VII

Shimmers of the Past

Jecht slept like a baby, with a gormless expression and an arm cocked over his eyes. Strewn across his body was a grey blanket that provided only minimal warmth. His loud, nasal snores gargled incessantly through the room, echoing and making him sound much louder than he really was. If one had the strange desire to peer into the chasm of his mouth, one would notice his tonsils swinging rhythmically back and forth. The snores became entangled and then halted abruptly; Jecht came to, back to the 'reality' that was Spira.

He had dozed off in one of the side rooms of Macalania temple, unable to resist the lure of a nap in a comfortable hammock. The Zanarkand native slept a lot, significantly more than most, in fact. He supposed that a great athlete such as himself needed his sleep, as the greater the consumption of energy, the greater the need to replenish it. However, it was also his body's way of siphoning out all the wilfully absorbed toxins.

The dream he had relived was of a memory so innocuous he had forgotten all about until then. His subconscious had cried out to him once again for some reason. Once again, he lent no thought to the matter whatsoever and rose to a standing position, tip-toeing to stretch the tension from his back and shoulders.

The side room was just as weird and wonderful as the main hall. Lining the circumference of the room were shelves adorning ointments, potions and scrolls. Jecht gathered they were for pilgrims like him, a charity service for the warriors who served Yevon.

A notched column of ice rended the room right down the spine. On closer inspection, Jecht realised it was actually the key structural point of the room, providing it with enough integrity to stay intact. He placed a palm on it and it was cold but dry, even when he applied the natural warmth of his hand to it. It bit into his palm quickly, so he pulled it away. Directly above, the roof was made of glass, providing him with a sprawling upward view of the temple and the icy ceiling beyond. It was so heavy with purple that Jecht thought it could collapse on him if he kept staring.

He wandered out into the Great Hall: a stuffy old auditorium with that empty, hallowed feel to it. The floor had a rounded blue tile, as cold to touch with bare feet as it looked. At the base of a flight of stairs were two lamps on either side. From the troughs rose waves of sparkling purple flecks. In their eternal spiral, they ascended gracefully to their peaks, before inevitably falling and fading into nothing on the way down. Jecht dropped a couple of coins into the lamp to accompany the scant others. They dipped sharply in the lamp's water before freezing still near the base.

The predominant features of the hall were the statues. There were three of them, two either side of the staircase and one just off to the left. Jecht slowly panned his stare over each in turn.

The first looked like the captain of a ship, with a flat captain's hat and commanding, respected robes. Then there was a more traditional looking warlock, more like Jecht's preconceptions of a summoner. Though of a similar stature to the captain, this guy was more aggressive, with an open cape and illustrious beard offsetting a strong jaw. He looked like he could throw a few punches as well as summon… possibly an athlete.

Finally, there was a woman, probably the most physically capable of the lot. For a start, she openly held a scimitar in her hand. Whereas the two males had exposed faces, this one wore a helm of some kind, with a visor that hid her eyes. Her face -though graceful and feminine, was coarse and worn, and not from the fact it was made from granite. The sculptors had put everything into these statues to ensure a certain effect was achieved. Whether the effect was historically accurate or not, Jecht couldn't say. He wondered what these guys did with themselves now, if one or more of them were still alive, spinning tales of the glory days from a creaking old rocking chair.

Up the flight of stairs were two more facing statues that moulded into the back wall. On the left was a rather scantily clad woman, and on the right, a swordsman, possibly lovers or comrades at the least. They looked more important than the three grounded statues, who looked more like subordinates or cohorts.

It was early morning now and his party was the only one awaiting the blessing of Shiva, the aeon of ice. Everyone else had packed up and moved onto the next stage, while Auron was pacing back and forth, worry etched into his face. Eventually, he settled down on a bottom step, chewing the cuticles of his thumb.

"It's been too long…" he whispered to himself. "Six hours… Why this feeling again?"

The guardian looked haggard, with purple bags formed under his eyes. His body language echoed fatigue and strain, and all he'd done was stand there and wait. Jecht could only speculate on what state Braska was in if this was what the waiting did to a man.

"So uh, is six hours a long time, normally?"

"…Not exactly." Auron sighed. "Some summoners have taken in excess of a day, surviving only on the rations in their backpacks. They come out… thinner, less of a person."

"But Braska's a tough cookie. He'll be out in no time, right?"

"…I'm sorry."

"Huh?"

"For my actions earlier on, outside the agency. I was… frustrated, and I tried to provoke you. Forgive me."

Auron's speech, though initially slow and considered, accelerated to a rapid, awkward finish. It had been rehearsed, and Auron had wanted to get it out in the open and far away as quickly as possible.

"Heh. Well, a rush of blood to the head happens to the best of us, kid."

Auron was unsure whether to feel grateful that Jecht had been relatively lenient, or feel condescended to. He had been wrong, but Jecht had no right to call him 'kid'. He had amassed more experience of combat and the world than Jecht could ever dream of.

"I still we think we should go in after him now, ya know!" Jecht demanded, vehemently swinging his hands around as to accentuate his claim.

"How many times, Jecht, no." Auron retorted slowly. "If a guardian enters the Chamber of the Fayth, it could result in excommunication of the summoner, let alone a severe reprimand for whoever interfered."

Auron's thoughts cannoned back to the tales of his teen years while ascending the ranks of the Warrior Monks, of the Via Purifico. Even now in his head, those still waters disrupted violently as a doomed prisoner was sent sinking into the murky depths. The 'Cleansing Waters' were indeed mysterious, and he had been grateful to have never disposed of the corpses at the other end, often mangled and stripped to the bare bone by amphibious fiends.

He continued. "Besides, you're no guardian. You can't even enter the Trials, let alone the antechamber. You will stay here until he is finished."

"Hey, you're a guardian! Why in blazes are you stood around here? Shouldn't you be, you know, in the anti-chamber?"

"I should be."

"Well then, why ain't ya?"

"Someone has to watch you. And also, milord requested that he go alone. Said he wanted to look after himself."

"Kinda defeats the purpose of being a guardian, huh?"

"To be a good guardian, you also have to know when not to guard your master. It is a relationship of mutual trust. After all, Lord Braska is a grown man, your age in fact, and far wiser than we'll ever be. Who's to say he's not guarding us?"

Jecht pondered this, and slowly started to piece things together. If Braska was so assured, why did he ask Jecht to come along in the first place? He had a gut feeling it wasn't about Zanarkand principally, though it was clear the summoner was in love with the great city.

"I've contemplated it," Auron continued, "And it must be Sin's toxin."

"What d'ya mean?"

"Sin's toxin. Those who get too close can lose their memory. Maybe you encountered Sin, inhaled its toxin somewhere along the way. That's why you can't remember anything about Yevon and Spira. Hmph, to actually think, even for moment, that I romanticised about a land free from Sin…"

It was not even a suggestion from Auron to Jecht, but a command, an instruction of a way to act from then on as to avert attention. Even if Auron or Braska wanted to believe it, the notion of a Zanarkand native just popping up in Spira after so long was beyond preposterous, even bordering on the profane.

It was all very convenient to dismiss a genuine amnesiac or a lunatic, or someone who really was from Zanarkand. Sin was the ultimate scapegoat for whatever societal problems lingered beneath the united, diligent Spira. There was no toxin. Jecht's life was real; Yevon, Aeons, Spira, they were the fantasy. Maybe he'd go back if he pinched himself hard enough.

"What is all this commotion at such an ungodly hour?"

Jecht met the owner of the frail voice: a bent withered codger, whose body struggled to carry the robes festooning it and a leathery face splayed with liver spots. Wiry tufts of white hair sprouted up in isolated spots on his pate. In his fist, he clasped the thin wisp of a beard at his chin and smoothed it downwards repeatedly.

"Quite a loud man, aren't you?"

Jecht placed his hands on his hips and beamed a white smile. "Loud and proud. Name's Jecht, old man, star player of the Zanarkand Abes. Maybe you've heard of me."

The old priest glowered uncaringly and continued to smooth down his beard. "No." was his retort. "Your delusions may tell you that you were once some loutish celebrity in your so-called city that never sleeps, but you're no one here. In Spira, you have to earn the respect of the people, and you won't do it acting like a primate."

The words impregnated Jecht's seemingly impenetrable confidence and hit him mercilessly. Like an ashamed son being reproached by a disapproving father, Jecht's head fell into his chest and his shoulders drooped.

The priest initially walked away, but turned back to give Jecht a final scolding. "Oh, and remember that this is a house of Yevon. We won't stand for heresy here. Zanarkand indeed…"

And so Auron's words were vindicated. He was unacceptable to these old farts that were stuck in their ways. Obviously they had become spellbound by the scrolls of Yevon that spouted nonsense about Zanarkand, a lavish utopia that put their backwater colonies to shame. Maybe the whole Yevon creed was built upon jealousy. But Jecht couldn't repent or atone for crimes he didn't commit. And he couldn't preach to the masses from the hilltops, denouncing their musty religion either, for fear of being lynched. All he could do was ride it out, maybe even pretend he was one of Sin's victims, for as long as it would help him.

Meanwhile, within the Chamber of the Fayth…

Summoner Braska continued to meditate, sat with both knees eased into stone floor. His subconscious was calling out to the aeon of ice, hoping she would deem him worthy. Shiva's statue pulsated in the blue gloom of the chamber. The summoner was certain that the ancient Yevon lettering descending the walls was changing, almost to the point that it was legible in his eyes. They trickled down the walls, vanishing into the icy mist in the gap around the statue. But was he still locked in the deepest recesses of his mind, or was the very fabric of the mysterious chamber being manipulated with him inside?

The ghost that hovered above the statue was that of a painfully young girl, her eyes vacant and glazed over. It seemed that every last shred of humanity had frozen still somewhere deep inside her, a distant husk left behind. Braska felt a shiver course down his spine, shooting into his fingers and toes like tiny knives. He exhaled sharply and watched his breath crystallise before him.

Without words, the girl rose upwards and vaulted deep into the centre of his chest, pyreflies peeling from her flesh as she entered the physical realm for a split second. The sense of invasion was dry, cold and agonising, a soul forcing itself upon another. The summoner clutched at his chest furiously, trying in vain to tear out the invader, before collapsing in a crumpled heap on the floor.

The young boy Yevon was feared and spurned by his peers because of the uncanny and dangerous abilities he possessed. There were… attempts on his life, including from his own blood. Through the hardships of his early years, Yevon learned the values of diplomacy, which he used to forge strong bonds of friendship with the next largest city in Spira, Bevelle. Historically, these two superpowers had been uneasy allies, but Yevon had managed to bring them together in peace.

Yevon also became allies with the aloof Al Bhed. Their mastery over machines was a fair trade for providing shelter and warmth for key members of their race. Things were good in the garden of Yevon, but something went wrong…

Summoner Braska inhaled for the first time back: a sharp, deep breath that bit into the bronchioles of his lungs. He had returned from his hallucination, staring up at the gloomy roof of the chamber. "Just when it was getting interesting…" he uttered to himself, a smothered sense of disappointment that he could not quench his insatiable appetite for Zanarkand.

He was being offered shimmers of the ancient past, of a time were no waking eye could see. He questioned why the Fayth -first Bahamut and now Shiva- were revealing these things, about Lord Yevon, of all people. Then he realised that as a 'reward' for being worthy, the Fayth were telling the summoner what he wanted to hear, about life, about anything. For each journeyer, the tales would be different, he imagined. It was no coincidence that he daydreamed about the past, a past he had been warned by his peers was futile to pine after. Well, who had the last laugh?

As in Bevelle, Braska used his stave as leverage to an upright position, but this time with more conviction. His experiences were making him stronger, in body at least. And so he took Shiva's essence with a sense of expectancy upon himself. He had a goddess waiting inside him and he did not want to disappoint her.