The sun has gone to rest, easing the tangerine hue of twilight into the usual indigo of an evening. Stars line the sky like stairways to the land of those Worshipped. Zanarkand remains alight with the racket of human noises and the serene sound of flowing water underneath its ever dazzling infrastructures. But the overall mood in the city is sombre; all hearts beat in agony for the one confined within a dreary bedchamber at the Dome.
It has been forty days since Yaj Yeshe last opened his eyes. His body has grown thinner and frail; his skin sunken and yellowing; his breathing is becoming more laborious as days went by. Leading White Mages from all around Spira have been summoned but none were able to heal him from his ailments. Holy candles and fragrant incense have been ignited in the bedchamber and orisons are sung unceasingly… yet the state of him worsen day by day.
As much as I want it to be untrue… I can no longer deny it. Zanarkand is losing its most wise and just sovereign.
More importantly, I am losing a long time friend.
It feels as though it was only yesterday when we were mere novices familiarizing ourselves to the Code of Life as dictated by those Worshipped at the old temple housed within the Dome. It was a life of nothing but recitals of prayers from sunrise to sunset, and reading of sacred texts from evening to midnight. I believe it was mostly our companionship that helped us to persevere until we achieved mastery.
Similar to our predecessors, both of us entered the world of statecraft. I have watched Yeshe climb through ranks with his wit, intelligence and diligence until the people of Zanarkand trusted him enough to appoint him as their sovereign. I have stood by him as he built Zanarkand into what it is today: a metropolis which celebrates all things contemporary such as the thrilling game of Blitzball but also does not abandon the old teachings of those Worshipped.
During such a pressing time, I dread the loss of him – for Zanarkand, and for my soul.
The scribing came to a halt as the writer, a man dressed in an overflowing regal purple robe paused to regain his composure. His eyes grew hot from gathering tears as he pressed his lips together, choking down sobs that were threatening to spill. He wanted to continue but wondered if it was wise to pen down his next trail of thoughts. Then he remembered that the journal would be sealed in a certain way and no other person has access to it without his permission…
At times I wish that Zanarkand is what it once was: antiquated, a simple piece of land floating above the sea where people live only to worship those Worshipped. A place free of imminent dangers from others who are envious and greedy. Yeshe would not need to struggle and break his body to keep the city safe.
But such a thought needs to be dispelled for it is unbecoming of a state crafter like myself.
Zanarkand needs a reliable protector from its foes. Yeshe's efforts to continue building the city must continue.
And I vow to perform them all if the duties are thrusted upon my hands.
[Yu Yevon, Year xxx1, Zanarkand Dome]
The man placed down his brush and waited until the ink that formed his writings to dry before closing his journal. Then he rose, only to retrieve a brown chord from a nearby wooden cabinet that he tied around the journal to seal it tightly. He resettled at the writing desk and let his eyes roamed the beloved city through an open window. Somewhere in the distance, he caught a glimpse of Yeshe's figure from a wide screen built onto one of the city's tallest buildings.
Down the hallway, the man heard the swishing of robes, no doubt made by someone who was running in haste to find him. There was a knock or two on his door, and he allowed his visitor an entry. A young man – one of the court scribes, the older man recognized – stepped in, catching his breath and bending down with respect.
"You may speak," the older man instructed, barely concealing his shaking hands as he put his writing tools away.
"It's time… Lord Yevon."