Interlude (Part Two)

A lone figure stood on a dock several blocks from his house, watching the sun drop below the horizon. Embers of the scarlet sunlight danced in the warm brown eyes of Masa Sutir as he gazed out over the wide, unending waves. Somewhere out there, he knew, was the island of Kilika, where his only child, his beloved daughter, was now training to become a guardian. He wondered if she were watching the same sunset as he was.

For the past week, ever since Neirana and Kecci had left their childhood home of Luca for Kilika, Masa had come out to these docks at sundown. There, he stood, trying vainly to somehow feel his daughter's presence, to see something, anything at all. He worried that the training might be too rigorous for her, that she would be hurt-or worse. The other part of Masa's consciousness was filled with pride. his daughter, his flesh and blood. she would be a hero for all Spira to admire, he knew. She would triumph. And as his pride and his fears fought for dominance of his brain, more often than not he found that his cheeks were damp, and his eyes puffy when he returned home, once the sun had vanished.

And the sun did exactly that, as it did every evening, to rise again in the morning. It was constant, unchanging. As he turned to walk home, Masa sighed heavily. The eternal patterns of the sun, which he had found so soothing in his younger days, now troubled him more than anything. Perhaps this sunset would be his last. Perhaps in the morning, he would be nothing but a group of pyreflies, evaporating into nothingness. Or, perhaps, he would awake to discover that he no longer had a daughter. Everything seemed to be changing around him, far too quickly for his comfort.

As Masa walked through the streets, lights lit up in the windows all around him, lamps burning bright as darkness crept upon the city. He paid them no attention, instead staring at his well-worn leather boots as they trod the cobblestone streets of Spira's second largest city. Masa sighed again. Even his gait, which had been firm and steady in his youth, now wavered. He would stumble on one of the stones paving the streets, or maybe just limp now and then. Nothing was the same anymore.

Masa reached his house in a few minutes, and entered the small kitchen. A week ago, this kitchen had been very cozy. Now, it was just cramped. The aroma of cooked and seasoned fish caught his attention-it seemed dulled to him, though-and he saw the dinner that his wife had prepared on a plate resting on the dark marble countertop that lined the walls of the kitchen. He could hear the sound of running water coming from upstairs and surmised that Mune was taking a shower. Not wanting to trouble her, Masa took the fish that she had made for him, and walked through the dining room, and down the stairs into his smithy.

If there was one thing that DID bring him solace amidst his emotional turmoil, it was his work. The workshop beneath his home, where he practiced his trade as an expert swordsmith, was the same as it always was. It was a stone room, the largest in the house, done in a stark white. Masa set the plate with the fish on an empty spot on a table next to him, and lit the lamps that adorned one of the long walls, and a warm light filled the room.

The stairs leading up were in the northwest corner of the workshop. All along the perimeter of the room were tables made out of hewn rock. While wood would have been less expensive to purchase and easier to install, it would not have been well suited to withstand the furnaces that Masa used to forge his weapons. There were several sconces that were carved to look like flames that contained the oil lamps, which were mounted on the northern wall. This wall was the only one that did not have any countertops or machinery in front of it-all the others were completely packed.

In the center of the room stood another stone table. While the basic forging of the blades was done at the stations around the workshop, the finishing touches were added here. Some weapons spent an hour or two at most at this final station, only needing rudimentary reinforcement or adjustments. Some weapons took longer, such as Neirana's Quicksilver, which had spent a day at the center table as Masa sculpted the hilt and calibrated it perfectly to his daughter's fighting style.

The blade that was currently at the center table, however, had easily set the record for longest time at the final station. This weapon, which Masa had agreed to forge for a friend, to repay a very deep debt, had remained at the center table for almost sixteen years. As he had forged other swords, other weapons, this particular sword had been moved to the side, but he had always worked on it whenever he could. The actual forging of the sword had taken five years-another record-as Masa attempted to find the perfect balance, the perfect materials. He had gone to all the mages and priests in the area for help, for charms, for enchantments to adorn this blade. Once the weapon had finally been shaped and had come to the lonely center table, the charms had to be perfected. The blade had to be razor- sharp, the hilt firm yet comfortable, the balance completely even. Even after sixteen long years, the weapon was not complete-although it was nearly so.

Masa reached out and softly stroked the hilt. It was made of sculpted iron, and made in the shape of the head of a horned dragon breathing fire. Yet the fingers of the wielder would never feel the cold, slippery, iron base. A particularly brilliant priest of Yevon, who knew something of craftsmanship, had created a material that was so amazing that it had to have been enchanted. The fabric was sturdy, yet so thin and pliable it could be grafted to the intricate sculptings of the hilt as if it were part of the iron itself. It was warm to the touch, and was very smooth, yet seemed coarse; for it would hold a person's grip better than almost anything else Masa had ever come across.

The swordsmith tightened his hand around the base of the sword, and marveled at what was probably the material's most helpful property, and most unbelievable. Masa had sculpted the grooves and ridges of the dragon hilt to provide a very natural grip for the person the blade had been made for. The hilt had been tailored to the size and shape of his hand, which was much different from Masa's own. Yet as he squeezed harder on the grip, lifting the sword into the air, the substance seemed to mold the very solid iron, changing it, to fit his hand very comfortably. However, once Masa released his grip on the weapon, the hilt appeared to be exactly the way it had been shaped. The priest had given him the enchanted fabric almost ten years ago, and Masa still didn't understand how it worked. but it did, and that was what mattered.

Crimson light flickered off of the blade, as Masa lifted it into the air. The blade itself had been created from an alloy that he had created himself. As far as Masa knew, the alloy had been previously unknown to all of Spira-and still was. Despite his generous, giving, nature, Neirana's father jealously kept all of his trade secrets to himself. which explained his success. The alloy that he had created was very, very, very hard. He had had to enlist the help of a local mage to enchant the metal just to make it shapeable. The weapons that came out of Masa Sutir's workshop were known for their hardiness and ability to withstand wear and tear, due to their structure and his closely guarded forging processes. It was a well- known saying that the only thing which could break a Masa Sutir blade was another Masa Sutir blade. Although the saying was not ENTIRELY true-after all, no weapon is completely indestructible-it was one that Masa and his friends had gladly propagated. However, this particular weapon was easily the strongest to be made in his workshop furnaces, hands down.

Yet despite the alloy's toughness, it was also incredibly light. As the tall, lanky swordsmith swung the sword through the air in basic fencing maneuvers, he found himself surprised, as he always was, at the weight of the sword. If he hadn't forged the weapon himself, Masa would have been inclined to say that the weapon was hollow.

The glow from the lamps caught the intricate designs and runes that had been carved into the blade-again, with the mage's help, because of the hardness of the metal. The grooves on the weapon were shaped like flames, the flames that the dragon hilt was spewing. The sword itself was very large, nearly six feet long, and curved backward, a massive katana. For the most part, the blade was gleaming silver, the natural color of the alloy. However, where the sword began to taper to the cutting edge, it changed color, becoming jet-black. It was because of this color change that Mune and Neirana referred to it as the Blacksword, yet that name did not suit Masa. Ever since the blade had rested on that center table, Masa had been trying to think of a suitable name for this weapon, his finest work. Yet no name seemed to fit. He had briefly toyed with the idea of 'Ultima Weapon' but eventually dismissed it as too hokey. That name just sounded arrogant. Masa had considered names like 'Avenger' or 'Nightslayer' or 'Nemesis', but none seemed right. And so the blade remained nameless.

The tall man once more laid the blade to rest on the center table, pulled over a stool, and began to tinker on it. The blade itself was enchanted. designed to help the wielder in battle, of course. Yet the enchantments sometimes seemed to interfere with the perfect balance of the sword, and so Masa was determined to rectify the situation.

Several hours passed, and the fish lay on the table near the doorway, now cold and forgotten. The only sounds in the stone workshop were the gentle sounds of Masa breathing, and the occasional clink of metal hitting metal as he worked. Before long, however, the semi-silence was interrupted by the sound of voices coming from upstairs. Blinking, Masa sat up straight, listening. One of the voices was undoubtedly that of his wife. but he didn't recognize the other voice, which was lightly accented. Where the accent was from, Masa couldn't tell.

The conversation ended, and the swordsmith heard footsteps from above him, walking through the kitchen, through the dining room, and to the entrance to his workshop. "Masa," his wife called down to him. "There is a man here who says that he wishes to commission a weapon. Could you please come up and talk to him?"

Stretching, Masa slid the stool away, put his tools down and pushed his masterpiece aside. He turned and walked towards the stairway. As he caught sight of the uneaten plate of fish, his stomach rumbled, but he paid it no heed, and continued upstairs. At the top of the stairs, his wife smiled at him, yet there was something else in her eyes. Masa made a mental note to ask her about it later. He took Mune in his arms and kissed her, fibbed about enjoying the fish she had prepared, and then turned to see a man in his doorway.

The man was tall, and quite muscular, almost as if he were a professional athlete. He was wearing a long, dark, cloak with the hood up, obscuring his face in shadow. The cloak covered almost everything about the man, except the double-strapped sandals that he wore on his feet. Masa immediately felt distrust toward the stranger. It was his personal inclination not to trust anyone who concealed so much about themselves.

Stepping forward, the stranger reached up and pulled his hood down, revealing his head. Masa blinked, for it seemed that the man's head was on fire, but then realized it was just a shock of bright red hair. As soon as he saw the stranger's hair, Masa placed his accent. Red hair was extremely rare among denizens of Spira, and was chiefly found only in one location: the Calm Lands. The people who lived there, who called themselves the Nagijin, were descended from intermarriage between some Al Bhed tribes and some people who had ancestral roots in Zanarkand. That unique genetic combination produced fiery red hair. Because of their distant relationship to the Al Bhed, some of Yevon's people mistrusted the Nagijin, however, Masa was not one of them. In fact, his wife Mune was of Nagijin descent, as could be seen in the color of her hair, which was also red in tint.

"You don't see many Nagijin in Luca," Masa said, extending his hand to the stranger. "What brings you so far south?"

The stranger took it and shook it, smiling at him. "You are very observant, Master Sutir. although I do suppose my hair rather gives my lineage away. My name is Loye. I have traveled here on business, but my ultimate destination is actually the island of Kilika." At the mention of Kilika, Masa's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. "However, as your lovely wife has mentioned, this is not simply a social call to make new acquaintances. I am here to commission a weapon."

Nodding, Masa stroked the stubble on his chin. "Really. What sort of sword do you want, Mr. Loye?"

Loye chuckled, and held his hands up in protest. "No, just 'Loye' will do. and I do not exactly want a sword. I realize that they are your forte, but I also know that you make other sorts of weapons. axes, knives, bladed weapons in general." With that, Loye reached into his cloak and withdrew a parchment, rolled up into a tube. He handed it over to Masa, who unrolled it and began to examine it. "Those are the plans that I have drawn up for this particular weapon. unfortunately, I have no skill in the making of such a weapon, so I thought to come to the most famed swordsmith in Spira."

The paper contained several diagrams, all of one thing: a deadly looking, wrist-mounted, steel claw. Masa immediately recognized it as a basic Nagijin design, but there were several modifications. "What are these tubes in the claws for?" He asked, as the weapon took shape in his mind.

Taking a look at the paper, Loye nodded. "I have been experimenting on fiends. developing a sort of antidote that will calm their spirits, allowing them to travel to the Farplane once more. However, the antidote must be administered within the body. a syringe would work, but you would need a weapon to defend yourself from the fiend's attacks. Ergo, this design. it functions as a weapon, but the antidote is stored in these fluid chambers here. a simple wrist movement releases the fluid from the chambers, through the tubes in the claw blades, and out through holes at the tip." He beamed at Masa. "But the basic design is based off of the traditional one my clan has used for centuries. what do you think?"

Impressed by Loye's grasp of mechanics, Masa rolled the paper up again. "Quite ingenious, I must admit. how much are you willing to pay?"

"Twenty thousand Gil."

This sum stunned both Masa and Mune, who were expecting something nearly half that. Not wanting to waste such an opportunity, Masa quickly accepted. "Oh, I think that'd be acceptable. when do you think you'll want this done by?"

Loye smiled at Masa again. "I have business on Kilika, and I expect to return in three months. could you have it done by then?"

Closing his eyes, Masa began to work out the dynamics in his head. he didn't have any other commissions as of yet, three months would be more than enough time. "That's definitely workable. You'll be able to pick it up then."

Chuckling, Loye nodded. "Very well then. and now, it's getting late, I must leave. It has been very pleasurable doing business with you, Mr. Sutir! Farewell!" With that, Loye pulled his hood up again, bowed to them, and walked out the door into the Luca night.

"He's a very strange fellow." Mune whispered, coming up behind Masa, and slipping her arm around his waist. "Very peculiar indeed."

Masa did not answer, as he was deep in thought examining the diagrams once more. and then he saw something that caught his eye, at the top. The man named Loye had already named this claw, and for some reason, the title made him shudder.

'Requiem.'