Author's Note: I really hope people are enjoying this and just choosing not to say anything. o xo I'm still pretty anxious about the whole thing.


Adelphotes

By LeFox

Chapter Four: High Summoner

His mother was shaking him, urgently dragging him up out of sleep. In the blurry half-light, he couldn't even make out her face – not hers, nor his father's, already kneeling by the hatch which led down to the cellar. The cellar wasn't for storing food or supplies, no, it was for this exact moment. They'd already fled from Sin once. They'd already lost his little sister, the baby his parents hadn't wanted to name just in case… just in case…

Just in case Sin came again. Just in case Sin killed her. There had been other children, killed by Sin before Maroda was old enough to remember; his parents had decided that naming their children early would only make it hurt worse. Maroda never thought to ask if it worked – if not naming her had spared them some pain.

He tried to ask now, but no one heard.

"Into the cellar, hurry," his faceless father ordered, opening the hatch and pointing down the ladder, but when Maroda looked, there was no bottom at the end of the ladder – only darkness, stretching deep into the earth. "Go on, we'll be right behind you."

No, no, something bad's going to happen down there, I know it. He tried to back away, but he was pressed against his mother, who urged him toward the hatch and that endless, yawning darkness. "No, you go first," he heard himself saying. "You go first, not me. I'm not going down there."

"We'll be right behind you." His mother said, but the roof was already tearing away over her head, and he could see the sky. The sky, and looming above their house, filling the horizon, was Sin – watching, waiting.

"No, we have to go –" He pulled her hand, but she was sinking into the earth, her featureless face dissolving into ashes and dust before his eyes. It seemed she was smiling, even as she faded. Horrified, he tried to pull his hand away, but she held on – and he was sinking too, the dust collected around his knees already; the ground was sucking him in.

His father was there, too, holding his other hand. "You go first," his father was saying. "We'll be right behind you, right behind you…"

Maroda struggled, trying to pull away, trying to break free of the melting earth, but he was only sinking faster. "Right behind you," his parents said, but they were no longer sinking; Sin was drawing them up, pulling them into the sky. "We'll be right behind you," they said, as Sin's power ripped them apart, and Maroda felt the ground swallow him up and he was falling, falling –

"Maroda." Another hand was gently shaking him now, drawing him back out of that terrible darkness. "Maroda, you're dreaming. Maroda?" Dreaming. Dreaming… "It's only a dream. Wake up."

He opened his eyes into near-black darkness, and for a moment he forgot where he was – he was back in the cellar with the black sky overhead, his parents' screams still ringing in his ears and his ankle hurting too much to move – but then Isaaru lit a candle, and he remembered: Bevelle, he was in Bevelle, safe in the heart of Yevon. Isaaru knelt beside the big bed they shared in the acolyte Zuke's guest room, watching him with calm, quiet concern. Maroda sat up, feeling his heartbeat slow as the nightmare receded, leaving in its wake a rising shame.

Nightmares, they were just nightmares, they shouldn't bother him like this. His parents were dead, and no amount of dreaming about them was ever going to bring them back; no amount of reliving that night was going to change any part of it. His parents were dead, the village was gone, but he was still alive.

"Maroda?"

He looked away, glaring at the other side of the room, unwilling to meet Isaaru's eyes; Isaaru wasn't having nightmares about things no one could change. "I'm fine." He'd woken Isaaru up with his nightmares, he supposed – the healer said he'd yelled in his sleep last night, too, but he'd thought that might just have been the fever. Then again, he'd thought the nightmares themselves were just from the fever. Fever dreams, Varra called them, just the brain trying to make sense of the illness the body was trying to fight off. She said they were normal, and they'd pass. Maroda thought she meant they'd pass once the fever was gone, but he didn't feel sick, just… just…

Afraid. Ashamed.

"As long as you're alright," Isaaru said, quietly rising and extinguishing the candle. The room was brighter than Maroda had realized; already a pale grey light was shining in through the window. Morning already, he thought, but he didn't feel rested. Isaaru made his way back to the other side of the bed and climbed back in, settling himself back under the blankets.

Maroda pulled his knees to his chest, staring into the fading darkness straight ahead. "Sorry if I woke you up."

"Pacce was crying." Isaaru's voice was muffled by his pillow. "I didn't want him to wake you or Zuke."

He couldn't tell if Isaaru was lying or not, so he decided to accept the answer at face value. "Maybe Pacce was having nightmares, too."

"Everyone has nightmares when Sin attacks." Isaaru rolled over and sat up, watching him in the half-light. "Grown men, children, priests, even Crusaders."

"You?"

The question hung in the air for a long time – long enough for the grey light to turn into red-gold, long enough that Maroda began to wonder if Isaaru had decided to ignore it… but there was a strange, pensive expression on the older boy's face, as if his thoughts had crept far away and were slow in coming back.

Finally, in a voice so quiet Maroda had to lean closer to hear, Isaaru replied: "Summoners aren't allowed to have nightmares."

. . .

Summoners aren't allowed to have nightmares. Now, hours later, in the cheerful morning light, Isaaru wondered why he'd been too ashamed to tell the truth – it was true, summoners weren't supposed to admit to fears and uncertainties, nightmares included, but he certainly wasn't a summoner yet. He sighed, walking alone in Bevelle's quiet streets; he now knew Zuke lived in Bevelle's north residential district, known for its tranquility, and this particular street – it ran along the waterway, and the air was filled with the sound of gently-running water – was said to be especially calming. Good for easing the mind. Good for soothing fears and stifling anxieties.

Perhaps that was true for others, but Isaaru didn't find himself calmed.

Would it have been kinder to admit to his own nightmares? Maroda had seemed ashamed of his own horrific dreams, however natural they were, and to know he wasn't alone… might that have eased some of the shame? They were meant to be brothers; surely that required a level of candid honesty. Still, the idea of placing his own unease at the feet of a child suffering from his own fears galled him. And even if he wasn't a summoner yet, he would be someday… someday soon, whatever Zuke may wish; so long as Sin remained a threat, he couldn't delay, not even for the sake of his brothers. It was for their sake as much as anyone else's that he must become a summoner, and quickly.

Become a summoner. Defeat Sin. End the nightmares, at least for a time. Isaaru looked up at the sky, drawing in a deep breath. The water in the canals sounded peacefully pleasant now, but if he closed his eyes, he could still hear the waves…

Yes, Maroda. Would saying it have helped at all? Even me. In my dreams, I'm still drowning

A sound like thunder brought him back to the present, but the sky above was still blue and cloudless. Confused, he looked around. The other people on the street looked similarly nonplussed; a few were chattering anxiously among themselves when another low rumble filled the air… and this time, the ground shuddered. Sin? Isaaru wondered, stumbling. But Sin almost never attacked Bevelle itself! And how could it have gotten so close without anyone noticing?

He turned, running back toward Zuke's house. If it was Sin, he wasn't about to leave Maroda and Pacce to face it alone, not again. He might not be a summoner yet, but even if he couldn't protect all of Spira – even if he couldn't destroy Sin – he still had a duty to protect them, at least.

"Isaaru!" Not even halfway to the house, though, Zuke hurried to meet him, Pacce and Maroda in tow. There was a wild excitement in the acolyte's normally-calm eyes; as he passed Pacce into Isaaru's arms, Zuke was grinning. He's gone mad, Isaaru thought; judging by the boy's expression, Maroda suspected the same thing. Zuke began walking swiftly away. "We have to hurry!"

"Hurry where?" Another rumble shook the ground. He'll get us killed. Still, Isaaru hurried after the acolyte, Maroda on his heels.

Zuke laughed. "The palace of St. Bevelle, of course! Don't you want the best view?"

View…? Isaaru glanced questioningly at Maroda, but the boy shrugged. "He just started laughing when the first tremor came," Maroda said, staring at Zuke with wide eyes. "He said we had to go. That something was finally happening."

"Zuke!" If you've lost your mind, leave us out of it! "Speak plainly, what's going on?"

"Can't you tell?" The earth shuddered again, accompanied by a low roaring sound, loud enough it seemed to split the sky. "That's the sound of the Calm fast approaching."

Isaaru nearly froze in his tracks; it was all he could do to keep moving. The Calm. The Calm! Was it possible? It was almost too painful to hope. A feverish excitement came over him, and he grabbed Maroda's hand and sprinted after Zuke. The Calm! The end of the nightmares, at least for a little while.

Bevelle's palace stretched up into the heavens; it was the tallest man-made structure still standing after Sin had razed the machina cities one thousand years ago. A crowd clustered at the entrance, but few were allowed in; the warrior monks were struggling to control the excited citizens – word had gotten out that a fierce battle was raging in the Calm Lands, and the only place affording any view of the fight was the palace's highest tower. As a temple acolyte, Zuke was allowed in.

As his wards, so were Isaaru and Maroda.

"Being in the priesthood does have its benefits," Zuke said as they stood in the elevator, rising slowly – oh, so slowly – to the top of the palace. "We'd have been waiting for hours to hear how the battle ends."

Isaaru was too excited to worry about the presence of machina in the building that also served as Bevelle's temple; the elevator would get them to the top far more quickly than stairs would, at any rate. "Zuke, who is it? Who called the Final Aeon?"

"Who do you suppose?" Zuke smiled, his eyes bright. "The fallen summoner himself, Lord Braska."

So the fayth in Zanarkand had judged him worthy of the Final Aeon – transgressions and all. Isaaru laughed out loud. "High Summoner Braska! Will they build statues for him, I wonder?"

"Of course they will." Maroda spoke up, squeezing his hand. "He's bringing the Calm. Everyone who brings the Calm gets a statue." But how could a child understand the depth of Lord Braska's heresy? To marry an Al Bhed woman, someone whose entire way of life stood in opposition to the teachings of Yevon… worse, though, Braska had sired a child with the woman. It was said the child still lived here in Bevelle, though Isaaru wondered what kind of life a half-Al Bhed child could hope to live in a holy city. But if the fayth could overlook Braska's sins, surely Yevon could as well.

The man was willing to give his life for Spira. Surely that warranted a temple statue.

The roof of the tower was crowded, though most of the gathered audience appeared to be made up of priests and acolytes. There were few children; mostly children being raised to serve Yevon, but a small brunette girl had a place of honor at the very top – the highest point – where she and the Maesters stood in an island of privacy. No such luck for Zuke and his small entourage. They pushed through the sea of heavy robes, pushing their way to the front. It still wasn't much of a view – the Calm Lands were a distance away, obscured by the shifting air above the Macalania Woods. People shouted about being unable to see Sin or the Final Aeon; from here, there was only the occasional flash of magic, or the sound of roaring: Sin or the aeon itself, no one could say.

"I can't see anything," Maroda complained, squinting into the distance. "How are we supposed to know when Sin's gone?"

"We'll know." Isaaru stood beside him, his heart hammering. Lord Braska can defeat Sin. He will.

Another roar, another loud rumble, and the world went suddenly silent. Isaaru realized he was holding his breath – and that he wasn't the only one doing so. The entire rooftop had gone silent, all eyes fixed on the Calm Lands, waiting, waiting…

From the distant Calm Lands, a light arose: a sphere of shimmering, shifting colors. It hovered in the air for only a moment, before bursting into an immense cloud of tiny, glowing lights. Pyreflies. Isaaru exhaled slowly, watching the pyreflies swirl and scatter. Some would find the Farplane, many would become fiends, but in the end, what it meant… what it meant

At the peak of the rooftop, ancient Maester Mika slowly raised his hands into the air, calling for silence – not that it was necessary. "Sin," the Maester declared, "has been vanquished by High Summoner Braska. The Calm has come to Spira once more."

The silence was immediately shattered. Cheers filled the air, loud enough they seemed to shake the entire city. Far below, the city itself heard the cheering and began its own celebration; from this high, Isaaru could see people filling the streets, laughing and throwing their arms around one another, scattering flowers and singing the Hymn of the Fayth in elation. He was cheering, himself, and smiling so hard his face hurt; Maroda was laughing, grinning – Isaaru didn't think he'd seen the boy so genuinely happy in the brief time they'd known each other. Only Pacce was crying; all the noise had upset him. Oh, Pacce, don't you realize this means you might grow up in peace? Isaaru was laughing too hard to soothe the baby.

So much joy. Isaaru looked around, breathing it all in: the happiness, the relief.

"This is what it's for," he said aloud, to no one in particular.

Maroda heard, though. "What?"

"Being a summoner." Isaaru smiled, gesturing to the celebration surrounding them. "This moment. This is what it's about. This is the joy a summoner can bring to Spira."

It made Maroda grin again. "Are you still gonna be a summoner? Since Lord Braska defeated Sin?"

"Of course!" He laughed. "If Sin comes back, Bevelle can have another celebration, just like this."

The priests had lifted the little brown-haired girl onto their shoulders, passing her along and cheering: Braska! Braska! Braska! She was giggling, cheering right along with them. Isaaru leaned closer to Zuke, pointing at the girl. "Who is that?"

"Yuna," Zuke supplied, watching the girl as sadness crept into his gaze. "Lord- no, High Summoner Braska's daughter. Poor thing."

The child. Isaaru blinked, looking back at the girl. She didn't look like a half-Al Bhed abomination, though truth be told, he wasn't certain what he'd been expecting. The child looked like any other girl her age… and the priesthood certainly didn't seem to be scorning her for her dubious heritage. She seemed perfectly normal, though yes, now that she was closer, he could see she did appear to have mismatched eyes, which –

"Why 'poor thing?'" Maroda frowned up at Zuke, glancing between the acolyte and Yuna. "She's the high summoner's daughter. Isn't that a good thing?"

"Certainly," Isaaru replied. "But it's going to be difficult for her – her mother died when she was very young, and now she's lost her father."

Maroda's brows knotted in confusion. "Lost him? But he just defeated Sin, didn't he? Why wouldn't he come back? Is there more to the pilgrimage?"

The celebration went on around them, but Isaaru's heart had gone cold, and all he heard was the question, echoing: Why wouldn't he come back? He stared at Maroda in rising anguish.

He doesn't know.

Yevon help me, he doesn't know.

The walk home was nearly surreal: all around them people were laughing, singing, greeting the new Calm, but they walked in somber silence. Though he didn't know the reason, Maroda was perceptive enough to recognize that something was wrong; he stared at the ground as they walked, glancing up occasionally to frown at Isaaru or Zuke. I thought he knew, Isaaru thought, feeling unfairly guilty; the boy was twelve, how could he not know what fate awaited at the end of a summoner's pilgrimage? Hadn't his parents told him? Isaaru had known the Final Summoning was fatal since… since… since forever, it seemed. It was a fact of life. A fact of life that, evidently, no one had ever seen fit to share with Maroda.

Zuke closed the door behind them, shutting out the happiness of the world outside, and leaving them alone in tense silence. The acolyte looked to Isaaru – this was his to explain to Maroda: his new little brother, soon to be abandoned. Isaaru's mouth had gone dry. Tell him. Just tell him. Why did he feel so guilty? After all, being a summoner was a noble calling, and he'd been telling Maroda from the beginning that he intended to become a summoner – it wasn't his fault Maroda didn't know about the cost of the Final Summoning. It wasn't. It wasn't.

"Calling the Final Aeon…" Maroda spoke first, staring at the floor. He was a clever child, that much Isaaru knew, and he'd already pieced it all together. "It kills the summoner, doesn't it? That's why the High Summoner won't be coming back to his daughter."

Isaaru nodded. "The life of the summoner gives the Final Aeon more power. Together they become strong enough to defeat Sin. It's been that way for a thousand years – since Lady Yunalesca defeated the first Sin and brought peace and Yevon's teachings to Spira."

"But that's not fair." The boy scowled, his hands balling into fists. "That's not fair. Isn't there another way?"

"In one thousand years, no one has found a different way." Zuke spoke gently, resting a calming hand on Maroda's shoulder, but the boy jerked away.

"But there has to be!"

Zuke sighed, shaking his head. "The Crusaders have tried fighting Sin directly for nearly eight hundred years, Maroda, with no luck. Only the Final Aeon can defeat Sin."

"But… isn't there a way to call the Final Aeon without –"

"None we know of." Isaaru tucked Pacce into his cradle, deliberately avoiding the indignant fury in Maroda's eyes. He supposed all children had to know the truth of the Final Summoning sooner or later; it was only a shame it had taken this long for anyone to tell this child. "The High Summoner's sacrifice is necessary for Sin's destruction."

There was a heartbeat of silence before the hardest blow finally connected.

"You want to be a summoner."

There it is. Isaaru took a deep breath, bracing himself before he turned back around. The fury in Maroda's dark eyes had been replaced by angry tears, shining, but not yet falling. "I do."

"You can't."

"I made my decision when I was younger than you are now." He shook his head. "I know the price."

Maroda looked desperately from him to Zuke, seeking reassurance that couldn't exist. "But… but you'll die. You can't die. What about…" He chewed on his lip a moment, then: "What about Pacce? Pacce's only a baby. If you die, who's gonna take care of him?"

What will happen to you, you mean. "The temples take care of children left behind by High Summoners." It was the least they could do, after all. "They grow up knowing their parent – or sibling, I suppose – brought peace to Spira, and of course they can always see the statue –"

"Your life is worth more than a stupid statue!" Maroda yelled, startling Pacce into crying, and now his own tears were falling, as well. He rubbed angrily at his eyes, hiccupping and sobbing.

Isaaru went to him then, pulling the boy into his arms as he had in the woods only a few days ago. Maroda tried to jerk away, but he held on. "It won't happen for a long time yet," Isaaru murmured quietly, resting his cheek against the top of Maroda's head, taking deep, slow breaths. The boy finally returned the embrace, but it felt more as though Maroda were clinging to him for dear life. "Settle down. The Calm is here. It might last a long time – it might even last forever. I don't need to be a summoner just yet." I'll delay my training. I can, now. And I must. "You're going to be stuck with me for a little while longer."

A short time later, the two of them sat together on the floor, staring up at the map of Spira pinned to Zuke's wall. The acolyte himself had slipped out of the room some time ago, likely to spare Maroda the embarrassment of two people seeing him break down.

"Hey, Isaaru?" Maroda leaned against his brother's shoulder, exhausted from crying. "Can you tell me more about a summoner's pilgrimage?"

If the boy's complaints on the road to Bevelle were any indication, Maroda already knew a fair amount about the pilgrimage, but Isaaru was willing to discuss anything at all if it eased some of Maroda's concerns. "Of course." So he did: about the temples a summoner was expected to visit, about the fayth. About the Cloister of Trials that the summoner must brave in order to reach the fayth. About Spira's cities. About the history of the pilgrimages, beginning with High Summoner Gandof's journey to gain the strength of all of Spira's fayth to fight Sin. About the dangers a summoner could face on the road, and about the role of the guardians.

Maroda looked up at that, curious. "But summoners can call the aeons. Why would they need guardians? Aren't they strong enough to fight fiends on their own?"

"Perhaps because it's a hard journey to undertake alone." Isaaru smiled. "A difficult journey, and a long one. I can't imagine wanting to be alone for so long. And of course there may be some challenges that lie beyond what a summoner is capable of handling by themselves."

The slightest ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of Maroda's lips. "Like the stairs to Kilika Temple?"

"Precisely." Isaaru grinned, ruffling the boy's hair. They laughed, and for the moment, the cost of the Final Summoning seemed to be forgotten.

. . .

The next day, Maroda set out early, walking through Bevelle's empty streets. Crushed flower petals and stained banners were everywhere; the celebration had lasted well into the night, heedless of the darkness. He left the residential district and headed south, toward the temple – he didn't need to reach the temple itself, necessarily, but he did need to reach a more heavily-guarded area than this one.

He hadn't slept at all the night before, and not from nightmares.

The Final Summoning killed the summoner. But Isaaru wanted to be a summoner. In one thousand years, no one had found a way to call the Final Aeon without the summoner dying. Isaaru knew that, and still wanted to be a summoner. To save Spira. To bring joy to Spira. To defeat Sin, to bring the Calm…

Was it worth it?

That was the question that had kept him up all night, staring at the ceiling and wondering. If one life could pay for a short time of peace for Spira – if one life could get rid of Sin, maybe forever… wasn't it worth it? Wasn't it worth the price, like Isaaru said it was? The Calm in exchange for Isaaru. And that was what Isaaru wanted. To bring the Calm, to save Spira… and to die in the process.

They were supposed to be brothers. How could he let Isaaru go off and die? And if it was what Isaaru wanted, how could he not let Isaaru go off and die?

It was all tangled up in knots, and Maroda kept going back over it in his mind: what was best for Spira, whether it was worth it. Around and around and around, until finally, a solution presented itself. Not a perfect solution, no, but it was the only thing he could think of.

"Ah, it's the boy from the woods, isn't it?" A warrior monk stepped into his path, interrupting his thoughts. It took a moment, but Maroda recognized him as one of the two monks who'd helped them reach Bevelle. "A bit early to be out walking by yourself, eh, lad? Glad to see the ankle's all mended."

This was exactly what he'd been looking for. "My ankle's better." Might as well get right to the point. "Can you teach me to fight?"

The monk stared a moment, then laughed. "Why? Are you of a mind to join the warrior monks?"

"No." Maroda shook his head, pointedly serious. "I'm gonna be a guardian."