Interlude (Part One)
The first rays of dawn sparkled on the sea, dancing on the waves. Far off, over the eastern horizon, the sun could be seen, peeking over the horizon. The fiery globe was wreathed in a nimbus of gold and crimson, making it seem the sky were aflame. As the ball rose higher into the sky, the various beings that populated Spira felt its rejuvenating warmth, and stirred from their slumber. Animals arose and went to find their daily meal, children got up looking forward to a day of playtime with their friends, and their parents prepared to do their work for the day. A new day was born.
After every night, there is a new dawn. However, in the lives of the people of Spira. even the dawn was tinged with darkness. Would that day bring peace, joy, happiness? Or would it come bearing hell and chaos? Was that rustling in the trees just the wind, or was it a hungry fiend, prepared to pounce? Sin had found a permanent place in which to make its home-the mind of every Spiran. The people lived their lives in fear, in sorrow.
Summoners are the cure for that fear, for that sorrow. Able to harness the abilities and powers of the mighty Aeons, only they stand a chance against the chaos incarnate that is Sin. Only they are able to defeat the monstrous beast, although at the ultimate price.
When a summoner defeats Sin, there is a period of peace and prosperity in Spira known as the Calm. During the Calm, townsfolk become neighbors, neighbors become friends, friends become family. The knowledge that one does not have to worry about waking up to find their life in ruins brings everyone together. Even the tensions between those who worship Yevon and the scientific Al Bhed abate during this period.
Unfortunately, the period is finite. Sin is death, and death is eternal. Even after its destruction, Sin will return after several years. And then, brother turns against brother, friend against friend, neighbor against neighbor. When Sin stalks the realm of Spira, it leaves hatred and mistrust in its wake. The Yevonites and the Al Bhed return to conflict once more. Not only does Sin leave its mark on the land of Spira, it scars the souls of all who live there. The only salve for that wound is the Calm, the only doctors the summoners.
When a summoner defeats Sin, they are awarded the highest honor in Spira- the rank of High Summoner. However, this is generally awarded posthumously, as the summoner will pass from the physical plane with their hated opponent. Unlike Sin, they do not come back. And usually, there is always someone left behind.
* * *
A smirk found its way onto Tyron Sul's face as he heard a growl come from the heavily shadowed foliage behind him. He was in a small forest about a mile away from the small town of Mi'ihen, and the dense underbrush intercepted most of the early morning sunlight, plunging the forest into near-total darkness. Deprived of his eyesight, Tyron was forced to rely on his other senses and on his pure, base, instincts.
He heard the growl again, and widened his stance, sinking lower to the ground, his highly attuned ears straining to hear any possible sound. Once more, the growl came to him-the growl of a hungry predator seeking food. And in that instant, Tyron heard the whistling of the underbrush as the fiend leapt.
In one smooth motion, Tyron slipped to the side out of harm's way, allowed the creature to come up right next to him, then lashed out with his foot in a side kick that caught the fiend right on the side of the neck, sending it flying. The predator slammed into a tree about ten or so feet away.
As it slid to the ground, caught off guard, it wandered into a lonely ray of sunlight, and Tyron was able to see it. It was a Mi'ihen Fang, its fur brown tinged with hints of gray. This particular wolf was fairly large, and because of its graying fur, Tyron surmised that it was an older fiend, accustomed to the hunt. It had been caught off guard once, but would not make the same mistake again. As he realized this, Tyron felt his lips pull back into a feral grin, a hunter's grin, much like the one the wolf was wearing. Here was a true challenge. He would have to use all of his skills if he planned on surviving.
Fifteen years ago, Tyron would have never tried to fight a Mi'ihen Fang by himself. Ten years ago, he would have never fought one in an environment so devoid of light. Five years ago, Tyron would have battled one, but only with his trusted sword. Now? The warrior faced his opponent as nature intended.
The wolf slunk out of the light into the shadows, and the two of them began to circle each other, slowly, each looking for an opening. The Fang had the upper hand-this Tyron knew-because it could see in the very dim light, which of course, a human could not. Unable to see the fiend, Tyron listened very carefully to anything he could. His opponent was very skilled, naturally, and didn't make much noise with its footsteps. The only thing Tyron had to go by was the fiend's breathing, which he could barely make out over his own.
And then, he heard an intake of air as the wolf pounced. The elder warrior, rather than dodging as the fiend expected, dashed forward. He met the wolf at the apex of its jump, his shoulder slamming into its soft underbelly. Yelping, the Fang fell back, but recovered quickly. It leapt once more, and this time, Tyron was unprepared. He grimaced as the wolf's sharp claws tore through his shirt into his flesh, slicing through his muscle. With the wolf on top of him, Tyron stumbled over a root and fell onto his back.
Confident that his prey was done for, the hungry animal dove down, his pearl fangs searching for Tyron's neck, to tear his jugular out. But the man wouldn't be killed so easily, and hurriedly stuck his arm in front of his throat, allowing the wolf to chomp on that. The warrior hissed at the pain, but grinned at the same time. This was living.
Tyron then brought his knees up, kneeing the wolf in the stomach. With that, he kicked up, knocking his opponent off of him-although the fiend did manage to tear a chunk of his arm off in the process. And then, as the monster was landing from the kick, Tyron reached forward, grabbed one of its forelegs and twisted sharply. There was a sickening crack and the wolf yelped in pain. Tyron had broken the leg, and now the creature knew it was defeated.
However, it wasn't about to go out without one last try. It sprung, trying once more to tear its enemy's throat out. Tyron, at the last minute, reached out, grabbing it around the muzzle, holding it closed. In the next moment, Tyron forced the fiend's jaws open, grabbed the upper one in his right and the lower in his left, and pulled them sharply in opposite directions.
The Mi'ihen Fang's neck cracked, and with one final yelp, it went limp, dissolving into pyreflies. Tyron sank to one knee, saying some prayers for the fiend's spirit, thanking it for the fight. Then, he turned and walked away, out of the forest, without saying a word.
* * *
It was another fifteen minutes before he reached the small village of Mi'ihen. The famous Lord Mi'ihen, founder of the Crusaders, had built his home there when he had become too old to fight on the battle lines anymore. After time, it had blossomed into a small town, and it bore his name. Because it was located right between the Summoners' Temple at Djose and the fairly large shrine in Luca, the town had a temple that was very small. It was for praying only; there was no fayth there for summoners to obtain. And it was to this very temple that Tyron was headed.
Since it was early morning, the streets of the small town did not have many people on them. The few who were out, however, shot puzzled looks at the man in the black and white Crusaders' uniform who walked down the street, bleeding from several wounds including a large one on his arm. The strangest part was that he didn't even seem to notice his injuries. One kind-hearted fellow had asked the man if he should send for the temple healers, but the man had simply stated that it was not necessary, and walked on.
At long last, the man in black made it to the temple. It was a concrete and stone building, and stood out from the wooden huts that formed the small village of Mi'ihen. Although it was easily the largest structure in the town, it was small as far as temples went. It was a domed structure, barely over one story tall. On either side of the entrance, two marble pillars rose into the air, supporting a stone arch-the only form of ornamentation visible on the outside of the temple, in fact.
Tyron walked up the stairs, beneath the arch, and into the temple. Inside, it was a circular room about forty feet wide. The walls and dome were colored a dark blue, and the floor was tiled in white marble. Several torches lined the walls, giving a crimson overtone to everything. There were two doorways opposite from the entrance, which lead to the rooms for the healers. And all along the wall stood the statues of the revered High Summoners. And Tyron slowly walked to one of these marble heroes-a woman, standing proud and tall-High Summoner Taradine.
Blood dripped from his wounds onto the floor, little crimson raindrops splattering silently along his path, but he paid them no heed. When he reached Taradine's statue, Tyron knelt before her without saying a word, and cupped his hands together in the traditional prayer gesture. The warrior prayed to Yevon silently, asking His blessings, and His guidance on his quests that lay ahead. As Tyron knelt in supplication, he felt his injuries starting to hurt less-whether because of divine blessing or natural pain suppression, he didn't know.
After several minutes of prayer, Tyron looked up at the statue of Taradine. His eyes wandered over the well-polished marble, scrutinizing it. Every detail of her was sculpted exactly the way she looked in real life-her flowing cloak and robe, her long, braided hair, her elaborate feathered headdress, even the scar on her left hand, each was elaborately carved so it was perfect. It looked as if High Summoner Taradine had been frozen in stone, and transported to the temple, so exact was the replica. The sculptors were indeed masters of their craft. Yet no matter how much it looked like Taradine, to Tyron, the statue was nothing like the real woman.
High Summoner Taradine, in the statue, was looking intensely out at some unseen foe, harsh, commanding, ready to do justice in the holy name of Yevon. She was majestic, noble, powerful. it wasn't her. Tyron closed his eyes once more, conjuring up his memories from the dark depths of his mind. In them, he saw Taradine the way he knew her. The way she was.
She would always laugh, always smile. If she were hurt, she'd laugh no matter how much pain she were feeling, and jokingly put herself down. Whenever anyone made a mistake in front of her, she would laugh, and help them so they wouldn't make the mistake again. Even when the pressure of all of Spira was on her shoulders, she'd laugh and smile.
The only times she wasn't laughing was when she was presented with hate. When she had begun her pilgrimage those thirteen long years ago, tensions between the Al Bhed and the Yevonites had been at an all-time high. Taradine and her guardians had witnessed several atrocities on the part of both groups. Yevonites had killed an entire settlement of Al Bhed and forced conversions on the few survivors before her eyes. A group of Al Bhed extremists had practiced some of their 'advanced' medical techniques on a pregnant Yevonite woman-while she was still alive and conscious-by removing her unborn child and slicing it into pieces. Spira had been about to plunge into full-blown war.
Taradine had narrowly averted that war by bringing a Calm. Without the stresses caused by Sin, tensions quickly abated. yet the scars of the Al Bhed Crisis, as it was known, were far-reaching. The area around where Tyron was now staying, all around the Highroad, had been one of the hardest hit during the strife. There were still a number of hate groups in the Mi'ihen territories that preyed on the few Al Bhed who were too stubborn to leave their homes.
Yet even after seeing all of this. Taradine never became wrathful, terribly powerful, as the statue portrayed her. In all of the time he had spent with her, Tyron had never seen her angry once. In the face of all the atrocities, High Summoner Taradine had not screamed, not threatened, not destroyed. she had wept. The Taradine he had known was a person. not some sort of deity.
'The people need to believe that their heroes are who they see them as,' the warrior thought silently to himself. 'They see the summoners as perfect, as idols. and so they re-create them in that image.' Privately, Tyron wondered how the people would have reacted had they known of Taradine's sympathies with the Al Bhed people. Although she disagreed with their use of the forbidden machina, Taradine had always remained friendly with them as a people. She spoke fluent Al Bhed, and visited several settlements of the tribe. Tyron had not picked up a mastery of the language as she had, but he could still speak it fairly well. She had had a natural skill with languages, however. Tyron's talents lay in the blade.
Tyron looked up at Taradine again, studying her face. She looked so much like her niece, especially in the eyes. They both shared the same emerald eyes that could sparkle with laughter one moment yet turn to quiet intensity in the next. They resembled each other so much, in fact, that it was a surprising thing indeed to find that her niece had no talent for summoning. Normally, the trait was hereditary, and more common in females than in males. It was a very curious thing, indeed. If anything, the girl had inherited her uncle's skill with the sword, instead.
Naturally, thinking of the girl's uncle brought his thoughts together again. 'Amono, where are you?' Tyron bleakly prayed, but no answer came. He had prayed to Amono a thousand times, and no answer ever came. However, sometimes Tyron did feel his friend's presence. usually warning him when the monstrous Sin was near. Taradine's brother never showed up in the Farplane, so Tyron assumed he was an unsent. an invisible guardian, for lack of a better way to describe it.
Tyron's thoughts bitterly came full-circle now. 'Amono. I failed you. You wouldn't have died if I had been stronger. you wouldn't have needed to die. Why did you choose to be my guardian spirit? Why choose the one who betrayed you?'
A silent, lone, tear slowly trickled down the elder swordsman's cheek. He cried no more than that, but he didn't move, the wounds in his arm still healing, until the sun finally set.
The first rays of dawn sparkled on the sea, dancing on the waves. Far off, over the eastern horizon, the sun could be seen, peeking over the horizon. The fiery globe was wreathed in a nimbus of gold and crimson, making it seem the sky were aflame. As the ball rose higher into the sky, the various beings that populated Spira felt its rejuvenating warmth, and stirred from their slumber. Animals arose and went to find their daily meal, children got up looking forward to a day of playtime with their friends, and their parents prepared to do their work for the day. A new day was born.
After every night, there is a new dawn. However, in the lives of the people of Spira. even the dawn was tinged with darkness. Would that day bring peace, joy, happiness? Or would it come bearing hell and chaos? Was that rustling in the trees just the wind, or was it a hungry fiend, prepared to pounce? Sin had found a permanent place in which to make its home-the mind of every Spiran. The people lived their lives in fear, in sorrow.
Summoners are the cure for that fear, for that sorrow. Able to harness the abilities and powers of the mighty Aeons, only they stand a chance against the chaos incarnate that is Sin. Only they are able to defeat the monstrous beast, although at the ultimate price.
When a summoner defeats Sin, there is a period of peace and prosperity in Spira known as the Calm. During the Calm, townsfolk become neighbors, neighbors become friends, friends become family. The knowledge that one does not have to worry about waking up to find their life in ruins brings everyone together. Even the tensions between those who worship Yevon and the scientific Al Bhed abate during this period.
Unfortunately, the period is finite. Sin is death, and death is eternal. Even after its destruction, Sin will return after several years. And then, brother turns against brother, friend against friend, neighbor against neighbor. When Sin stalks the realm of Spira, it leaves hatred and mistrust in its wake. The Yevonites and the Al Bhed return to conflict once more. Not only does Sin leave its mark on the land of Spira, it scars the souls of all who live there. The only salve for that wound is the Calm, the only doctors the summoners.
When a summoner defeats Sin, they are awarded the highest honor in Spira- the rank of High Summoner. However, this is generally awarded posthumously, as the summoner will pass from the physical plane with their hated opponent. Unlike Sin, they do not come back. And usually, there is always someone left behind.
* * *
A smirk found its way onto Tyron Sul's face as he heard a growl come from the heavily shadowed foliage behind him. He was in a small forest about a mile away from the small town of Mi'ihen, and the dense underbrush intercepted most of the early morning sunlight, plunging the forest into near-total darkness. Deprived of his eyesight, Tyron was forced to rely on his other senses and on his pure, base, instincts.
He heard the growl again, and widened his stance, sinking lower to the ground, his highly attuned ears straining to hear any possible sound. Once more, the growl came to him-the growl of a hungry predator seeking food. And in that instant, Tyron heard the whistling of the underbrush as the fiend leapt.
In one smooth motion, Tyron slipped to the side out of harm's way, allowed the creature to come up right next to him, then lashed out with his foot in a side kick that caught the fiend right on the side of the neck, sending it flying. The predator slammed into a tree about ten or so feet away.
As it slid to the ground, caught off guard, it wandered into a lonely ray of sunlight, and Tyron was able to see it. It was a Mi'ihen Fang, its fur brown tinged with hints of gray. This particular wolf was fairly large, and because of its graying fur, Tyron surmised that it was an older fiend, accustomed to the hunt. It had been caught off guard once, but would not make the same mistake again. As he realized this, Tyron felt his lips pull back into a feral grin, a hunter's grin, much like the one the wolf was wearing. Here was a true challenge. He would have to use all of his skills if he planned on surviving.
Fifteen years ago, Tyron would have never tried to fight a Mi'ihen Fang by himself. Ten years ago, he would have never fought one in an environment so devoid of light. Five years ago, Tyron would have battled one, but only with his trusted sword. Now? The warrior faced his opponent as nature intended.
The wolf slunk out of the light into the shadows, and the two of them began to circle each other, slowly, each looking for an opening. The Fang had the upper hand-this Tyron knew-because it could see in the very dim light, which of course, a human could not. Unable to see the fiend, Tyron listened very carefully to anything he could. His opponent was very skilled, naturally, and didn't make much noise with its footsteps. The only thing Tyron had to go by was the fiend's breathing, which he could barely make out over his own.
And then, he heard an intake of air as the wolf pounced. The elder warrior, rather than dodging as the fiend expected, dashed forward. He met the wolf at the apex of its jump, his shoulder slamming into its soft underbelly. Yelping, the Fang fell back, but recovered quickly. It leapt once more, and this time, Tyron was unprepared. He grimaced as the wolf's sharp claws tore through his shirt into his flesh, slicing through his muscle. With the wolf on top of him, Tyron stumbled over a root and fell onto his back.
Confident that his prey was done for, the hungry animal dove down, his pearl fangs searching for Tyron's neck, to tear his jugular out. But the man wouldn't be killed so easily, and hurriedly stuck his arm in front of his throat, allowing the wolf to chomp on that. The warrior hissed at the pain, but grinned at the same time. This was living.
Tyron then brought his knees up, kneeing the wolf in the stomach. With that, he kicked up, knocking his opponent off of him-although the fiend did manage to tear a chunk of his arm off in the process. And then, as the monster was landing from the kick, Tyron reached forward, grabbed one of its forelegs and twisted sharply. There was a sickening crack and the wolf yelped in pain. Tyron had broken the leg, and now the creature knew it was defeated.
However, it wasn't about to go out without one last try. It sprung, trying once more to tear its enemy's throat out. Tyron, at the last minute, reached out, grabbing it around the muzzle, holding it closed. In the next moment, Tyron forced the fiend's jaws open, grabbed the upper one in his right and the lower in his left, and pulled them sharply in opposite directions.
The Mi'ihen Fang's neck cracked, and with one final yelp, it went limp, dissolving into pyreflies. Tyron sank to one knee, saying some prayers for the fiend's spirit, thanking it for the fight. Then, he turned and walked away, out of the forest, without saying a word.
* * *
It was another fifteen minutes before he reached the small village of Mi'ihen. The famous Lord Mi'ihen, founder of the Crusaders, had built his home there when he had become too old to fight on the battle lines anymore. After time, it had blossomed into a small town, and it bore his name. Because it was located right between the Summoners' Temple at Djose and the fairly large shrine in Luca, the town had a temple that was very small. It was for praying only; there was no fayth there for summoners to obtain. And it was to this very temple that Tyron was headed.
Since it was early morning, the streets of the small town did not have many people on them. The few who were out, however, shot puzzled looks at the man in the black and white Crusaders' uniform who walked down the street, bleeding from several wounds including a large one on his arm. The strangest part was that he didn't even seem to notice his injuries. One kind-hearted fellow had asked the man if he should send for the temple healers, but the man had simply stated that it was not necessary, and walked on.
At long last, the man in black made it to the temple. It was a concrete and stone building, and stood out from the wooden huts that formed the small village of Mi'ihen. Although it was easily the largest structure in the town, it was small as far as temples went. It was a domed structure, barely over one story tall. On either side of the entrance, two marble pillars rose into the air, supporting a stone arch-the only form of ornamentation visible on the outside of the temple, in fact.
Tyron walked up the stairs, beneath the arch, and into the temple. Inside, it was a circular room about forty feet wide. The walls and dome were colored a dark blue, and the floor was tiled in white marble. Several torches lined the walls, giving a crimson overtone to everything. There were two doorways opposite from the entrance, which lead to the rooms for the healers. And all along the wall stood the statues of the revered High Summoners. And Tyron slowly walked to one of these marble heroes-a woman, standing proud and tall-High Summoner Taradine.
Blood dripped from his wounds onto the floor, little crimson raindrops splattering silently along his path, but he paid them no heed. When he reached Taradine's statue, Tyron knelt before her without saying a word, and cupped his hands together in the traditional prayer gesture. The warrior prayed to Yevon silently, asking His blessings, and His guidance on his quests that lay ahead. As Tyron knelt in supplication, he felt his injuries starting to hurt less-whether because of divine blessing or natural pain suppression, he didn't know.
After several minutes of prayer, Tyron looked up at the statue of Taradine. His eyes wandered over the well-polished marble, scrutinizing it. Every detail of her was sculpted exactly the way she looked in real life-her flowing cloak and robe, her long, braided hair, her elaborate feathered headdress, even the scar on her left hand, each was elaborately carved so it was perfect. It looked as if High Summoner Taradine had been frozen in stone, and transported to the temple, so exact was the replica. The sculptors were indeed masters of their craft. Yet no matter how much it looked like Taradine, to Tyron, the statue was nothing like the real woman.
High Summoner Taradine, in the statue, was looking intensely out at some unseen foe, harsh, commanding, ready to do justice in the holy name of Yevon. She was majestic, noble, powerful. it wasn't her. Tyron closed his eyes once more, conjuring up his memories from the dark depths of his mind. In them, he saw Taradine the way he knew her. The way she was.
She would always laugh, always smile. If she were hurt, she'd laugh no matter how much pain she were feeling, and jokingly put herself down. Whenever anyone made a mistake in front of her, she would laugh, and help them so they wouldn't make the mistake again. Even when the pressure of all of Spira was on her shoulders, she'd laugh and smile.
The only times she wasn't laughing was when she was presented with hate. When she had begun her pilgrimage those thirteen long years ago, tensions between the Al Bhed and the Yevonites had been at an all-time high. Taradine and her guardians had witnessed several atrocities on the part of both groups. Yevonites had killed an entire settlement of Al Bhed and forced conversions on the few survivors before her eyes. A group of Al Bhed extremists had practiced some of their 'advanced' medical techniques on a pregnant Yevonite woman-while she was still alive and conscious-by removing her unborn child and slicing it into pieces. Spira had been about to plunge into full-blown war.
Taradine had narrowly averted that war by bringing a Calm. Without the stresses caused by Sin, tensions quickly abated. yet the scars of the Al Bhed Crisis, as it was known, were far-reaching. The area around where Tyron was now staying, all around the Highroad, had been one of the hardest hit during the strife. There were still a number of hate groups in the Mi'ihen territories that preyed on the few Al Bhed who were too stubborn to leave their homes.
Yet even after seeing all of this. Taradine never became wrathful, terribly powerful, as the statue portrayed her. In all of the time he had spent with her, Tyron had never seen her angry once. In the face of all the atrocities, High Summoner Taradine had not screamed, not threatened, not destroyed. she had wept. The Taradine he had known was a person. not some sort of deity.
'The people need to believe that their heroes are who they see them as,' the warrior thought silently to himself. 'They see the summoners as perfect, as idols. and so they re-create them in that image.' Privately, Tyron wondered how the people would have reacted had they known of Taradine's sympathies with the Al Bhed people. Although she disagreed with their use of the forbidden machina, Taradine had always remained friendly with them as a people. She spoke fluent Al Bhed, and visited several settlements of the tribe. Tyron had not picked up a mastery of the language as she had, but he could still speak it fairly well. She had had a natural skill with languages, however. Tyron's talents lay in the blade.
Tyron looked up at Taradine again, studying her face. She looked so much like her niece, especially in the eyes. They both shared the same emerald eyes that could sparkle with laughter one moment yet turn to quiet intensity in the next. They resembled each other so much, in fact, that it was a surprising thing indeed to find that her niece had no talent for summoning. Normally, the trait was hereditary, and more common in females than in males. It was a very curious thing, indeed. If anything, the girl had inherited her uncle's skill with the sword, instead.
Naturally, thinking of the girl's uncle brought his thoughts together again. 'Amono, where are you?' Tyron bleakly prayed, but no answer came. He had prayed to Amono a thousand times, and no answer ever came. However, sometimes Tyron did feel his friend's presence. usually warning him when the monstrous Sin was near. Taradine's brother never showed up in the Farplane, so Tyron assumed he was an unsent. an invisible guardian, for lack of a better way to describe it.
Tyron's thoughts bitterly came full-circle now. 'Amono. I failed you. You wouldn't have died if I had been stronger. you wouldn't have needed to die. Why did you choose to be my guardian spirit? Why choose the one who betrayed you?'
A silent, lone, tear slowly trickled down the elder swordsman's cheek. He cried no more than that, but he didn't move, the wounds in his arm still healing, until the sun finally set.
