Well, after last chapter's surprising revelation at the end, there's not going to be much major coming up, right?
Wrong.
Hee, anyway, Christmas Holidays are here again. So, as in need of a life as I am, that should mean more writing. When i'm not busy with setting other stuff up.
Enjoy this chapter, in any case!
In the centre of the stone circle atop the Seat of Sacrifice, the Goddess Etro stood. Patient, watchful, yet humble, incredibly so for the Goddess of Death.
"I am the Goddess Etro," the divinity spoke the words with a regal humility, not expecting worship or praise; "And I request your aid." She bore no difficulty in pronouncing the words.
Silence emanated for the moments after those blue lips said that sentence. Etro took a solitary step forwards, size diminishing until she was barely as tall as Fang. Still, her form looked similar; completely pale, even her eyes, save for her unnerving lips. Her body was garbed in a drape which appeared to be little more than crisp light beams, folded and weaved together.
"I ask you, dear ones," Etro's singing voice sounded upon realizing no one was quite brave enough to reply, "Aid I and those who dwell in this realm."
It took a little while until Vanille squeaked in reply.
"E-Etro," the redhead stuttered, "How can we help? I mean, you are supposed to be a Goddess, and…uh…"
Chiming laughter escaped the blue lips of Death.
"True, child, true," Etro spoke, "Though I too am bound by rules, constraints not of my own making. It is why my messengers are sent to your world; those who exist in the realm Beyond, yet desire to serve I. Should rules allow, I would journey to life, present faltered l'Cie with their choice in person. I may not interfere in that way however."
It was an unsettling revelation; that even a Goddess may find herself as much a victim as the others.
"What are we to do?" Bartholomew Estheim eventually croaked a question out, feeling somewhere between terrified and amazed that the amiable Wanderer he'd talked to in his centuries of imprisonment as the Sylph gate, was in fact the Goddess Etro.
"You know of storms?" Etro paused, receiving nods in response, more out of courtesy than necessity. "Storms exist here. The air currents swirl, hot air to rise, creating imbalance. Death is not an imbalance: previously, Death was constant throughout. I sustained my realm, utter perfection to live within. I have never experienced a storm before."
"It's because of us, isn't it," Vanille looked down, ashamed
"Don't put yourself down," nudging, Dajh looked at the Gran Pulsians, before eventually turning back to the beautiful Goddess who stood within the circle.
"I am sorry to say, it is so, dear one," Etro sounded reluctant to speak, "You do not belong here. Your arrival was not through loss of life, wit was through travel. You are still alive, and yet you wander Death freely. Imbalance is inevitable."
"Then bring them back to life!" Dajh half-shouted, tensing when he realized he was speaking to a divinity.
Etro was not angry however; if anything, she seemed upset, melancholy.
"Part of my binding is that I may not directly affect a person's status of life or death. I regulate the Door of Souls, and often, not even that. She has seen to that."
"She?" Fang rolled her eyes, "The Maker huh? She a pain here too?"
"If the Maker is how you know Her, yes. Though far be it from me to speak ill of Her, there is a time all children must gain independence. She does not know this: She refuses to know this. She reached forwards while fal'Cie reached outwards. I lay between them, and they pass straight through."
For the first time, Etro appeared irritated, if only mildly. It was unsettling to think the serene Goddess of Death could be at all annoyed. Unsettling…that word applied to a great deal. From those blue lips, to the rules of the Goddess, and now the Maker's trespassing. Things felt so much bigger than they could conceive, much less handle.
And yet, it somehow all centred on the living-and-dying Fang and Vanille.
Choco chirruped, ambling along between the group and the Goddess, breaking up the tension. Dajh softly whistled for the yellow bird to return, lightly stroking down the golden feathers of his neck.
"What should we do then?" Dajh's manner was much calmer now, hands lost in the messy feathers, "Resurrection was never taught to any of us."
"I am forbidden to help," Etro appeared to struggle for a moment, before speaking. Regret was clearly visible in her misty eyes.
"Tell us about Balduin," Fang was the first to cut through the silence, her demand muted from the aggressive tone she might use otherwise, out of homage to the divinity
"Balduin?" Etro's posture was stiff, unmoving, giving off no clues, "An interesting tale," her eyes locked with Fang's, "You expect aid here?"
Etro's eyes burned, whiteness within swirling in a greater, faster pattern, darkening. The shade of her skin too seemed to darken by a few almost imperceptible shades. Those signature blue lips remained parted, just a few degrees, but an oddity nonetheless: especially for the Goddess, who usually, after every word as much as sentence, clasped those lips tightly together.
Vanille frowned for a moment, nudging Fang. The redhead mouthed something, and the elder woman's eyes widened, suddenly nodding.
"Yeah," Fang turned again to Etro.
A smile graced those divine lips.
"Balduin lived two thousand years ago, and entered my realm at just twenty years of age," Etro paused, not for breath, but so the listeners could absorb the story. "He was a wise man; he was the father of many settlements, creator of many traditions, builder of the Temple to Hallowed Pulse: regarded by many as the most beautiful architecture even now, as it falls away. Indeed, even I must agree."
The Goddess paused for many longer seconds, lifting a lithe, pale arm, and moving it through the air. Like some immense blur, a screen, the same shade as her pale flesh, was formed upon it, images played out; a handsome man, staring. Laying on Gran Pulse land, breathing heavy, yet tranquil. A small dart of wood, barely half a centimetre wide, rested beside his neck, tip stained with blood.
The background of the man was taken by distortion, a white light, and eventually he lay there, no longer breathing, yet with bright, active eyes. Baldur; who else could it be? The myth still lay there, appearing superficially to be lifeless, and yet full of energy.
In a smooth transition, after just a few seconds, Baldur was striding forwards, confident, yet not egotistically so. The ground he moved on was moist, not with rain, but with tears, shed over him from life.
"And so, the world wept," Etro spoke again, voice not drawing them away from the visual, instead, enrapturing them further in the recorded story. "They desired life again be given to Baldur."
Etro continued to talk; explaining what had been done, the means, and the eventual result. All the while, Baldur's first time in death was displayed; wandering the empty plains, lost, alone, and yet still serene. His moments of anger and desperation were clouded over; his ingenuity and calmness took hold in their minds.
It seemed, for every great civilization, there was destined to be one great man or woman, some great figure who captured the hearts and minds of the world. For this ancient Gran Pulse, Baldur was that figure. For Cocoon, maybe, just maybe, there were six such people. Lightning, Snow, Sazh, Hope, Fang and Vanille. Those who saved the world.
"That's what we have to do then?" Vanille squeaked, once Etro had finished
"No," Etro slowly shook her head, "You may not achieve this from Death. Your friends in life however bear more of a chance."
"Lightning!" Fang noted.
The Goddess of Death gave one graceful, lonely nod.
"The rules restrain me greatly of what I may do to souls within my own realm," Etro soon continued, "To those in life, I am much more free."
"Do you know the layout of Death?" Etro created a new subject upon realizing no one else was willing to speak
"I told them a little," Bartholomew spoke up, "Well, what the W- what you told me in the gate."
"Indeed," Etro smiled graciously, "I will say it again, for an understanding is crucial for what else I must say."
With a wave, Etro erased the screen depicting Baldur, and drew another in the air, a semicircle of dulled, opaque light. A blue line, the same colour as her lips, sketched itself along the canvas.
"You reside on the outer layer. In your terms, Limbo serves as the best analogy," Etro's narration again made the outside world appear to fade, and the drawing dominate all. "A perfect replica of Gran Pulse, changing in the same natural way the land outside would, and with those structures built by the few who pass on to this place."
A blue, immensely detailed, stickman popped up on the light-board.
"When a soul arrives, rarely does it remain in Limbo. The soul passes through one of many other doors attached to the Door of Souls, it is these doors which take you to what you truly call the Afterlife. You wish me to say what occurs beyond them? I am afraid the rules also forbid that's, you shall have to wait until you pass beyond in your natural time. Suffice to say, of many gates, one specific Door bears concern for us."
Another circle was scratched in the cartoon-style display, blue as always. Within it, a pulsating, solid blue, ball rested.
"This is your Maker," Etro spoke with a concealed resentment, "She now resides in this Afterlife, one of Her choosing. The cries of Her children still reach her. They call Her back every second of every year, though in recent times these cries have been diminished, Her children are moving on: She knows this not, She is abandoned by knowledge of the world. Fragments beheld by souls stolen from I create Her entire perception. She wishes more than this: while the Door of Souls to life from Limbo is now sealed to the degree of what is natural, She is not satisfied. The walls which bind Her should keep Her there, if not for…"
Etro paused, subtly flicking two fingers by her side. A ripple passed through the sketchy blue lines, ground turning to a momentary zigzag, wall around the Maker becoming a blur, before returning to normal, a split second later. Storm clouds gathered in the cartoon sky.
"Us," Vanille squeaked
"Your task is incomplete," Etro's singing, chiming voice was pitying, "My souls returned from their half-life, out of Her control, and yet now She can directly influence beyond her shell. The disturbance you create by your living presence weakens all barriers. I know not how much longer it will be before She will once again walk."
Upon the screen, the circle around the Maker distorted for a moment, zigzagging, and snapped. The Maker's representation swelled, blue scribbles covering the whole, animated symbol, before the light winked out.
"For all Her divinity, She is but a child," Etro sounded despairing, "And yet burdened with the greatest responsibility of all. It is how the world works; power is given to those unable to comprehend. Seized by the illusion the whole world wishes Her to return, She does all She may."
Pity was resplendent in the Goddess' tone. The party watching her were too afraid to notice that detail however; the Maker again was their foe, and by simply being there, Fang and Vanille were hastening her return.
"We need to find Lightning," Dajh was the first level-headed enough to speak again, fingers still scratching the cawing Choco.
"Ah yes, your friend in life," Etro smiled, appearing to almost glimmer, "But I sense something in you, young one. Tell me, were you once l'Cie."
"Yes, uh-" Dajh paused, feeling some formal manner of address was needed, but being unable to think of one.
Etro gave a small chiming laugh.
"I felt so," Etro responded, "And yet your face is not familiar to me. Is it, then, you were never in need of one of my Messengers?"
"An Eidolon?" Dajh frowned, "No, I wasn't l'Cie long enough to get a chance."
"Well then," Etro clicked her fingers subtly, still by her side, "Allow me to give you a gift, small penance for what you have been through. May she help you in your journey."
Etro looked up to the sky. "Kirin!" while the word bore the emphasis of a shout, her voice was no louder than before.
Nothing came from the sky. Instead, a gold creature appeared from behind a Cie'th Stone, pacing quickly over to Dajh.
It was a feline of sorts: Kirin, as Etro named her. It came up to Dajh's waist; long, lithe, navy body stretching and nimbly peering around. She was mostly a darker shade of Etro's lips, though, instead of fur, a metallic gold covered the Eidolon; intricate carved gold around its centre, kind-of bracelets for all four of her legs, and an ornate mask was fitted over her head. Two emerald green eyes stared out, while the gold rose, like three feathers, above them.
Silent, as Eidolons often were, Kirin hopped over, around the space in front of Dajh, curling through the air without touching the floor. She rubbed her head against Dajh's palm; though it looked like the metal gold, and was unyielding, it felt soft as snow.
Choco cawed, feeling left out, but Kirin leapt over to the chocobo, appearing to prefer moving via jumping than walking. Choco gave a Kweh in contentment as Kirin scratched sits head, standing on her forelegs, and using a blunt, golden talon.
"My gift to you," Etro spoke, "Remember Balduin. Now, farewell."
Etro's haunting blue lips gave a small smile, while the Cie'th Stones at the Seat of sacrifice each lashed, illuminated for a brief split second. As the light faded, the Goddess too had left them.
Kirin, Hecatoncheir, Bahamut and Mist Dragon: four Eidolons for Dajh, Vanille, fang and Cid. Bartholomew was the only non-l'Cie among them; Choco appeared to notice this, ambling over to Hope's father, cawing.
"Ok, I have to ask," Dajh eventually muttered, first to speak since Etro's departure. His hand was held in Kirin's dextrous paw. "Why'd you mumble to each other back then, Fang?" he looked at the two Gran Pulsian
"When?" Fang frowned
"Then!" Vanille giggled, "Did you hear the Goddess? 'You expect aid here'? It sounded stupid!"
"Oh, then," Fang nodded, "She did everything she could to put emphasis on it, and it was obvious."
"Acronym," Dajh murmured, suddenly understanding, "Only one that makes sense. 'Yeah'."
"Exactly," Vanille squeaked, "For all those party-pooping rules, she said one thing: Baldur was the right choice. If we can do what they did for him, then we can get things to work."
X
The Sylph was recovering; Hope could easily see that. He could pass as human now, if not for his abnormally pale skin, and hair the same tinged green as Sylph fingers. It was like someone had simply discoloured a human; in terms of shape and everything, the Sylph was a man. As such, he had begun to wear things; mostly a few PSICOM bits-and-bobs outfits they'd found, preserved in chambers and crystals.
Almost all his Sylph magic had gone. Though Rhoswen didn't know; how would she react to knowing her 'friends' were locked in crystal? Then again, Hope suspected, though he hadn't asked, that Rhoswen no longer cared about them, with her memories reforming. They were the PSICOM who'd pursued and tried to kill her, ever since she'd betrayed them.
The Sylph was remembering a little more, possible Sylph hive memories, possibly otherwise. There was no way to tell. He still didn't know who he was, but he was repelled by Rhoswen, the Sylph could rarely be seen with the PSICOM-survivor-and-betrayer.
Hope walked down the aisles between the eerie, crystalline, frozen faces, just behind Rhoswen. Since the blue lights had momentarily appeared, a day or so ago, Rhoswen's memories had returned somewhat; she had flashes of her past life, and sometimes recognized a few faces.
"I know her," she suddenly stopped, pointing to a crystal figure, a frozen PSICOM, glaring with soulless eyes at the Sylph of centuries past
"You do?" Hope stopped, frowning
"Yeah," Rhoswen nodded, "Saved my life. Vallis Media, tripped up, almost went tumbling down. She pulled me back up."
"Sounds nice,"
"She wasn't," Rhoswen chuckled peals of laughter, "But she was good in a team."
Silence.
"Want to start heading back? See if Sylph has found anything with all his sorting through of the systems." Hope shrugged, uneasy with the Cie'th constantly lurching around him, even if they weren't aggressive.
"Why not?" Rhoswen appeared more cheerful after revealing her secret. Betraying PSICOM: a brave thing to do in any circumstance.
A loud echo, a thud, passed through the titanic chamber. The duo looked around, confused. A few seconds later, the ceiling far, far above them lit up brightly. Hope and Rhoswen looked down, shielding their eyes; for the length of time they'd spent on the mostly unlit Cocoon, the light bulbs were akin to staring directly at the Sun, if not some thing brighter. Almost painful. It took a little while for their eyes to stop watering, and a little longer until they'd adapted long enough to move their arms from their eyes, even if they could still only look down at the floor, with a squint.
"Looks like someone found the light switch," Hope muttered
"Probably that sick Sylph of yours."
"Sick?"
"Yeah, you know, ill. Look at him; looks nothing like a Sylph."
Hope grunted, nodding, irritated by the almost blinding light. He edged his eyes open a little further, feeling them begin to water again. A few seconds more, and he squinted again, looking forwards, trying to be more on guard in the Cie'th filled hive.
Those ex-l'Cie were also wilting under the newfound brilliant light, most flailing, some fallen, covering their red eyes.
The sound of static filled their ears.
"I've got some of the mechanics figured out. Please could you two return to the entrance."
It was the Sylph; somehow, not only had it succeeded in turning the lights on, but now it had the speaker system working. That was clever. Maybe it had been here before, in its past life. That would explain its (or his, judging by the voice) inherent use of the systems.
A few minutes later, Hope and Rhoswen reached the small, automatic gate; the only entrance and exit to and from the huge crystal holding area. Hope stepped through and, seconds later, it slammed shut.
Rhoswen was still on the other side.
"Hey, Sylph?" Hope called, trying to find the route it had taken to control all this stuff, "Rhoswen's still in there, open the door!"
"No," the answering voice was muted, little more than a whisper, yet carried from the unknown location via speaker.
Hope frowned, eyes widening.
"Rhoswen!" the voice came out of the speaker, a half-mad shout. "I do not remember much, but now, I remember enough. You were PSICOM. You killed with all of them-"
"No!" Hope heard her voice, muffled, shout back, "It wasn't like that, I-"
"I should not have freed you from crystal," the Sylph continued speaking. Maybe it was ignoring Rhoswen's protests, or maybe it simply couldn't hear her. "Nonetheless, now you are free: once of PSICOM."
Hope heard Rhoswen banging on the gate, instinctively afraid. Maybe the Cie'th were being drawn to the commotion: Hope had no way to see. Or maybe the prospect of the Sylph having so much control over that area was just terrifying.
"You were with PSICOM Rhoswen. But don't forget," the Sylph paused, "So was I."
Rhoswen's frantic clanging froze, as did Hope.
"I remember your betrayal," the Sylph continued, "Every detail of it. Should a traitor be allowed to live when so many others died? But now I remember: you were pathetic. PSICOM, was pathetic. You did nothing, you squabbled for too long, and did nothing. The only one who ever did something- well, you left me to die! And in the end, I did die."
A loud tremor passed through the floor, Hope looked down, pressing his hands against the gate to keep his balance as the tremors ran through the ground.
"I was captured and killed for doing what PSICOM should have been," the Sylph continued to speak, to shout, "I have no patience with them. But you Rhoswen! You even betrayed them! PSICOM were and are the only ones who had any standards, who remained loyal to our True Home. Cocoon."
A pause, Rhoswen slamming against the gate again as the tremors ceased.
"Enjoy the dark," the Sylph gave the savage whisper, before the speakers cut off.
"Rhoswen?" Hope muttered, pressing himself against the gate, "What's he done?"
"Nothing," he heard her muffled voice come back, then, after a moment, "I think. He's turned the lights off, I can't see a thing. Wait a sec," there was a flick, "l'Cie magic. Nothing looks different."
Just then, hope span around; there was a noise. Footsteps. The human-sized Sylph stepped down the steps, garbed in PSICOM armour: it fitted him eerily well, though that could simply be Hope's preconceptions playing up. No helmet was worn, so Hope could see the unnaturally smooth Sylph skin where his hair should be.
The gate clicked open.
Hope turned around, to see Rhoswen illuminated only by a magical flame. She glared across the room at the silent, impassive Sylph.
The Sylph made the first move. He lifted both arms, into an X shape, and brought them down with similar strength, in the space of a second. Hope could feel the magic in the blow, but judging by the look of the Sylph, it was also obvious: it could well be the last spell the transforming Sylph would be able to cast.
Rhoswen was flung back, unable to react, and as Hope watched, events unfolded, too quickly to prevent. Laying on her back, staring up, Rhoswen was the first to see the other effects of the spell.
Rocks and metal were falling. Huge chunks of the ceiling in the crystal chamber descended, a huge mass, a blanket of such incredible weight. The first fell near Rhoswen; clipping straight through an ancient crystal figure. Rhoswen's eyes widened, as another piece fell, obscuring her from view.
The deadly rain continued. An agonizing scream, and silence, terrifying seconds apart. And in little more than the seconds it took for the scream to silence, the gate was rendered unnecessary. The chamber's roof had fallen, stone and metal, shattering the age-old crystals, and claiming the life of Rhoswen.
Hope looked back at the 'Sylph', who was already turning to walk away.
The shocks were not over.
For, since casting that spell, the last of the Sylph hold over his appearance had faded. And for the brief glimpse Hope had, he could identify the man. The one figure he could never forget.
That was the face of Halyard Lee Wevos.
The man who had killed his father.