O! that I were as great
As is my grief, or lessor than my name,
Or that I could forget what I have been,
Or not remember what I must be now.

--- Shakespeare






Otherworld: Year Six



"Auron?" Sahna called softly, as she stepped through the entryway. "Are you coming to supper?"

Only silence answered from the darkened room ahead. He must be gone... probably at the beach, working out. It was how he spent most of his free time these days, and she worried at the way he drove himself so hard. He had been looking very haggard lately.

Sighing softly, she turned to leave, when she heard Auron's low voice from the darkness behind her...

"Not tonight, but thank you."

Sahna spun, bringing a hand to her throat. "My goodness Auron, you scared the wits out of me." She said, stepping forward, and peering into the room. A shadow moved at the edge of the bed, and she almost jumped again, then realized it must be Auron.

"I'm sorry if I startled you." The shadow said, in a weary monotone.

"That's okay. I shouldn't have barged in like this, I did not mean to intrude." Sahna answered, then walked back to the doorway.

"Goodnight Sahna." Auron spoke, still no inflection in his voice.

"Goodnight."

The door tracked closed behind her, as she walked to the railing of the mezzanine, then turned and leaned back against it, to stare at the closed door of Auron's apartment.

He couldn't keep going on like this. His voice had sounded so... lifeless just now. Auron was slipping away from them, turning further and further inside himself... and she was afraid he wouldn't stop, until he was beyond all reach.

************

Auron again shifted on the bed, looking down at his empty sake cup, and then toward the door. He could sense Sahna still there, just outside. He knew she was concerned, and only wished to help... but there was no comfort for him tonight in Zanarkand.

Bringing a hand up, he passed it across his forehead, as if that act might clear away these thoughts.

He had gone to see Tidus late in the day, after work, and approaching the houseboat, he had spotted the boy... his back to him, sitting on the upper deck, looking out toward the water.

As he had drawn nearer, a sound had come to him... carried softly to his ears, above the harsh sounds of the city behind him. The low humming of The Hymn, at once both strange and familiar... its place and meaning, stopping his advance, to listen.

And poorly sung though it was, it had torn into his heart, then burrowed its way deep... until it had found the place within, where he kept his memories. And having found them, pulled them to the surface against his will... their sudden presence, piercing through his emotional control, like steel meeting so much brittle shell.

So he had quietly stolen away, leaving the boy and The Hymn behind, to return here... to this empty, silent room.

And remember.

The brightly-colored pennants that flew over Bevelle during Festival... the vast serenity of the Moonflow... and the deep crystal woods of Macalania.

And wonder.

Had the Ronso kept his promise... was Yuna safe and well, and growing as fast as Tidus was... did she have her father's gentle ways, and quiet resolve...

Oh Jecht... I don't want to do this, he thought. What if I fail to keep them safe... it's been so long, and I'm so tired. And I could not bear it, should it come to that. To witness their deaths, and know that pain again.

There had been too much death. Too much pain. Too much.

He could turn away from it. The choice had always been his to make. He didn't have to do this. He could simply... let go.

It would be so easy.

Just go out onto the balcony, and throw his arms open wide, unraveling into the dark sky... to finally embrace that achingly beautiful, singing light, that ceaselessly called to him from the Farplane...

Come home. Come home.

A moaning cry issued from him, as he drew his arm back and hurled the sake cup against the far wall... the porcelain shattering in a spray of white, as it cascaded to the floor.

Someone else must be thinking these thoughts. This was not the man who had sworn fealty to Braska, and given his word to Jecht. This was not the man who had pledged his purpose in blood.

He was a Guardian. He was a Warrior.

Bringing his shaking hands out in front of him, he stared at their calloused forms, in the dim light coming through the window. It's all they were good for now, these hands...

Fighting. Killing.

When had they last held pen to parchment to write an old friend... or pause to pluck the bright-blaze of an autumn leaf... or entwine themselves in the silk of a woman's hair.

So long. So long ago now.