Even a life-long prosperity is but one cup of sake;
A life of forty-nine years is passed in a dream;
I know not what life is, nor death.
Year in year out -- all but a dream.
Both Heaven and Hell are left behind;
I stand in the moonlit dawn,
Free from clouds of attachment.

Uesugi Kenshin, Samurai
1530-1578






Otherworld: Year Four




Auron was perched like a peculiar red gargoyle on the end of the support beam... his forearms resting across his bent knees, a perfect miniature sunrise reflecting across the dark planes of his glasses.

It was his favorite place to get away to think. The city sometimes made him feel claustrophobic... its artificial mass pressing down on him, like some giant mechanized hand. But here atop this buttress, with the city far below, he could breathe. The view of the uninterrupted sky, and the smell of the sea air, were like a cleansing tonic.

He needed to clear his head. His mind had become a restless jumble in the past few weeks... a completely unacceptable state.

Trying to sort his thoughts, he turned first to the clearest and most prevalent that paraded themselves across his mental plane, in order to get to the deeper, hidden ones below.

The lives of those around him were progressing in a satisfactory manner, and he was pleased by that.

Sahna and Gabe's relationship had deepened, and their growing happiness was readily apparent. He didn't think it would be long before they were wed. Sahna and Remie living under Gabe's roof would simplify things, and he was looking forward to it. But he wondered at what his place would be, once it came about. The loss of their companionship would be regrettable, but if he sensed his presence becoming an intrusion, he would leave.

His commitment to train Remie would not be affected. It would be no more difficult than it was at present, he would simply come to Remie, instead of Remie coming to him... easy enough.

Remie had shown a remarkable aptitude for training, and under his guidance, had progressed rapidly. His physical prowess was somewhat average... he did not possess the speed and agility of Tidus. His strength lay in his mental focus, his ability to concentrate his power... and it was quite unlike anything he had ever seen. It would be interesting to see were it led him.

Shifting his weight slightly to maintain his balance in the buffeting wind, he looked down to his right, toward the now vacant Blitzball stadium... its retracting roof closed.

Tidus was doing reasonably well, despite his predilection for emotional outbursts. This weakness often caused him to fail, eliciting more negative emotions. It was a vicious cycle he had tried to make him aware of... pointing it out to the boy whenever he complained about his lack of progress in his Blitz training, or expressed his anger at constantly being compared to his father.

He did not find it particularly amusing to be so hard on Tidus. But the boy's attitude left him with little choice... if Jecht's plans for his son were to have any hope of succeeding.

As a result of his stern treatment, Tidus was rarely glad to see him, and in fact, had told him point blank on several occasions, to get lost. The rejection was irritating at best, and at worst, though he was loathe to admit it... hurtful. There was so much of his father in him, and he regretted that their relationship would never grow into real friendship, as his relationship with Jecht had.

But what did it matter? What purpose would it serve, other than to give him emotional sustenance he had no business wanting in the first place. And that's where all these thoughts were leading him weren't they?

There were no training manuals for the walking dead.

He knew his purpose, and why he resisted the siren song of the farplane, with every breath he took. Anything done for himself was a waste of spirit. His story had been told... its final page turned in the ruins of Zanarkand, a thousand years away. His reason for being now, to help others shape their stories. And surely that was a noble thing, and enough for him to go on.

But damnit, he felt... empty. Maybe there was only so much of his soul to go around. He sometimes thought he could actually feel it being drawn imperceptibly from his body, seeping through his pores like sweat. And when at last it had been drained from him... what then? What would he become? Would his heart still beat? Would his lungs still draw air? Would he even be cognizant of his final departure from humanity?

He despised self pity. It was a sign of weakness, and an indulgence he could ill afford, and yet here he was... awash in it.

He was an unsent. He no longer owned the right to need... or belong... or love. But he did have needs... and he yearned for a sense of home, and he longed to show love, and be loved in return. He wanted all the things he could not allow himself to have... and he didn't know how to stop wanting.

But he did know how to fight. It was the last, and perhaps the best of what he was. He had been worn down to the essence of himself, and this is what remained... the only thing left to call his own.

So he would do battle with his weakness. Fight his longing, and his sorrow, and his loneliness... his will the unsheathed blade, with which to strike them down.

"Begone." He said, squeezing his eye shut, and bringing his fisted hand to his forehead... struggling to send the desire from his aching heart.