IV
Farewell
Braska's guardian felt a swirl of emotions as he spoke possibly for the last time with his old friend, Wen Kinoc. There were the obvious emotions: sadness, doubt, and nostalgia… but darker sentiments simmered beneath the surface: betrayal, bitterness, even envy… though the man called Auron would be ashamed to admit it.
He blinked meticulously, as to capture one last mental still of his old partner in combat. Even now, he was dressed in his Warrior Monk garments, long after normal hours. He should have been home, tending to a wife, a baby daughter perhaps, even a dog. But no, the ever-hungry, ever-ambitious Kinoc was still in the barracks, finishing off whatever paperwork remained of an evening. He was no family man; he was a warrior and a protector, tied to the job and to Yevon. Auron was the same, though his loyalties to Yevon were somewhat unsound these days.
Looking at Kinoc was like looking at a past reflection. Apart from the auburn beard, he was a spitting image of Auron from less than a year ago: the same strong build, the same overpowering and even arrogant stance, the same steadfast and indoctrinated devotion to the system. Here, Braska's guardian realised that even now they weren't that dissimilar; they were both still guardians, fiercely protective of what they believed in. The only difference was that Auron had been cast out, and Kinoc had been lifted up onto the shoulders of his follow men.
Auron wanted to look into his friend's eyes for one last time but even that was denied him, as the latter was set to commence his evening watch and had donned his red visored helm. The Warrior Monk was also armoured with burgundy pauldrons, gauntlets and shin guards, some of the finest battle wear available in Spira and rightly so, considering they were the last line of defence for the three Maesters of Yevon. The 'Monk' part was apparent in what they wore beneath the armour: a short orange tunic festooned with Yevon scribe. It seemed that in death at the hands of the Warrior Monks, the 'Opposers of Yevon' were meant to see the error of their ways, the flaming retribution of a temple spurned.
Though the public face of the Warrior Monk Corps was that of protectors of the Palace of Saint Bevelle and of the Maesters, the sordid truth was that they often sought out and 'cleansed' those who did not follow the precepts, 'cleansings' in which Auron was now abashed to have conducted in his more subservient days. Yevon's official stance was to frown upon, but not physically intimidate or infringe upon non-believers; the truth could not have been more different. Auron's favourable reputation and his agreement not to preach what he knew was probably why he was still amongst the living.
"Thanks for everything, Kinoc."
The Warrior Monk smiled back at him. "I know I don't need to tell you this, but guard Lord Braska well."
"That, I will. And you'll be busy too. I heard they made you second-in-command."
Acid had sharpened the guardian's tongue to the point that his words stabbed at the heart of Kinoc. Auron was incredulous that he had been elevated so far so quickly.
"You know that promotion was meant for you." Kinoc sighed, his shoulders slumped in shame. "You were always the better one, even until the end."
Until the end… again, Auron was made to feel that his lord's pilgrimage was nothing more than a church-sanctioned funeral procession, that he and Braska were marching towards certain death without a prayer of a chance. "You make it sound as if I was going off to die or something. I will see you again."
"Yes."
But Kinoc's revelation ran along similar lines to Auron's thoughts. He was stronger, faster, more committed than Kinoc. He was the better one. The snob buried not too deeply within hungered for those words, that he commanded respect, even now. But it was gone now, all in the time it took to say, "I do not".
Despite all that happened, Kinoc was still Auron's friend. They had saved each other's lives so many times they had lost count. Auron chastised himself for feeling this way, that he had been stabbed in the back by someone who technically had done nothing wrong, certainly not something he wouldn't have done had the shoe been on the other foot.
The silence between them was painful. It spoke of an intimate trust that was no longer there, that had become untenable. The two men were exposed with each other, no longer able to hide behind the wordless fire of combat or the transparent notion of camaraderie. They were two war mates who had walked side-by-side on the same path for years, who had experienced the greatness and the darkness of humanity together, but now found themselves slowly drifting away at the fork in the road.
"Well, then…"
"Going already?" Kinoc asked wistfully, frustrated that it had all passed them both so fast, and that it had to finish on such a sour note. "You will tell me about Zanarkand when you return, won't you?"
Zanarkand. Auron chuckled wryly thinking once more about the path that he could have followed and the one he was now destined to walk, maybe even until his dying day. He turned away and heaved his Katana over his shoulder, ready to face the world.
"Farewell."
It was a word charged with feeling, the heavy, emotional resonance in his voice summarising all that they had achieved. He was saying farewell to not only his friend, but also the hopes and plans he had nurtured since before he could remember them. This was truly the end of Auron, famous Warrior Monk of Bevelle and the start of someone else.
The guardian took a last look at Kinoc's face and then walked out of his life. Kinoc approached the sphere camera that had recorded the event and switched it off, not convinced he could bare to ever watch a replay. He waited until he was certain Auron was gone before slumping dejectedly into his chair and filling a huge tumbler with Whisky.
The brandy in the glass sloshed at the insides as Braska idly whirled his wrist. He raised it to his lips and drew a small mouthful, allowing the liquid to settle on his tongue. It eased down his throat and he waited for the fire to spread to his heart and back out to the rest of his body.
He wasn't a drinker by nature, but then, speaking to one's daughter for the last time wasn't an everyday occurrence. He damned time for slipping through his fingers so easily. He damned himself for not making the most of it, taking it for granted. All he could do was count the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Her smiling face made it so much worse.
Half Bevellian, half Al Bhed… the outcome was not an anomaly at birth; Little Yuna's one blue eye and the other green, obscured by a long mop of brunette hair, spoke subtle volumes about her lineage. She was playing with her dolls, her energy boundless despite the early hour of the morning. One was of Lord Zaon, proud noble warrior of Zanarkand. Of course his tough, metallic armour was made of dyed blue cotton, and his jagged golden helm also of a soft material. The other doll was of his lover, Yunalesca, garbed in a graceful emerald dress, embellished in the scribe of Yevon. She was the first summoner to defeat Sin, roughly a millennium past. The history books revealed that together, the lovers made the ultimate sacrifice to defeat the monster, and their forfeit made them that much more revered. They gave Sin their body and souls, so that life could continue, so that he could start his own journey. The two were so pure, so much in the wholesome image of Yevon, and he was asking himself to go into the same chapter of the history books as them, a heathen. It would make a mockery of the pilgrimage. Good.
Yuna brought the dolls together and pulled them apart every so often, shook them intermittently. She muttered sweet nothings like, "Together, we can beat Sin," "Our love is strong," and "We can bring the Eternal Calm."
She was too innocent to be caught up in all this. She deserved a normal life, with two loving parents. This world was not for her. She deserved to see Zanarkand.
Braska broke away to get a good last look of the room. He had many fine memories of the old girl as well, too many to waste time with in the dwindling minutes he had left. His wife Jenni loved to curl up on the sofa with him at night, a sofa that was far too big nowadays. Slivers of early morning sun from outside of his window cut into the gloomy lounge, forming prisms of light where the dust mites danced freely. In the back were a pantry and a bathroom, all in all completing the modest layout of the house. It was one of many on his block, peering out onto the deserted southern market.
Yuna had now become occupied with the visitor kneeling down in front of her. Braska smiled at the amusing Jecht, his wide spread gestures painting a hundred words, of days gone by. It appeared he was explaining Blitzball to her and what it meant in Zanarkand, from the rounded shapes his hands formed, to the flat palms held out far and wide, as to demonstrate the heaving stands. Jecht then tried to shape the stadium and his hands struck back and forth, fingertips spattering in an attempt to light up the illusion he had created. Yuna was enraptured by the stranger, her focus completely on him and nothing else. The summoner hoped to be equally charmed by his tales of the great city.
From behind the armchair that Braska had eased into, Auron leaned over his shoulder, his mouth placed strategically near the summoner's ear.
"What are your plans, milord?" he whispered.
"The priests are collecting her in a half hour."
"Is that enough time, sir?"
Time… always coming back to that unsympathetic, endless river. Braska could hear Auron, but refused to draw his stare away from his little girl. With obvious resignation, he said, "It will have to be enough."
Auron was discomfited, but touched Braska's shoulder out of solidarity. His lord was the strongest man he knew, but this must have been overwhelming for him. With a compassionate, but rather gauche tap of his gloved hand, Auron turned away and begin to stare uselessly out of a window. And so, Braska was left to retain his silent, but intense focus on his daughter. She looked away from Jecht momentarily and up at her father. There was a toothy, happy, oblivious smile for him. Braska returned it with a quivering, fearful smile of his own. As soon as she returned to Jecht, the summoner allowed his head to droop into his chest. His fingernails digging hard into the arms of his chair, the summoner cut the loneliest figure in the room. He moaned inaudibly, yearning for the times that were no more.
Dawn tumbled towards the city to dispel the dark and cast the red clay in its light. It was the start of a new day and a new attempt against the reign of Sin. The summoner Braska allowed the swiftly breaking sun to bathe him, its intensity enough to make him squint.
Watching the summoner's back as ever was his guardian, and behind him, the latest addition to the party. Jecht truly was a walking miracle, so unlike anyone he or anyone in Spira had ever seen. He was, or at least he truly believed he was from Zanarkand, a paradise free from Sin. Many had tried fruitlessly to find such a safe haven.
The Blitzer had amassed a fair crowd in the courtyard of the orphanage as he demonstrated his trademark manoeuvre to Yuna. "The Sublimely Magnificent Jecht Shot Mark Three" he called it, somewhat ornately. Though he had no ball, Jecht showed her anyway, leaping from pillar to post, corkscrewing impossibly in the air. It was a spectacle if nothing else and the priests certainly did not enjoy it. But Braska did. Jecht had also given the summoner's daughter a couple of dolls for her collection: the red lion-like Moomba and the friendly blue alien PuPu, figures from a famous bedtime tale. Auron had distanced himself from such sentiment but then, Braska expected him to. It was a wonderful gesture by the man from the Zanarkand, and the summoner had displayed his appreciation with the prayer of Yevon and an honoured smile. Braska wondered if he had offspring of his own in Zanarkand and considered how lucky they were to have such a great dad.
Fiddling around with his new toys, Jecht had the look of a contented child about him, having stocked up significantly before leaving Bevelle. With a generous chunk of what remained in Braska's fancy purse, he had purchased an armguard for the battles ahead. It consisted of a black sleeve that covered his entire left arm, scaled with uncompromising steel. Auron had dismissed it as 'peasant' armour, but Jecht thought it was pretty cool. He had also bought a sphere camera along for the trip and a litre of Bevellian mead.
"What are you taking?" Auron asked him, monitoring the fool's every action like a hawk.
"Well, you said it was going to be a long trip. We'll be seein' a lot of neat things, right? So, I thought I'd record it all, in this."
The device was a simple ovular thing, with three buttons inscribed with Spiran lettering, and a smooth lens at the front. Jecht had seen these back home but never saw the use in them until now. Incredible to think they could crystallise memories in the form of spheres. He showed the camera to Auron and anger resurfaced in the guardian's eyes.
"To show my wife and kid, you know." Jecht trailed off.
"This is no pleasure cruise!"
Auron seethed, frustrated at being unable to mould this childish ingrate into the shape of a respectful and earnest guardian. He stamped his boot down to the tiled floor and stormed away. Jecht smirked at this latest development. Initially, he just thought Auron was one of those overly protective types, probably a closet homo too. But it did seem that Braska's guardian just simply disliked him. He wondered why. Was the clown jealous? Because his master had spurned his wishes by bailing Jecht out of prison? The Blitzer knew his very existence was goading Auron and in truth he enjoyed it, even thrived on it. The moron deserved it for being such a tight-ass.
"Hey, Braska. Ain't this supposed to be a grand occasion? Where're the cheerin' fans, the cryin' women?"
"This is it."
Braska stopped suddenly, as though bumping into an unseen pane of glass. He shook his head. That parting memory with Yuna still lingered two hundred yards behind him. He could relive it, bring it close to him, if only he would turn round and look… if he would turn back. No. Retreat was no longer an option, just as much as time could not be reversed.
"Too many goodbyes… People think twice about leaving."
It was a bald-faced lie. There were no goodbyes for a fallen summoner. The gates of Bevelle had slammed shut behind him and he was nobody, like the wandering merchants or vagrants. Why leave at such a strange time as just before dawn, if not to slip away like an unwanted memory?
"Hmm…" Jecht pondered Braska's words for a moment, half-baked notions threatening to stimulate his detective skills. "If you say so." he continued, not bothered to pursue it, "Well, it better be a lot more colourful when we come back. A parade for Braska, vanquisher of Sin!"
Braska giggled, but soon realised the incredulity of seeing any such spectacle. The gleaming spread of the new morning began to slowly control the sky. "We should go. Day will break soon."
The summoner took a final respectful glance back towards Bevelle, his hometown, and performed the prayer of Yevon before heading south to the frosty climes of Macalania.