He could not begin to guess when he regained consciousness, or even how he
was still living. But as he opened his eyes and felt the cooling wind blow
through the surrounding air, he had the distinct impression that he was
back in the Dome. As the breeze faded, he felt the telltale heat of far-
distant fires, tasted the bitterness of floating ash on his tongue. His
will to live felt almost eclipsed by his own sorrow, so similar in
spiritual taste to the oh-so-omnipresent ash. It was disheartening, but he
knew that if wished his people to survive the terrible days following the
Disaster.
The Disaster. Yes. They said, he even said and thought the simple phrase so much, so often. It was so simple to dismiss the sins of the past in an attempt to survive the future.
The Disaster. Our Sin. Our fault. One among many. So many. It had not been so long ago. In his ever-evolving wish to master his domain, man built. He saw the advances of science and the mind, and he implemented them. But the judgment of man is weak; is it not said that even the gods are tempted? So is the will of man.
But with every action, a result is put in motion. In this case, retribution. The Great City of man, with all its marvels and intellectual achievements put the reactions of the Disaster in motion. Man had built his machines, his machine, but he found that the primitive forces of electricity where too small, too.powerless. And so, man had turned to the greatest source of natural power he could find; a sacred power that he should have know better than to touch. The techno-mages of the City of Man had driven deep into the Farplane, that well of souls, and stolen the very memories of the dead to power its ghastly inventions. With the all- consuming need for more and more energy to power the City, the toll on the life-force of nature became all too strained. In that strain, it broke. Suddenly and violently. The backwash of power that emitted from the Farplane overload literally tore the fabric of the land apart, the single continent of Spira splintered into innumerable islands; portions of it actually sunk forever beneath the seas.
One would think that this kind of destruction on a worldwide scale would teach men not to tamper with the delicate balances of nature, or at least, to be far more careful and respectful. Those of the City of Man had not learned this lesson. A new City was built, and its scientists, believing they had discovered the technical error which had led to the Disaster, began once again their practice of leeching power from the Farplane. Those who had no patience for such lack of hindsight had simply left; we formed our own city, one to work with nature, not decimate it through folly.
My beautiful Zanarkand, how far you have come. But to see it all end.
He woke himself from his thoughts as the door of his chambers creaked and without ceremony, opened. He knew that whatever occasion could bring such desperation was, well.desperate. The Council f Ministers stood before him, their elaborate robes seeming drab and dull in the fading light.But it was more than the light. A cloud of surrender hung over the room, and it was spreading, he knew. First Minister Ghen spoke, without a shade of pretense. The man was tired. They all were tired.
"My lord, the Bevelle machina have moved past the defenses of the outer districts. I fear that it will not be too soon before they breach the defenses of the middle districts and assault the Dome itself. Can we not be spared of this.ignominious fate? Please, my lord, let us surrender to Bevelle; before there is not city left for us to surrender."
He began to speak, but at that moment, Lady Yunalesca, as if sensing her father's pain and confusion in which path to take, spoke for him.
"My gathered Lords and Ladies, forgive the harshness of my coming words, but have you lost all faith as well as spine? We stand on a far more destructive brink then simple annihilation; but on the deaths of our very souls as well. Our patriots, Bevelle's so-called "anarchist dissidents" have told us this much: if Bevelle is allowed to continue with her foul plundering of the Farplane, this world will die. And this is not a simple explosion of pressures as we saw in the Disaster, but a slower and more painful death. A starvation of all life. We have already seen its first effects in the creation of the Sanubia deserts. If we surrender, our city will become spare parts for new machine, our bodies their builders, and our souls their power source. Worse still, there will be none to oppose Bevelle's further designs. By the grace of God Himself, we cannot allow this to happen." Yunalesca paused to let her words take their full effect. They were hard words, as she herself had warned, but the truth in them could not be denied.
Standing beside her chosen husband, Zanarkand's given war general Zaion, Yunalesca still outshone him in every respect. She was dressed in the simple fashion of the High Priest's heir, her clear ivory skin decorated with the traditional holy letters of Ebon. As she had spoken, her lithe body moved every so slightly to the rhythm of her words; her slender hands empathizing the seriousness of her argument. On her head, she wore a simplified version of the High Summoner's own traditional gyuukaku, made out of a special ensorcelled material that was said to make an Incarnation, an Aeon, more responsive to the wishes of its summoner, and beneath them, her knee-length hair flew out like the very wind itself. Yunalesca's hair was the color of burnished silver as well, a testament to the great similarity of nature shared between father and daughter. As she moved in waiting for the ministers' response, her molten tresses shifted in the dim light, its halo of radiance surrounding her head seemingly unaffected by the current situation. From her golden eyes, also molten in texture, a commanding light seemed to issue, and despite their ferocity, a certain gentleness emerged. Or a certain pity. She closed her mouth in distaste. Apparentally, she had also felt the bitter ash.
After Yunalesca's altogether vehement display of cold logic, the ministers were subdued. The High Summoner stood up, and in a quiet tone of voice, gave his response. He agreed with his daughter. No perceptible emotion issued from the ministers. They bowed in deference to his wishes, and left his chambers. General Zaion left as well, and he remained alone with his daughter.
She moved towards him, her eyes whispering a thought that she had not raised in the meeting. On that thought, she spoke:
"Esteemed, there may still be a way."
"Beloved one please, I am your father now. Not your priest." His eyes filled with sadness once again. He knew that if they did not surrender, Bevelle would indeed cut a swathe of destruction across the city, and everyone in it.
"I have gone down to the Sacred Chambers, past the Guardian. I have read the Scripture over and over, hoping, pleading for God to send us an answer."
"And?"
"The High Summoning."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because we would require a fayth of immense size and power to perform such a summoning. I am not willing to sacrifice more of our people to the Dream of the Fayth."
"But might not such a sacrifice be the only way to save them? Is not the good of our people worth the sacrifice of one?" He looked at her eyes again and he began to perceive a certain calculation, a will to do whatever it took to preserve. But he was not convinced.
"It is not simply a matter of the cost of life, it is also a matter of the Aeon itself. When the Dream compel such a great amount of pyreflies to form a High Aeon, there is a possibility of loss of control. I may not be able to control the Aeon, and it may well destroy the city along with our enemies. No, I will not perform such a Summoning. I cannot conscience it."
"I believe that father. But I also believe the risk is worth it. How else can it be possible to preserve hope? Our sin has doomed us eventually, either way. Reparation must be made. Do you not think that Bevelle will continue will its prospects after it has dealt with Zanarkand? After we are gone, there will be none to oppose her. Bevelle must perform her penance; we must perform our penance."
"Do you presume to instruct the High Priest to his duties? I say no, and that is final."
With that, Yunalesca bowed in deference to her father's will and left his chambers, leaving the High Summoner to dwell on the consequences of his choice, both good and bad. The storm was not coming. It had already arrived.
The Disaster. Yes. They said, he even said and thought the simple phrase so much, so often. It was so simple to dismiss the sins of the past in an attempt to survive the future.
The Disaster. Our Sin. Our fault. One among many. So many. It had not been so long ago. In his ever-evolving wish to master his domain, man built. He saw the advances of science and the mind, and he implemented them. But the judgment of man is weak; is it not said that even the gods are tempted? So is the will of man.
But with every action, a result is put in motion. In this case, retribution. The Great City of man, with all its marvels and intellectual achievements put the reactions of the Disaster in motion. Man had built his machines, his machine, but he found that the primitive forces of electricity where too small, too.powerless. And so, man had turned to the greatest source of natural power he could find; a sacred power that he should have know better than to touch. The techno-mages of the City of Man had driven deep into the Farplane, that well of souls, and stolen the very memories of the dead to power its ghastly inventions. With the all- consuming need for more and more energy to power the City, the toll on the life-force of nature became all too strained. In that strain, it broke. Suddenly and violently. The backwash of power that emitted from the Farplane overload literally tore the fabric of the land apart, the single continent of Spira splintered into innumerable islands; portions of it actually sunk forever beneath the seas.
One would think that this kind of destruction on a worldwide scale would teach men not to tamper with the delicate balances of nature, or at least, to be far more careful and respectful. Those of the City of Man had not learned this lesson. A new City was built, and its scientists, believing they had discovered the technical error which had led to the Disaster, began once again their practice of leeching power from the Farplane. Those who had no patience for such lack of hindsight had simply left; we formed our own city, one to work with nature, not decimate it through folly.
My beautiful Zanarkand, how far you have come. But to see it all end.
He woke himself from his thoughts as the door of his chambers creaked and without ceremony, opened. He knew that whatever occasion could bring such desperation was, well.desperate. The Council f Ministers stood before him, their elaborate robes seeming drab and dull in the fading light.But it was more than the light. A cloud of surrender hung over the room, and it was spreading, he knew. First Minister Ghen spoke, without a shade of pretense. The man was tired. They all were tired.
"My lord, the Bevelle machina have moved past the defenses of the outer districts. I fear that it will not be too soon before they breach the defenses of the middle districts and assault the Dome itself. Can we not be spared of this.ignominious fate? Please, my lord, let us surrender to Bevelle; before there is not city left for us to surrender."
He began to speak, but at that moment, Lady Yunalesca, as if sensing her father's pain and confusion in which path to take, spoke for him.
"My gathered Lords and Ladies, forgive the harshness of my coming words, but have you lost all faith as well as spine? We stand on a far more destructive brink then simple annihilation; but on the deaths of our very souls as well. Our patriots, Bevelle's so-called "anarchist dissidents" have told us this much: if Bevelle is allowed to continue with her foul plundering of the Farplane, this world will die. And this is not a simple explosion of pressures as we saw in the Disaster, but a slower and more painful death. A starvation of all life. We have already seen its first effects in the creation of the Sanubia deserts. If we surrender, our city will become spare parts for new machine, our bodies their builders, and our souls their power source. Worse still, there will be none to oppose Bevelle's further designs. By the grace of God Himself, we cannot allow this to happen." Yunalesca paused to let her words take their full effect. They were hard words, as she herself had warned, but the truth in them could not be denied.
Standing beside her chosen husband, Zanarkand's given war general Zaion, Yunalesca still outshone him in every respect. She was dressed in the simple fashion of the High Priest's heir, her clear ivory skin decorated with the traditional holy letters of Ebon. As she had spoken, her lithe body moved every so slightly to the rhythm of her words; her slender hands empathizing the seriousness of her argument. On her head, she wore a simplified version of the High Summoner's own traditional gyuukaku, made out of a special ensorcelled material that was said to make an Incarnation, an Aeon, more responsive to the wishes of its summoner, and beneath them, her knee-length hair flew out like the very wind itself. Yunalesca's hair was the color of burnished silver as well, a testament to the great similarity of nature shared between father and daughter. As she moved in waiting for the ministers' response, her molten tresses shifted in the dim light, its halo of radiance surrounding her head seemingly unaffected by the current situation. From her golden eyes, also molten in texture, a commanding light seemed to issue, and despite their ferocity, a certain gentleness emerged. Or a certain pity. She closed her mouth in distaste. Apparentally, she had also felt the bitter ash.
After Yunalesca's altogether vehement display of cold logic, the ministers were subdued. The High Summoner stood up, and in a quiet tone of voice, gave his response. He agreed with his daughter. No perceptible emotion issued from the ministers. They bowed in deference to his wishes, and left his chambers. General Zaion left as well, and he remained alone with his daughter.
She moved towards him, her eyes whispering a thought that she had not raised in the meeting. On that thought, she spoke:
"Esteemed, there may still be a way."
"Beloved one please, I am your father now. Not your priest." His eyes filled with sadness once again. He knew that if they did not surrender, Bevelle would indeed cut a swathe of destruction across the city, and everyone in it.
"I have gone down to the Sacred Chambers, past the Guardian. I have read the Scripture over and over, hoping, pleading for God to send us an answer."
"And?"
"The High Summoning."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because we would require a fayth of immense size and power to perform such a summoning. I am not willing to sacrifice more of our people to the Dream of the Fayth."
"But might not such a sacrifice be the only way to save them? Is not the good of our people worth the sacrifice of one?" He looked at her eyes again and he began to perceive a certain calculation, a will to do whatever it took to preserve. But he was not convinced.
"It is not simply a matter of the cost of life, it is also a matter of the Aeon itself. When the Dream compel such a great amount of pyreflies to form a High Aeon, there is a possibility of loss of control. I may not be able to control the Aeon, and it may well destroy the city along with our enemies. No, I will not perform such a Summoning. I cannot conscience it."
"I believe that father. But I also believe the risk is worth it. How else can it be possible to preserve hope? Our sin has doomed us eventually, either way. Reparation must be made. Do you not think that Bevelle will continue will its prospects after it has dealt with Zanarkand? After we are gone, there will be none to oppose her. Bevelle must perform her penance; we must perform our penance."
"Do you presume to instruct the High Priest to his duties? I say no, and that is final."
With that, Yunalesca bowed in deference to her father's will and left his chambers, leaving the High Summoner to dwell on the consequences of his choice, both good and bad. The storm was not coming. It had already arrived.
