On guard next to their camp after a hard day of training—their last, Sir Auron says, before they enter the ruins—he looks toward Zanarkand. Zanarkand, sheathed in blue and ruined by war and time. City of the dead, home now only to fiends, pyreflies and memories; the second-to-last step in a journey toward death.

   Then he looks backward, to see Mount Gagazet rising above them, capped in white and wreathed in mist. Mountain of the dead, now.

   There is sorrow, the sort that gathers into a heavy lump in his gut and throat, for his tribe's death, and for Yuna's approaching death. But too, there is acceptance. He cannot change what has been, and Yuna is too determined for him to change what will be.

   It occurs to him that Bevelle, too, is a realm of death, in the form of the unsent maesters. In a very morbid way, it is fitting. His summoner meets with three different degrees of death—the living dead, the doomed living, and the long dead—before reaching her own end.

   And then, there is Sir Auron. Kimahri knows, of course. He has learned the smell of the unsent, in his encounters with Jyscal, Seymour and Mika. The same scent is on the swordsman, a certain tint underlying his natural body order. But he knew before that. The Auron of ten years ago was mortally injured, when he put Yuna into Kimahri's protection. Kimahri has not said anything to anyone. Since they do not threaten Yuna, Auron may keep his own secrets.

   His summoner sits beside him on a crumbling wall. Her face is composed; her hands unmoving on the wand resting across her knees. She is serene, even now, but a nervous sort of excitement edges her familiar scent.

   "Kimahri," she says at last.

   He only looks at her.

   But she only shuts her eyes tightly. "Never mind. I—" Her hands fidget with her summoner's wand, until with visible effort, she forces them still.

   In a flash of insight, he understands. One of his big, clawed hands falls heavily on her thin shoulder. There are words, too, to go with the gesture. He could tell he'll miss her. Or, that in the days since she was put in his care, she has become friend, sister, child to him.

   With one finger, he brushes a lock of her hair out of her eyes.

   Silence is thick in the air, but it's a comfortable silence, the sort that comes naturally to people who have known one another for years. Words would be redundant, and besides, some things are so painful that they are better left unsaid. Still, he thinks as he returns his hand to his spear and his alert eyes to the surrounding land, some things deserve being said once in a lifetime.

   "Yuna is very important to Kimahri," he says.