DISCLAIMER: THIS IS A WORK OF FAN-FICTION, NOTHING MORE. FINAL FANTASY X BELONGS TO SQUARE ENIX.
NEGOTIATION & PERSUASION
A Final Fantasy X fan-fic
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
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The time when Seymour was just taken back from Baaj after ten long years. Seymour sits at a table. Enter Mesmir Guado.
"Seymour, you have come home to us." Said Mesmir warmly spreading his long arms, his black eyes intense and focused, looking at his childhood friend of whom he had not seen for ten long years. Mesmir watched, as his friend nodded weakly. His friend smelt faint and unhealthy. So tired for one his age. Only elders smelt as such, he smelt as though he had been through alot.
They were seated in the frigid hall of Macalania temple. Mesmir observed Seymour, he looked very weak and listless as if he had not slept well for a time, the warm breath coming from his nose fogging the icy air. Perhaps from his sudden position as High Priest of Macalania temple. Mesmir wondered why did Lord Jyscal do such a thing, and so soon. Perhaps being a priest looked like a respectable occupation, worthy of a Maester's son.
"Seymour are you in shock?" Mesmir spoke again softly, turning his head to the side. "Seymour, I have missed you. But you do not seem to care one bit whether or not I come by to see you. What happened on Baaj?"
"I've missed you too Mesmir. I am just... not adapting well." Seymour's speech was slow and awkward, his tongue stiff from disuse having no one to speak to on that lonely island.
"You smell sad Seymour. Are you okay?" Prompted Mesmir, his obsidian eyes looking at his friend.
"I will be in time." Replied Seymour, sighing and closing his eyes.
Mesmir, hoping to make his friend speak more, touched the coral and citrine beads around his friend's neck. "You haven't taken these off ever since you returned..."
Seymour very abruptly went insane. Screaming as if he had been burnt, he knocked Mesmir's hand away and held his throat, throttling him. Seymour's face enraged and alert. The chair he was sitting on overturned with a clatter. The lacquered wooden table screeched a few feet off position, sliding easily on the slippery floor of the temple.
Mesmir choked and struggled as Seymour jerked his hands, wringing his neck. He kicked him forcefully, but Seymour barely staggered. He could not draw in any breath in that bolt lock, he felt blood being trapped in his head to bursting point. He could tell that Seymour was not himself, he was acting as though he was possessed by an evil spirit. He put his shaking hands on Seymour's and fought to pry them off his neck, the sharp pain startling him.
They staggered on the spot, and when Mesmir managed to pull off Seymour's hands, he could feel that the stinging skin on his neck was punctured in places by Seymour's pointed claws.
Mesmir screamed, causing monks and lower priests to flood into the place, soft shoes making sliding sounds on the solid floor.
"Lord Seymour!"
"What's going on here?!"
Seymour screamed when Mesmir burnt his friend's hands, at the same time casting Sleep. He watched as Seymour swayed dazed on the spot, his blue eyes no longer focused and infuriated. Just in time, he caught him before he collapsed onto the stone floor of the temple.
Mesmir healed himself with white magic. Although his clothing was bloodstained, his priority was to carry Seymour. The monks were fussing over the both of them protectively, while they did so he noticed that Seymour's silk vest had come undone, and his chest was variously scarred and mutilated, fine lines, pigmentation and trauma showed in that gap of silk and linen.
"Should we call Lord Jyscal...?" Asked one of the monks as they helped Mesmir carry Seymour to lay him down onto a bed in the temple.
While the monks decided what to do whilst laying Seymour's limp form onto the bed, Mesmir squinted and examined the scars. They looked very much of the self-inflicted type. It could be observed clearly, with irregular and yet linear enough lines to see that it was by that of a Guado hand. He had clawed at his own chest...? They were many, numerous and overlapping. No skin was left unmarked or natural at all.
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"How is the boy?" Inquired Lord Jyscal. What was the healer's diagnosis?"
Pescal shifted his feet awkwardly, but respectfully maintained eye-contact. They were in the small library of the manor, presently Pescal had just served his lord tea and crumpets on an ornate silver tray.
Pescal ran his claws through his thick violet hair, and replied. "The healer said that master Seymour is emotionally ill sire, it is why he–"
Jyscal looked up more attentively, his blue eyes flashing, "Can he be cured?" His upper lip trembling, his moustache and beard moving along with his concerned face.
"I asked the same thing my lord, the healer does not know for certain..."
Jyscal looked irritated, and worried. "But he cannot." The leader paused thinking. "It is my fault Pescal, for what I have done to him."
Pescal bowed his head knowing the habits of his lord, leaving before he was dismissed. He shut the heavy wooden door quietly, just catching the scent of regret, remorse and sorrow.
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Pain. Eyes watering. Seymour grimaced, and twisted his hands. "Mesmir.... Mesmir?" His breath shuddering vulnerably as he called out weakly, his voice cracking, "Where am I?" Now it was happening again, anxiety came and swallowed him, drowning him deep into its depts. His frantic heart palpated crazily, as though it was going to detonate in his chest.
"My Lord no!" Cried a faraway voice.
Seymour still laying on the messy bed, his limbs entangled in the fine sheets as he struggled, sweating profusely and dreadfully as if he were facing mortal peril. His heart was pounding, stabbing, slicing. He would do anything to stop it, he clutched at his trembling chest. Seymour gasped, "Make it stop... make it stop... I!"
Mesmir panicked and was trying to pull off Seymour's hands, but Seymour's sapphire claws were snagged deep, coaxing blood out. Mesmir feared that if he tugged too hard, the pale skin of Seymour's chest would tear right open.
Seymour screamed his eyes wide but seeing nothing, "MAKE IT STOP!"
And then just like that, it had passed. Mesmir had his mouth open, still with a firm grip on Seymour's slightly bloody hands.
Mesmir whispered, his voice uncertain and confused. "What the Farplane was that?"
"Let go Mesmir." Seymour leant back feeling the puncture marks on his chest with his fingers. "Mesmir, I am unfit for being a priest. For being anything. I think I'm insane." His voice monotonous, as if he had known and accepted this fact long ago.
"What happened on that forsaken island that did this to you?" Mesmir questioned, shaking his head despairingly. "Damn, you have –"
"Gone mad. Stark, raving, and irrevocably mad." Seymour answered for truthfully for him.
"What happened on Baaj?"
"Why don't you ask my father. He's building a temple there now."
Mesmir frowned and punched Seymour's forearm using moderate force, like an angry sibling after a quarrel. "You have not answered my question." He insisted, smelling that salty smell of despair from Seymour.
"I don't know. Ten years? I thought it was just six or so. I just went and got myself sick. I do not know how."
"Without treatment? For so many years... By the gods!" Gasped Mesmir.
"I want to die Mesmir..." Seymour mumbled, his head turning to one side on the pillow.
Mesmir shook his head swiftly once so hard it resembled more of a quick jerk. "No."
"What is there to live for... For this suffering... " Was the lethargic and emotionless reason that came from Seymour's white lips, already he looked dead lying there, like something that had lost all possible hope.
"Get yourself out of here, we need to get you out into the open. Where the air and the trees and the plants will revive you and your spirit."
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"Healer Kemplar....?" Echoed Jyscal's voice.
"Yes your grace?" Bowed the middle-aged Guado. It was at the flat platform of the Farplane, all around shimmering red and blue pyre flies floated, all around they sang their colours shining, casting their illusions on any mind trained to understand or converse with them.
Jyscal stepped onto the levitating platform, addressing the tall Guado before him. Lord Jyscal was wearing a worried expression, as he asked, "You saw my son, what is your diagnosis?"
"He has baver. In its advanced stages, it cannot be cured anymore." Kemplar swept around regally in his colourful and heavy silk linen clothes, "You do know that it is you who is responsible."
Jyscal swallowed and nodded, looking away from the healer's yellow eyes. It was as though the healer could read his mind, just by gazing into the windows of his soul. He asked, "Is there anything to ease his suffering...?"
"No."
"What have I done to him..." Jyscal said silently, more to himself than to the wise healer standing with him on the mysterious hovering platform. The sounds of pyre flies rang in his ears, as if stressing the healer's verdict. Far away shone the pale sun of the Farplane, the trees swaying silently in the breeze from nowhere.
Kemplar stroked his yellow beard and sighed. "If it consoles you my lord, it will not affect his intelligence."
"You–"
"I have already done what I can." Assured the healer clinically, as if he had broken such unpleasant news many times before.
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The two old friends walked together in the field, and Mesmir kept Seymour company. As the light green grass rustled in the gentle breeze, he gazed up into the sky, and watched the white clouds roll by. The pain of his injuries forced him to sit down, and to lean against one of the many grey boulders dotting the field.
The half-breed just did not feel like talking it felt tiring and pointless, but was grateful for Mesmir's company. He smelt the tender scent of concern coming from his black-haired friend but there was no need to say anything, because he knew Mesmir could sense his gratitude and contentment.
It was a rare moment of silent understanding between friends. When they smelt and sensed each other, listening to the sounds of each other's breathing.
"Mesmir, where is Aela?"
"Away on a healing course. She will be back soon enough to see you. Did not Kemplar tell you? He would know being her uncle." Said Mesmir, his black hair so black it almost appeared blue.
"I hope to see her soon." Seymour looked up at the sky and the greying clouds. "It looks like rain is approaching. I do so like the rain. The sound it makes."
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It was late in the night. Seymour stood in his marble bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He could not get used to his new garb, it was too warm for him. Frowning, he pulled open his vest baring his variously mutilated chest.
Looking at it, he felt defiant standing there. He felt as though he wanted to parade around like this, he wanted everyone to see. At the same time he detested the appearance of the scars, they were ugly and tasteless. Perhaps he should cover them up with tattoos.
He smirked at the thought. That smirk contrasting with what he felt within his heaving chest. That same agony turning over again and again as if fighting to burst forth from the confines of its prison of organs, bone and skin.
Secretly he hated his father. Deep inside he also hated himself. So much contrast between his external facade and the striking truth that lay within. Seymour had grown up dysfunctional, with crooked and deformed thoughts like deformed branches of a tree thoroughly infected with disease.
Biting his sleeve, he went down the marble stairs of the manor entwined with twisting roots. His heart was thumping uneasily, he felt as though he needed to run. Run, where he was not thinking. He tripped and fell forward down onto his chest. His face screwing in pain and discomfort, forcing himself to get up, his blue claws scrabbling on the carpeted mossy stairs.
On his feet again, he went across the hard marble floor of the hall and went out through the double-doors. The cold and dark night was everywhere surrounding him. Just like what it was like in the lonely grey nights of Baaj. Just like what it felt before he went mad. Just as how it felt countless times before he tried to commit suicide.
It was so unfair, why could he not just drop dead? He wandered outside, not even bothering to put on foot wear. As he walked, he could feel the thin winding branches on the floor of the streets of Gaudosalam. It must be very late in the dead of the night, because the floor and moss was damp with glittering dew. He walked and walked, and for reasons unknown found himself attracted to the voice of rumbling thunder.
The perilous Thunder Plains... Beautiful. Flashing here and there suddenly, the plains blue and grey, the clouds and always so dark. Starry starry night. Always steadily swirling, always so dangerous. He liked it, not thinking very much he stepped out away from the lightning tower he stood under. There was a low rumble, followed by a bright flash. That fast white streak pierced the ground inches from his right foot, leaving the area charred. Without much feeling the young priest looked at the hot vapour coming off the rock and gravel.
He foolishly gave a shout and ran as swiftly as he could. The pain of the rough rocks and soil grazing the soles of his feet did not stop him or slow him down. He did not get far. In a blinding flash of light he was struck down. He opened his dry mouth, gaping in pain. No scream came out.
Would he die this time? He was so much in pain, it stopped him from feeling much of anything else... All he could think of was going to the Farplane for his relief. But still he would not see his purple behemoth again. He wanted her here, although she was gone, evaporated. He had consumed her flesh, but... It was not enough! He wanted to sense her feelings again, to smell her strong and musky maternal scent... To hear the loud heartbeat of her behemoth's body, sleeping next to her gargantuan purple side... To feel so safe.
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"He tried to commit suicide my liege." Tromell reported to his master, who was sitting in his lavish study, writing a letter.
"By the gods..." Jyscal laid a huge sapphire-clawed palm on his forehead, simultaneously dropping his pen. "Where is he now Tromell?"
"Resting. In the healer's house." Came Tromell's weary voice. "My Lord, permission to speak?"
Lord Jyscal did not reply, but gave leave with a gesture.
"I too am worried about him..."
"He is still so young Tromell, I did not know what was I thinking by sending him there. Who would have thought that Amina could just abandon him like so!"
Tromell had his eyes shut, his bushy green brows low, thinking of the change in Jyscal's behaviour, the guilt his master experienced sending his wife and son away. Even now he could smell the turbulent conflict, his master's acute confusion. Lingering anger, resentment, burning regret, bitter-sweet love...
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Healer Kemplar bowed his yellow-haired head, standing next to the bed in which his patient lay. The young man was asleep, his neck and shoulder charred from being struck by lightning– twice. Kemplar gently pulled the blanket higher up, covering the boy's scarred chest. He said softly, "Young Seymour, I pray that you at least learn to love, and to be kind to yourself."
All around his infirmary, were dim lamps, casting yellow and orange hues. The place warm and safe, a sweet-smelling incense was burnt to calm the patient. The floor all made of wood and roots. Thick and sturdy beds were covered with grey-green moss, that spread its fluffy tendrils over carved stone and specially moulded roots to form them.
Across the room, was a simple table. And it was where the healer went to again to continue grinding medicine in a rough rock bowl. Kemplar thought, "Poor boy." At the corner of his eye, he watched the young Guado twisting his claws into the blanket as he slept, even from a fair distance, he could smell the unsteady emotion known as distress.
There was so much about the boy. So much negativity, so many issues. So many reasons to make him have such thoughts for suicide. In healing him and diagnosing the young Guado, he sensed as a healer a diseased soul. More than just a serious infection of the pyre flies in his system (baver) but also smouldering hate, self-loathing. Suspicion. Heavy and nagging mourning. It was also a challenge in treating him, being half-human. Kemplar knew not to mention the fact at all, lest the young one get distressed. He could tell the boy was sensitive about it, the way he looked at the Guado anatomy charts wistfully, his blue eyes blank yet bitter. Envious even.
The pale aquamarine-haired one stirred in his sleep, and came conscious. The thick sheets rustled as he struggled against them to get up. "I... "
"Hush up my child, go back to sleep." The healer stopped grinding herbs, to give Seymour his full attention. He breathed in deeply and exhaled. "You are hungry, come to the kitchen."
There he watched his haggard patient sip hot vegetable soup. Kemplar's eyes appearing gold in the light. He knew what would come of this... he knew what thoughts and plans were coming into the boy's mind. Illnesses could be cured, but not fixed opinions. Not such destructive and perverted ideas. Not such morbid attraction to mass death.
Kemplar frowned, and prayed silently that young Seymour would find peace before he went down that fell path of ruin.
End Chapter 26
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This chapter is dedicated to nephilim379, Cid, and MarquetteFan33.
Also not forgetting wolfdemon22.
You people light my fire in reviewing man!!! Damn,
it's been like 2 months!!!
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Why have I taken so long? Doctor visits. Medication. Doctor visits. Medical dog tag. Blood tests. It would appear that I have epilepsy. Gods... Stay tuned, and review man! It somehow inspires me to work faster.