braska, the gears of his tortured mind grinding, "You're Priest Brasksa! The priest that married an Al-Bhed! "He closed his eyes. "Sorry", he mumbled, "Not at my best right now." He took the hand offered and allowed the smaller man to support him as he stumbled into the house. Braska guided him to the couch, and laid him down. The Priest then walked to the back of the house, checking on Yuna's door to make sure it was still closed. He pulled a few pillows and bedding from the hall closet. The priest returned to the stranger on his couch and set up the pillows and bedding to make him more comfortable.
"I would cast some Healing spells on you, but we both know that won't help." He looked the young man over. The monk was in good shape, except for the mother of all hangovers. He took the tokkuri away and set it to the side. Next, he gathered up a wastebasket and placed it within reach. Finally, he moved to remove the red coat, it was filthy, stained with sake and dirt, bloody and torn. The man's face was bruised, the right eye had taken a good hit. It would develop into a shiner that would linger. Auron's hands had the scrapes and cuts that spoke of being used in a fist fight. "I hope you look better than the other guy."
"Guys…four….guards." Auron mumbled, his eyes drifted closed. "Thank you." He levered himself up to help Braska take his jacket and lifted his feet so it was easier to get the boots. The rest would come off later when he could perhaps use this gracious man's shower. He felt another wave of nausea heading his way and he scrambled to grab at the wastebasket.
Braska sighed and walked over to the kitchen, he found that his kettle had been refilled and set on a fire. With an arched eyebrow he glanced at the hallway, just in time to see his daughter's door close shut. He shook his head, she was too good by half. And in a lot of trouble once his patient was rested up. He took some pleasure in watching Auron's face grimace in pain as the piercing shriek of the kettle's whistle was allowed to sing for just a little bit longer than usual. Braska was not one to let a lesson pass by unheeded.
Jecht woke up flat on his back, cold and sore in a stone block cell. He got up and walked it to make sure…yep, ten by ten. Perfect. He looked out past the solid iron bars that made his new home. He shook the door, testing it, good strong construction. He was going no-where. He held his head, man what he wouldn't do for some beer, something to get the dog that bit him. He watched as the prison guard made his rounds, and sat on the hard wooden shelf that served as his bed. Nothing to do but wait. This was not his first round in the pokey, the Great Jecht had some wild parties in his past. No big deal.
Later, a guard brought him a tray of food. Bread, jerky and water. Great, a puritan jail. He looked around, "Hey! Can I please have something for my head?" he asked.
The guard, smiling, nodded, "Sure." He walked over and handed Jecht more water. "Best thing for a hangover."
"Great, just freaking great. A comedian." He gulped down the first glass of water and sat in grumpy silence, eating his prison meal.
Time passes slowly when you have nothing to do, Jecht counted orange colored clothing as passersby strolled on parade past his cell. Interesting that the jail was open to the public. Nothing like shame to cure what ails the common drunk. Unfortunately for Jecht, he was, admittedly different from the last few times, not drunk. Lost, confused and getting pretty steamed, but not drunk.
Days passed, well, more like a day passed.
A guard walked up to the cell. Beside him was a smaller man, dressed in the kookiest set of robes Jecht had ever seen. Green leaf like sleeves bound by an orange wide belt and orange trim that flowed down to the ground, hiding his feet, even when he walked. The Guard pounded on the metal bars with his club. "Wake up, Prisoner. Your Priest is here to judge you."
Jecht stretched and walked up to the bars. "Judge me? Whaddid I do?" He rested his hands on the cross bars that sealed his cell.
The robed man bowed strangely at the prisoner behind the bars, hands forming a circle at the center of his stomach and bowing over them. "I am Priest Jarod. I was told by the two guards that brought you here that you were drunk in public, verbally assaulted honest sailors at the Bevelle docks, and physically assaulted a guard of the watch." He shook his head, "I hope that the day you have spent here has cleared your head enough for us to talk. These are pretty serious charges against you."
"Yeah, well, they would be serious if they were even close to the truth." Jecht growled.
The Priest nodded, used to hearing these words more often than not. "Go ahead, please tell me the real story then, prisoner."
Jecht spent more than an hour talking. Telling the story of how he reached the shores of Bevelle, how he just asked for help, and how the whole thing ran into chaos. When he spoke of Zanarkand the Priest shook his head, closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer. Priest Jarod sighed and turned to the guard. "It is obvious, he has been affected by Sin's toxin and it has driven him mad. He must have family somewhere. He has the look of the southern islands about him. See if anyone is willing to speak for him and take over his care. Until then, he should stay here, cared for as best as we can. May Yevon heal his broken mind." The priest bowed in his crazy manor and walking away. It was then Jecht finally recognized it as the victory sign for a Blitzball game.
HEY! HEY, HEY, HEY! NO Way! Lemme out!" Jecht rattled the iron cage he was behind. His growling voice following the Priest and the guard walking away. "This is not… Get back here! You can't keep me locked up forever! HEY!"
Braska hurried his daughter while their guest laid dead to the world on his couch. "Get a few days' worth of clothing together, darling. Daddy needs to make sure our friend gets better and I do not want you to be nearby, but out of harm's way." He gestured to the little pink suitcase and then to her dresser.
Yuna rolled her eyes, "Daddy! Auron won't hurt me." She said with all the confidence of a seven year old. She crossed her arms, "Besides, you're going away soon, so… I don't wanna leave!"
He looked at his little girl. "Now, I know I told you about that already. But you must not talk back. I want you to be with Gemma for a little while. You like her house." He glanced at the door and then turned his gaze back on his daughter.
"But, Daddy, we have so little time left. You just learned the Ritual of Sending, you said so at dinner! I don't want to miss a minute. And, I can help with Mr. Auron." She bit her lower lip as her little face turned serious. "You know I can. I'm a big girl now." She held herself, sniffing. Braska's heart simultaneously shattered and melted, he reached over the bed and drew his little girl to his chest. She burrowed in and held her father tightly. Wordlessly, he held her until his heartbeat returned to normal.
"Well, then. I guess we should look on our patient then, my little nurse." He took her onto his hip and walked out to the main living room. He set her down but motioned for her to stay back behind him. She nodded and then pointed at her pink blanket, fallen to the floor near where Auron rested. The man on the couch must have thrown it off in his sleep. She sighed for him, nightmares are scary and she bet someone who fell asleep on a stranger's porch would have some really bad ones. She walked over to it, picked it up and carefully placed it around the man's chest. It was just big enough so that his chest and stomach were covered. She tucked him in so he would be safe and warm, ignoring the fact that he was already covered in regular blankets. She rested a little hand on his forehead, just like Daddy did when she had a fever.
Auron slowly opened one eye, careful to look over to the father in the room without startling the little girl whose little hand rested coolly on his forehead. Braska frowned and slowly shook his head. With a slight smile, the Monk shut his eye and laid there quietly.
"I think he is getting better, Daddy." Yuna looked over the quiet Warrior-Monk, "I know just what he needs!" She ran back to her room for a moment and brought out a little stuffed moogle, pink pom-pom bouncing joyfully as she carefully placed it near his head.
"That's very nice, little one. Go sit down and work on your reading." She nodded and settled into her father's comfortable chair. She reached for the picture books that had been stacked by Gemma there for her. Braska walked over and settled next to the pink covered, moogle comforted man. A half smile played about his lips. "I think that this is an image I should hold for blackmail." He smiled. "I know you are awake….Auron?"
The man opened both eyes and realized his view was dominated by the pink bouncing fluff ball of the moogle doll. He focused at the man sitting next to him. "Yes, perhaps I deserve this treatment." He smiled softly and looked away, "Thank you for your kindness. I don't…usually…" he sighed.
"Well, you are not going anywhere for a little while." Braska stood up and walked into the Kitchen. He poured a fairly large glass of water and started the kettle for tea. As he walked back into the living room, he looked at his daughter. She had a very serious expression on her face, watching the warrior-monk on the couch behind her picture book. He stopped at Auron and handed the man the glass of water, stifling a chuckle as the young man struggled to free an arm from the tucked in blanket. With an embarrassed grimace passing for a smile, Auron reached up with his hand and took the water.
His head was tender, hot and he felt as if he needed to shave his teeth more than his chin. What had he been thinking? Oh right, he wasn't … and he was darn good at that too. He sipped the cool water, it seemed to help. "I have water on to boil for tea a little later," Braska continued," my wife…she had a remedy tea, I'll make it for you. It is a life saver and calms the racing nerves I am sure you have." Braska settled back on his haunches, bringing his gaze level with his patient. "Now, a man only gets that drunk once, or he is an idiot. Since the Warrior-Monks are renowned for their intelligence, I am going to assume that this was your one freebie." He held up a finger as he spoke, forestalling Auron as he opened his mouth to reply. "No, I'm not done." He clasped his hands together and rested his arms on his knees. "The payment for this treatment, my friend, is that you must divulge why you took to the bottle. There must be something wrong. Am I correct?"
Auron closed his mouth and pursed his lips, forming a straight, stubborn line. He shot a glance at the reading seven year old girl in the room, and then back to the father. He noted the red robes and metal helmet near the door as his eyes swept the living room. He sipped his water, delaying for what he hoped would be a moment's reprieve. It did not come, Braska's calm face didn't even twitch, except that his right eyebrow slowly rose the longer Auron waited. "Great," the young man thought, "The one place I decide to drunkenly fall down is the home of the ONE priest of Yevon that is both a caring man AND a father. I can't win, the Fayth have it in for me."
Braska cleared his throat, "Still waiting, young man."
Auron sighed, "Ok, ok." He took another sip of his water, gathering thoughts, "Yesterday, I was… with great ceremony and grandeur… drummed out of the Order of the Warrior-Monks. I was stripped of my armor, my weapons and my honor. I was handed a small purse with a few Gil and ushered out the door. My brothers, my command, and my Maester all turned their backs on me…" He swallowed, the words sticking in his throat, ripping it. He looked down at his hands, "I … broke. I have faced fiends single-handedly that had defeated entire teams of my brothers, dragged people from death and destruction, and lead 30 Warrior-Monks in battle against all forms of enemies. All with honor, dignity and strength. But this… hopelessness… it broke my very soul." He spoke quietly, almost meditatively, it felt good to let this out, to admit his failure, even to a priest of the church that abandoned him. "I had watched a few of my brothers sneak sake and whiskey into the barracks, loosing themselves in the drink. At the time, I scoffed at them, why loose that much control? Being brought up by the Monks, living my entire life with them, I choose to follow all their rules. It did me no good, one false priest and my world was shattered. So, I wandered Bevelle for the day, and ended up at a Sake Shop. I ordered that tokkuri over there, with the most potent stuff they had. I couldn't pay for it. I didn't care. The pain, I just wanted a break, to forget, to lose control." He shot another glance at the child, who had let the book slip and was watching, listening as he spoke.
"Gemma," Braska called the housekeeper from where she was hovering in the hallway, "take Yuna to her room, please." Braska felt this was a bit too heavy for his only child to hear, and it would be easier for the young man to confess. Gemma walked in, took Yuna by the hand and tried to silently convey her worries to him with a significant glace at the strange man she had discovered on the couch this morning. At best, she hoped her kind master would understand that he didn't pay her enough if he was going to bring home drunks and reprobates into the house where his daughter lived. She led the child back into the hallway, the door once again closing audibly to the two men in the living room.
"Now, the shop?" Braska prompted.
Auron grimaced, but felt a little lighter. He was surprised that this simple act of confession, culpability, or guilt, call it what you will, was good for him. He sipped the last of his water and the tea kettle took that opportunity to begin whistling. Braska motioned for the man to continue, even as he rushed up to handle the preparation of the special "After Tea".
"So, I drank. At first I hated the taste. But, if I drank it fast, I didn't seem to taste it as much. And soon that swirling pit of pain… it just faded away. I don't remember much after the third glass. Other than I fought four Temple Guards. They with knives and I had my fists. And they got a few good hits in. I was stronger than I ever was before, but I was wild. I completely wrecked the bar. Yelling at the top of my lungs about the bastards of the Church." He watched as Braska added the steeper to a cup of hot water, setting up a second tea for himself.
Braska nodded, "Continue…"
"I was kicked out of the bar…In my defense, I did leave all 17 of my Gil behind. But I kept the jar, and I continued my wandering and drinking. Apparently, the nightlife left me to my own devices. I must have scared off most after putting four Guards into the healer's chambers. I could hear the talk, I was blind, stinking drunk not deaf. I heard what they called me, the blight of the Warrior-Monks, dark seed, wastrel, drunk, and worse. I deserved every bit of what I heard, and it just drove me deeper into the bottle. I walked away from the markets and into this place. Something called me, lead me here. I collapsed with the last of my drink on your door. As if I was meant to." He snorted, looking back at his empty hands. The bruises on his knuckles and the scrapes on his palms marking them with his shame. "Sounds stupid, right? But here I am. And I think you're the only person in the entirety of Spira that would not put my sorry butt right in the stockade." He glared at the white clay tokkuri. With a grunt he sat up. He paused, carefully folded the pink blanket and set it aside. "I'm surprised that thing isn't broken, the way I stumbled around carrying it all last night." Looks of rage and pain crossed his open face in equal measure, "I should smash that thing, or wear it around my neck to remind me of my folly." He seemed done, his hands clenched to his side. He let his breath out slowly, as if to control the wild emotions within.
Braska brought the young man his tea, allowing his own cup to steep on the floor nearby. "Well, I think they may have been someone guiding your feet last night." He held the cup to Auron and waited until the monk took it. "You seek purpose. The one thing that no-one was willing to grant to you." He looked over the young man, gesturing at the few bits of his uniform still there. "You were raised by the Warrior-monks?"
Auron nodded, sipping the hot tea and grimacing at the taste.
"And that is all you've ever known? The sword? The teachings? Fighting?" Braska motioned to stir the tea and try another sip.
Auron nodded again, stirring the tea and then tasting the honey that had sunk to the bottom.
"Ok. Some may say I am taking advantage of you, but, here it goes." The priest took up his own cup, "I am planning a pilgrimage, and, frankly I need Guardians. Men and women with experience on the road, good with weapons and willing to lay down their lives for a chance at defeating Sin." He looked over his steaming cup as he took a few sips, trying not to burn his tongue. "Would this serve as a high enough purpose for you?"
The young monk paused, letting the words sink in. He blinked, it was perfect. He had wanted to die, it was so painful to live with the stain of his failure on his conscience. He shifted his shoulders, feeling that burning rage and flailing helplessness dissolve in his chest. He nodded, and then frowned, "But, one problem. I trained in the sacred weapon of the Warrior-Monks, the katana. It is only issued to the order. None but they may wield such a weapon. I could make due with a regular sword, but it will take time to retrain my instincts. And … if I may ask… What of your daughter…and your wife? Most who have families do not leave on Pilgrimage, none have ever returned."
Braska smiled, it was as if he had watched this young bird take flight after finding his wings again. "Yuna is well informed, and understands what is about to happen. My wife", He paused. His face filled with sadness, his blue eyes turning dull, "She was killed by Sin on the open sea, trying to return to her tribal home. Gemma is my housekeeper, nanny and part time sanity." He blinked, "As to your weapon, why deny yourself your true sword? Am I not a Priest of Yevon? I'm sure that a spare katana can be," He gestured with his hands as if he was moving something from one side to the other, "re-allocated for such as cause as a Guardian-ship." He winked. "Besides, it's well known that the best Guardians to lead a pilgrimage are the Warrior-Monks of Bevelle. It was why your order was created in the first place."
Auron felt his heart start to beat again, he breathed a deep sigh of relief. A different kind of tension grew to replace the despair he had been feeling. His brown eyes sparkled at the plans and thoughts now circling in his mind. He looked upon Braska with new found respect and even admiration. This man's kindness and gentle nature just begged for you to like him. He brushed himself off, slowly stood and gestured for Braska to stand with him. Formally, he offered his right hand to Braska.
"Will you, Summoner Braska, take my strength and weapons for your protection as your Guardian?" He waited, knowing that this was the right thing to do.
Braska blinked. He had gained this man's trust quickly and completely. If he was a lesser man, he would be pleased with the power he had over this strong and determined young man. Instead, in his mind, he praised the Fayth that they had delivered the most perfect leader for his Pilgrimage. He returned to the present as he said the ritual response, "Yes, Auron, I will take you as my Guardian." He grasped the right hand with his own. They formed a warrior's handshake, grasping each other's forearms. They shared a smile that was mirrored on each face.
"Now, with that," Auron looked around and down at his somewhat less than perfect self, "If I may use your shower? And housekeeper's laundry experience?" Braska's soft chuckle was the only answer the young man needed as he too broke out in a cheerful, baritone laugh.
Jecht was bored.
Jecht was randomly covered in rancid fruit juices.
Jecht was really beginning to hate on life.
Jecht was really, REALLY bored.
He had a habit of yelling insulting things out the open door to his cell. Encouraging people to throw things at him like a baseball target clown at the fair. It was detrimental to his cleanliness, but they hosed him off every once and a while. The fruit that wasn't TOO rotten tasted ok. It was a darn sight better than the bread and jerky he was given twice a day. It had been days since he had been thrown in the clink.
He did a lot of thinking while he sat, in between jeering back at the crowd and pacing the small cell. He thought about his family, they must be going crazy with worry! He couldn't remember what he had radioed in those last few minutes. He didn't even think he got a warning off. He prayed that his own had survived the monstrous storm. That Priest Jarod came by once a day to talk with Jecht. He tried to set Jecht straight on what was really happening here. As far as the Blitzer was concerned, he got little out of the whole mess. It was strange, they stanchly refused to believe that he was from a real, functioning city called Zanarkand. They believed that the storm was caused by a monster called "Sin". Jecht chuckled at that name. Like sin can be personified as a monster directly attacking you and yours. They bought that he knew Blitzball, even quizzed him on the rules. There was some drift, but the game was still in its basic form the same. They even told him about a stadium that was out there in one of the other cities. But man, Zanarkand was a ruin. A sacred ruin where only the most privileged of people ever go. Up north. Beyond a great mountain.
Jecht rubbed the back of his head, snapping his neck to release some of the pent up tension in his shoulders. He shook his head. And they called him Crazy. All he cared about was getting out and on the way back up there. He looked up as his guard walked up with the hose. Oh goody, Bathtime!
The next day, Braska woke Auron up from his couch. He had loaned the tall man a pair of pajama bottoms and had thrown his dirty and stinking clothing into the Laundry. He was pleased that he had been privileged to have one of the few Al-Bhed washing machina. A luxury that was a gift from his wife. He had hung the clothes to dry on the line outside. When Auron was up and ready to face the day, he had Gemma bring them back in the house, folded and smelling of the fresh night air. The young man was pleased, he didn't have to wash his own mistakes out of his clothes. It was even better when he put on the red coat, his signature piece, all the stains had been cleaned out. Somehow, the housekeeper had even gotten the blood stains out. Auron had to scrub for hours sometimes to bring that coat back up to its red glory.
He took his clean clothes, a borrowed straight razor and an hour to get shaved and showered. He had lost his belt somewhere during the night, and now the red coat just hung on him, it was bothersome. With a sigh he held the thing shut and walked out to find his new charge.
"Excuse me, Mr. Auron. I can't get to my stool and Daddy's busy in the living room. Can you help?" Asked the young lady of the house. Auron took a moment to really look at the girl, she was a beauty, an interesting mix of both parents. Her eyes were the most striking, the right being green and the left being blue. Her smile was all her fathers and her hair was an interesting light brown. With a soft smile on his face he reached up on the shelves in the bathroom where Gemma had placed the little pink and yellow stool out of the way of the new guest. He set it down with care and then backed off. Waving the little princess to her own bathroom. She giggled at his antics, and smiled back at his grin. She liked this new friend of her Father's. She felt he was right to be there. She was so glad she didn't get him ran off or in trouble when she found him on her doorstep.
Auron walked back to the living room, taking a moment to clean up his makeshift bed and folding all the sheets and blankets. He placed them at the end of the couch, the pillows on top. Very precise, crisply folded with creases. When Auron turned around, Gemma had breakfast ready for the four of them. Simple cereals, toast and eggs were served. She had set the usual table, but now, the empty plate was filled, and she whispered a soft apology to the usual missing diner as she put the food out. Braska motioned to Auron, gesturing at the place across from him at the table. The young man was grateful that the little family included him and he ate whatever was placed before him.
"Today, we go get you a sword, some kind of …rigging? ... for it and a belt. Maybe outfit you with some extra shirts and pants, and some extra straps for a small pack." Braska finished over the last of the meal.
Auron blushed, "I don't need what I can't pay for." He said with no little pride.
Braska sighed, "Well, you can't just carry your jug and your katana around in your hands. And where are you going to store all your supplies? Wrapped up in one sleeve of your coat?" He shook his head, "Don't worry about money. You're a Guardian now, what we can't pay for the church will provide. And we will collect quite a bit along the way, so you can pay them back. If you feel you must."
Auron's blush died down and he nodded. He was used to the church providing for all his needs, it was no stretch to assume that even though they had turned their back on the Warrior-Monk Auron, they would not do the same to the Guardian Auron. He took up the dishes as Yuna ran to her bedroom and gathered up her day pack.
Braska was to drop her off at the Orphanage in the Temple, so that she could begin to get used to the people and children there. He hated this part of the entire affair, it nearly tore his heart in two to leave behind his precious little girl. But she would be safe in the arms of the Church, protected here in the holy city from even Sin.
As they walked together from the house to the market district, Auron kept a vigilant eye for any trouble. It was daytime, but he was getting into the spirit of the job. Braska now had a protector, loyal and steadfast. Might as well get used to the detail. If Braska found no others, Auron knew enough about the role as Guardian that he would be hard pressed to protect the man. As they walked he carried his jug in his right hand, it seemed ridiculous to keep the thing, a constant reminder of how he had lost his control. But, it may turn out to be useful, Alcohol was medicinal, helped with cleaning wounds and equipment, and it would help with pain. And, if worse comes to worse, it could be used to store extra water on the long journey. He held his jacket closed with his left hand, until they reached a clothier and he could purchase a new belt.
Braska lead the group to the shop he preferred. It was an Ah-Bhed shop closeted in the middle of the market, hidden in plain site from the Yevonite Church. Within Auron talked with the proprietor, the little tanned man had everything he could need; from a gray and light blue silk belt with strong steel clasps to small brown leather straps for a matching brown small pack to ride on his left hip. Auron then questioned the Al-Bhed proprietor about sheaths and belts for swords. The man, named Tak, had in the back of his store a special harness. One designed to carry a long rifle across the back for ease of movement and a fairly quick draw. The Warrior-Monk was surprised. Before, when Auron had to carry his katana, he just let it ride on his shoulder. The posture forcing his right hand and arm into maintaining the weapon. Frequently, at rest, he would bury the tip in the ground, resting on the pommel. Gil changed hands, Braska footing the bill after Auron's shopping spree. The young man was amazed at the rigging that now rode on his back, and couldn't wait to try to fit the great sword there.
Yuna nodded at the look, she advised him on some improvements. A braid here and a string of beads there. She had made a string of blue and green beads earlier and she gifted it to him on the walk. She told him it was for his belt and connected to the tokkuri. It rattled slightly as he walked and ruined any chance at stealth. Auron couldn't disappoint the girl and refuse them. Besides, Braska had pointed out; where they were going, they wouldn't need stealth. The last thing was a simple brown leather strap, he gathered his long raven black hair into a functional ponytail. When he finished only a few strands on either side of his forehead escaped to frame his open face. Yuna proclaimed his look complete since he refused to have his bangs beaded by the little girl. The man had some pride, even on the receiving end of a bi-colored, big eyed, pouty face.
As they walked up to the Temple, they passed the "street of shame". A small alleyway that was lined on one side by the open barred cells of the Temple's drunk tank. Bevelle, even being a Holy City, was a town full of bars and saloons, sake shops and plenty of miserable people. They had taken to placing those found drunk in public in these cells. Enterprising merchants sold fruits and vegetables to passersby to throw at the loud and usually boisterous drunks.
The rumor mill was churning out rumors left and right as Auron and Braska dropped off Yuna at the nearby Orphanage. There was talk of a crazy man claiming to be from the ruined city of Zanarkand in the cells and news of Auron's adventure at the bar was bandied about as well. The crazy man rumor peeked Braska's interest and an old friend of Auron's went to find the young man.
Braska took his newly minted Guardian up to the temple, where he made an appointment with the Maester in charge of the Warrior-Monks and the Temple guard. Auron waited off the side, in an often unused passageway, tensely waiting for things to be ironed out over his favored weapon. He was noticed by a monk acolyte, dressed in bright orange, who turned and bolted back toward the Warrior-Monk Compound. Braska smiled at his young Guardian. He knew it must be hard, after all that Auron had gone through, to return to the place he had once felt at home. When he had to disappear into the office of the Maester of Defense, he shot the man a thumbs up like a Blitzer signaling to his team he was OK after a brutal tackle.
Auron smiled and leaned against the wall. That was until a familiar face parted the crowds of acolytes and junior preists as he walked straight up to the ex-warrior-monk. With a causal stride, Auron's old comrade, Wen Kinoc stopped to address the young man.
"Auron! By the Fayth, what has brought you back?" the man was smiling, his plain brown hair ruffled by the commander's helmet as he popped it off and stuffed it under his own arm. Brown eyes, sunken in a face that was beginning to show some stress looked over the relaxing Auron. "You're not thinking of recanting? Of returning to the Order?"
"No, no." Auron shook his head, "I've accepted a position with a new Summoner. Lord Braska has taken up the challenge to defeat sin, and I will lead his Guardians." He smiled, "It is what I was meant to do, Wen. It all worked out. Well, except for my sword." He shrugged, "I would like to carry a Katana onto the pilgrimage, if you have any way to add a word…?"
"Of Course, my brother! Why ever not?" He shook his head, "It would be an honor for our Order if you were to carry a katana on pilgrimage! Why the Weapons Master stripped you of it, I'll not ever know. I will put in a word, right straight away!"
"Thanks for everything, Kinoc."
"I know I don't need to tell you this, but, guard Lord Braska well." The older man replied.
"That I will." Auron grinned, "And you'll be busy too. I heard they made you Second in Command!"
Wen sighed, dropping his head, "You know that promotion… was meant for you." He shook his head. "You were always the better one, even until the end…"
As Kinoc straightened up, Auron teased, "You make it sound as if I'm going off to die or something." He regained his serious nature, "I WILL see you again."
"Yes." Came the terse reply, Wen nodding to his friend.
"Well then…" Auron trailed off, not quite sure what else Wen needed or wanted to say.
"Going already?"
The young man nodded, grunting a wordless ascent.
Wen gained a wistful look, "You will tell me about Zanarkand when you return, won't you?"
Once again, a wordless "uh-huh" was Auron's reply, he noticed Braska waiting, a grin on his face, near the office of the Maester of Defense. Wen nodded once more, a goodbye as much as an acceptance of what he had learned.
"Farewell." Auron awkwardly mumbled, turning to his new duty he hurried off. He never saw Kinoc reach to the wall behind him and grab the sphere recording the entire conversation. As the young man met up with his new master, Wen Kinoc turned and walked the other direction. He knew a certain Priest that would love to hear what had happened to the boy he had tried so hard to destroy from the inside. There had to be something he could get out of this.
Jecht lounged in his cell, the festivities for the day over. It was approaching evening and most of the people walking out in the city had left for the night. The Guards had just rotated out the day crew for the midnight bunch. He leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. It had been four full days since his last beer. Sheesh! Listen to him, soon he'd be sitting in a church rec room, circle of chairs filled with other lowlifes, "Hi, my name is Jecht, it's been …." Hey! Wait, if it's anonymous, why say your name? Jecht chuckled at himself. At least his grumpiness hadn't completely killed his humor. Not yet anyway. He looked up curiously when he heard footsteps approaching his beloved cell. Oh goody! More people to stare at the crazy man. He didn't even bother to get up. The guards all quickly changed from barely standing at attention to snapping off those weird bows as another priest, this one in a red colored leaf dress. Curiosity brought out the worst in him.
"Who are you?" he growled from the depths of his cage.
With a raised eyebrow, Braska asked, "You are the one named Jecht, the man from Zanarkand. Are you not?" He crossed his arms, watching the man as he spoke.
"What of it?" Jecht was getting bored again. More priests here to help the poor little crazy man. As he settled in for more verbal fun, a little pissant guy in a red coat and a jug on his hip burst out at him.
"Watch your tongue, Knave!" Wow, Jecht thought languidly, Knave? When did this become a bodice ripper? I'll give points to the flower priest, he thought as Braska shot a glare out the side of his face at the posturing young man. How old was this guy anyway? 20? 25? Jeez, make a man feel old why don't ya.
The young man shrugged, the look he had on his face was frozen between embarrassment, confusion and disgust. He just settled in to watch as the Priest turned back to continue his interrupted conversation with Jecht.
"Ah! My apologies! I am Braska, a Summoner." Braska plastered his most winning smile on his face, hoping that Auron would keep his mouth shut. He was beginning to realize that Jecht may be a bit too rough around the edges for his new Guardian. "I've come to take you from this place." Jecht slowly rose from his comfortable position on the wooden shelf.
Standing now, in the center of his cell, arms crossed his tattooed chest, Jecht noted, "Sounds Sweet. What's the catch?"
Braska chuckled self depreciably, "That easy to see, was it?" he paused and looked Jecht in the eyes, "I soon leave on a pilgrimage to Zanarkand."
Jecht's tough guy demeanor cracked like an egg, "Seriously!?" He dropped his arms, and leaned in close to the bars.
"I would like you to join us." The young man behind Priest Braksa frowned at this, but he held his peace, for the moment. "It will be a dangerous trip. Yet, if we do reach Zanarkand, my prayers will be answered. And YOU will be able to get home." He paused, a rueful look in his blue eyes. "We think." His face looked hopeful, "What say you?"
"Great! Let's GO!" Jecht pumped his fist, excitement roughening his voice even more.
Braska let loose a thoughtful sound, "Mmm." He quirked that same eyebrow again, "So quick?"
"Anything to get outta here." Jecht swept the air in front of him with a slashing gesture.
"Then it's settled!" Braska said, beaming a smile at his soon to be new Guardian.
Auron couldn't hold in his opinion any longer, "But I must protest!" He grimaced at the riffraff in the cell, "This… Drunkard… a Guardian?"
"HEY!" Jecht had had just about enough of this crap. Getting taunted each day didn't really give him any patience with the judgmental tone of the young red-coated man. "You wanna step inside here an' say that?" he growled, gesturing to the brash Monk. Auron responded silently, staring down the wild haired athlete trapped in a cage of his own device.
"What does it matter?" Asked Braska, turning from the cage to fully engage his friend, "No one believes that I, a fallen Summoner, wed to an Al-Bhed could possibly defeat Sin." He nodded at Auron, using his charisma, the summoner pulled the young man's death glare off the defenseless prisoner still trapped in his cell. "This is what they say." Auron's glare faded as he turned his attention to Braska. His frown however, didn't change. "No one expects us to succeed."
Auron raised his arms in a gesture of confusion, "But, Lord Braska, sir…" He let his hands drop back to his sides in defeat. Somehow he knew, just knew that this braggart was coming with them. And it would be HIS responsibility to mold a Guardian out of that hot mess.
Braska chuckled, "Let's show them they're WRONG." He turned back to the man waiting, surprisingly quiet during this whole thing, "A fallen Summoner, a man from Zanarkand," He flipped his head back to stare directly at Auron, "and, a Warrior-Monk doomed to obscurity for refusing the hand of the Priest's daughter." A crooked grin broke out on Braska's face, his words turned joyful as he finished, "What a delightful irony it would be if WE defeated Sin."
Jecht had once again reached the end of his patience. Blah blah blah Sin, blah blah Irony, blah blah protest. Whatever. "Stop Gabbin' an' get me outta here!"
Braska sent Auron to the guards to get the cell opened up as he moved out of the way. He observed the two men, quietly and not so quietly sparing for dominance. Both men were leaders, top of their form and arrogant. Though Auron had just been dealt a large blow, it seemed that since being given the status of Guardian, his confidence had returned in spades. Jecht led a team of practiced athletes to victory in the rough and dangerous sport of Blitzball. The best in the league, and he was the best of the best. No doubt, this journey would be … interesting.
In short order, the Guards, frankly happy to not put up with this loud mouth crazy man any more, opened up the door and Jecht prowled out. He stood for a bit, facing the small cell that he had called home for the last four days. He stretched the kinks out and rubbed the back of his neck, cracking the vertebrae like a percussion instrument. "Ah... Free at last!"
"Now Jecht…" Braska paused, trying to find the best words to sum up what he needed the huge man to do, "I am in your hands until we reach Zanarkand."
Jecht turned slowly around and looked the man in the flower dress up and down, "Right, right." In a voice that clearly said, I am totally not paying you any attention. He scratched his head and asked, rubbing his chin, "So, what is a Summer-ner anyway?" He watched as Braska turned to Auron and made a gesture of peace, waving his hands slowly down to the floor. The warrior-monk, for his part just grunted. He glared at the rude being he was now saddled with, his frown flattening to a thin line of pressed lips.
That is the long first installment. Please, read and review! I welcome all critique! And thank you for checking my work out.
