Disclaimer : I don't own the characters or anything else in Final Fantasy 9. Square does.

(This is a little sad. It's what happens to Amarant when he runs off during the destruction of Alexandria. Please R&R!)

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Zidane is a fool.

Wave after wave of flames leapt at him, but every time, Amarant managed to dodge their hungry pursuit. Right behind him, an explosion rocked the entire alley, sending a stream of fire and smoke into the windows and doors of the buildings lining the street attached.

He is worse than a fool. He is insane.

But Amarant didn't care. Zidane was off and determined to get himself killed. The others fled, but Amarant knew that they couldn't possibly escape Alexandria in time. And to his sick, but careless realization, he knew all too well that it was too late for him to flee in time, either.

He was in an alley. He didn't know where -- he'd never been to Alexandria before. But behind him was a church of some kind, or a tower. And now he faced the water. A dead end, because all that lay in the path he'd just taken was rubble.

There were people all around him. They leapt into the water, some with clothes ablaze, and others not. They were panicking. Amarant already knew how to control his fear. Not that he needed to. He wasn't afraid. Everyone died some day. Today was their day, and perhaps his. He seriously doubted that the water was any kind of sanctuary at all, let alone a good one.

And so, he stopped running. Even as the heat and flames roared above his head, and more bolts of fire stuck the street behind him and further ahead, he never felt afraid, nor concerned. The street was reduced to cinders, and there were bodies all around. Some alive. Most dead. Some unconcious. . .

Most dead.

So Zidane wanted to risk his life to save another? Amarant didn't care if Dagger was the queen or not, the only thing he could tell himself was how much of an idiot Zidane was. A mere boy -- a child, running headlong into danger because he wants to bear the burden of another. . .he is. . .a fool, he thought to himself, as he turned around, facing the destruction behind him.

An unnatural, hot wind whipped at him, nearly driving him back. The streetsides were smoldering red coals and flames. Vivid bursts of heat tore through the alley, pounding at the windows, shattering them like eggshells. Rolls of flames and black magic barreled into buildings and rooftops, exploding them with ear-splitting cracks. It was chaos. It was the end of this kingdom.

Amarant turned his back on the devastating scene. He could hear screams and sobs from countless woman and men as they ran about in circles, grabbing random possesions, and herding children to where they thought was safe.

And so, with nowhere to go, and no desire to help anyone though there were many who needed it, Amarant lifted his head to look at the night sky. It was clouded, and the only light was the eerie glow of the embers that had once been the proud city. Alexander had destryoed Bahaumut, and still the mist monsters ravaged and destroyed the city.

Bahaumut. A poweful ally. . .or a terrible enemy. This Eidolon was put to the task of evil, though. Today, he'd destroyed half the city, and then some. And though Amarant knew next to nothing about Eidolons, he knew his own magic well enough to know that a toy of destruction did not stop until it's job was done. Unless, of course, something mroe powerful destroys it first.

Like himself, for example.

He was a walking dead man. He knew it. . .He should have died a long time ago, days. . .weeks ago! He'd lost his honor and pride by being defeated by that idiot teenage boy. . .Zidane. He'd lost everything he'd owned, and the fool made him suffer further by allowing him to live. The humiliation of being beaten by the one he'd been sent to kill!

And yet. . .

And yet. That was as far as he could get. And. Yet. There was something there that screamed to be let free, but didn't make a noise. It wanted to be noticed. Naturally, that was never going to happen. But it was there, and Amarant knew it. And yet. . .and yet something told him that he was alive for a good reason. Even after being humiliated and allowed to live, even after being defeated for the first time. . .even though he hated Zidane with every ounce of his strength, he had something left. What was it? He stuck with Zidane. Why? A shadow with a debt? Or a. . . . .a friend. . .?

Amarant felt his hands curl instinctively into fists. No, he was thinking like Zidane now. He was developing the weakness that he saw all too clearly in the sixteen-year-old moron. He couldn't become as thick- skulled as Zidane. There was no way he was to die today, the same day Zidane did. He was going to escape, unlike him.

However, he never had the chance to. Had the next thing that happened, never happen, he just might have gotten out of Alexandria. A little, half-formed, ludicrous-beyond-imagination plan began to form in the back of his mind. Then, out of nowhere, something hard struck him from behind.

It was instantanious. Amarant didn't fall over, or react to the stab of pain, but in a flash had his claws flying for the creature's head behind him. Again, something whipped for his head -- a tentacle or something of the sort, and the Mist Monster had a grip around his left arm. With a jolt, it lifted Amarant clear off the ground and slammed him into the half- demolished wall of the steeple.

It was a mist monster. A typical, insect-like thing with a crystal in the place of it's face. Right now, that crystal was beaming of red energry, evidently readying for a Firaga attack. Suddenly, Amarant had a feeling he'd had enough of heat and flames for one day.

Just as the blaze of fire flew in his direction, Amarant rolled painfully to one side, and leapt to his feet. He'd only ran three feet, when the entire wall of the tower was engulfed in the blast of Firaga magic. But, the magic being simply magic, it dissolved in a moment, leaving the wall unscathed. After all, magic was designed to hurt human beings, or creatures, not stone.

Amarant heard the monster's roar of annoyance all too loudly. As soon as the critter was done screaming in fury, it charged him, tentacles lashing about rapidly.

Amarant smirked to himself and drew his fist back, ready for his next attack. This monster wanted to fight unfairly? Firaga barely gave him a scar, anyway, had it struck him. He knew the creature would be very, very sorry it challenged him with magic.

Just one yard away, the mist monster stopped, all six of it's tentacles began to snap and become rigid with electricity. Amarant snorted. Thundaga? This monster was crazier than Zidane, even. It's sudden change of mind was going to be it's curse of death, for in that little second before the monster unleashed it's attack, Amarant unleashed his own.

At first he'd considered using Curse. But that meant he'd have to kill the mist monster even more slowly, with his own hands, and he certainly couldn't afford to waste any more time. So instead, he used the next best thing.

Death. Not Countdown. Death.

Well, it was a good form of magic, wasn't it? Originally created from evil itself, he pretty much only used Death against the evilest of monsters, no matter what Zidane told him to do. He lived in a world that he didn't care about, and he didn't care about this one mist monster that had the intentions of killing him. Monsters picked fights with him, not the other way around.

Amarant felt the familiar energy travel straight down his arm and to his very fingertips. First, he swung his arms back, just to control the incredible amount of power, and then thrust his arm forward to throw the invisible flow of magic at the creature. Two seconds of tranquility followed, and then the first sparks of red mist began to encircle the monster.

It dropped it's Thundaga attack almost instantly, twisting it's head about in confusion.

The red fog began to grow thick, and lowered itself to the ground, a tall and silky form rising from it's depths. The Death Eidolon, most hated of all and used only by anyone with Amarant's class of magic, Flair, took shape. Silently, it raised it's ghostly blade in the red glow of the smoldering alley. Then the blade descended on the monster, and the blade, deadly but not solid, travelled through the monster's body. It wasn't a bloody attack, like normal weapons seemed to make, for the Eidolon of Death wasn't a solid figure, and neither was his blade. But the effect was instantanious.

All traces of the deadly mist monster's previous magic had disappeared, and now it was writhing about -- not in pain, but in insanity. It's tentacles whipped about wildly for a second, and Amarant leapt back to evade them. Just as the monster collapsed in a heap, a low rumble began to rise in volume, until it deafened out even the mist monster's death squeal.

But Amarant was no longer paying any attention to the mist monster. He'd dealt with it himself, alone, something not everybody could brag about. The monster was no longer a concern. Amarant's head was tilted back, and he was staring at something in the sky. Something that couldn't possibly be there.

Bahaumut was directly above him.

But he was destroyed! The insane beast had been killed by Alexander's power, and everyone had seen it with their own eyes. But still, unmistakibly through the smoke and clouds of derbis, Amarant saw the King of Dragons hovering just above him. However horribly scarred and torn apart the beast appeared, the look of rage in his eyes told the whole story. Alexander hadn't killed Bahaumut just yet. He was there, gazing with glowing eyes.

Bahaumut was staring at Amarant

In some way, the Eidolon, the beast that was supposed to be dead, was observing him. Why? It had stopped destroying everything in a second, been unmistakably blown up in the sky, yet was now hovering above to glare at him. It was Bahaumut, the King of Dragons, back from the dead, and it was looking at him?

He'd done nothing out of the ordinary. He'd merely used another Eidolon, and the one of Death, too. In fact, Death was barely considered an Eidolon anymore. If that wasn't the reason the King of Dragons was above him, suddenly alive again, flapping his gigantic wings in an angry rhythm. . .what was?

Very slowly, Amarant began to advance backwards, head still tilted towards the sky. And slower still, Bahaumut took his deadly gaze off of him. With another pump of his torn wings, the beast rose further into the sky and roared with all his fury. A magnificent, but terrfying thing for the citizens of Alexandria, for in the next minute, chaos broke out again for just one more horrifying second.

Bahaumut did another flap into the sky, and suddenly swerved sharply so that he faced the ground. Wings unfolded to his greatest extent, the dragon swooped and then dived straight towards the city below. And Amarant stood where he was, eyes unwaveringly on the dragon's form. But now, instead of his gaze fixed on the dragon's face or eyes, it was on the beast's open mouth, and the flames that were forming inside.

The next thing that happened would have looked like a small explosion from above, but from Amarant's point of view, it was a whole lot more serious than that. Apparently, the Eidolon didn't judge Amarant as that much of a threat, for the ball of hot flames that leapt from it's throat did not seem all that threatening. To anyone else, that is. But there was just one small problem.

Bahaumut was aiming for Amarant.

Amarant didn't know what happened next. He really couldn't figure just what happened to the heat and flames that was supposed to come next. All he remembered was lifting his arms to instinctively shield his face. After that, the whole world around him exploded like nothing he'd ever experienced before.

The last thing he actually saw before the flames hit him was the King of Dragons screech as his battered wings failed him. Yes, the dragon screeched, and then stuck the dock protruding into the water with a sickening crash. The vast body of the dragon bounced once, and then slowly tumbled into the lake itself, and lay still. Suddenly, it was simply gone, like a defeated beast should be. He disappeared.

And then Amarant was facing the castle. He was facing Alexander's great wings, doomed, blackened and dead, folded over the castle. He was facing. . .an eye. A red eye surrounded by the glowing clouds of destruction. An eye that began to pulse with unimagined energy, before that small streak of blue light hit the top of the castle's peak and began to grow.

He never saw the actual explosion. All he knew, was that he was standing in the middle of walls upon walls of flame and ruined cobblestone, though none of the heat or pain reach him. The spot he stood on was clear and bright, amidst the exploded alley.

It was then he did two things. Had he not done the first thing, he would have thought himself dead, and stayed where he was. But he did not, for he impulsively lifted his arms to look at them.

And found they were aglow.

He was in Trance.

No, he wasn't.

But he had to be, there was no other explanation.

He was. . .in Trance, but a Trance he'd never experienced before. Ever. If he were in normal Trance, he would still be dead. Yet, he had that uncontrollable surge of anger and power that one feels while in Trance, and still stood where he should not be standing anymore.

Pondering it would have meant death, surely. And so, the next thing he did was rational. He leapt from the flames and landed on the half-decent stone of the alley in front of him. Immediatly, as he passed out of the destroyed bit of the city, the anger, the power left his body. It simply vanished, and he was still running towards the water.

The water was his goal, but again, his goal couldn't be reached. For as I said, he never saw the explosion. He merely felt the force of the first wave radiated from the center of the city, hit his back. There was about a millisecond of peace, and the weightlessness of flying through the air told him he was no longer running. Amarant practically flew when he felt the heat, and the pressure of the next explosion behind him. The tower, the houses, the entire half-destroyed alley all disappeared in an envelope of flames.

There was the heat, a surge of pure anger and pain, and then nothing.