Legalities: Square-Enix owns every person, place, name, and thing from FFX. I own anything original. And while I'm on the subject of owning, Auron owns you, me, and the guy next door.
A/N - Short and sweet, because long author's notes are sinspawn ;)
A lot of work went into the setting - this isn't just the cast of FFX in some random old west setting. I tried to preserve most of the culture of the game while giving it a different flavor. So feedback on it is a good thing :) Also, since this is an AU, expect the unexpected in terms of the original locations/relations of the characters (i.e. Rikku isn't Yuna's cousin in this), and the little things, like Tidus' hair, which isn't blond in this because hair dye wasn't around back then. Rating is tentative; it's going to go up to R, maybe as soon as the next chapter. And if anyone saw the movie "Tombstone," there's quite a few references to that in here.
Now here's the part where I say sit back and enjoy. So please do!
Spira, circa the late 1800s: a rough-and-tumble age where things were progressing at an dizzying pace. Times were changing and people were coming and going. Cultures were dying and becoming myth and memory.
So it was for the Al Bhed, a race now scattered, lost in a shadow of its former prestige. It was they who brought machina into the world over the course of many centuries. While their hard work was initially seen as bringing change and convenience to Spira, the world's dominant religion, that of the teachings of Yevon, feared a loss of power and influence over the people. Its leaders, wealthy, controlling, and unwilling to surrender to the changing times, viciously turned on the inventions and their makers and labeled them as heretics. The Al Bhed now survived only by means of dealings under the table with less ethical individuals, and by disguising their giveaway eyes.
The major cities of Spira followed the teachings of Yevon blindly. In each there was a Maester, the leader of the town and the head lawmaker. His title had been passed on to him from his father, and he in turn would pass it to his eldest son, in accordance with a tradition that had its roots hidden in the mists of legend.
While the Maesters watched over the cities, the duties of a religious sort fell on the summoners, the aeon conjurers and senders of the dead. They worked in close conjunction with the Maesters and oftentimes side by side with town doctors, the majority of them being practitioners of white magic. Very few Maesters were summoners themselves, and they carried the heaviest of burdens in their given cities.
But beneath this great establishment were the seeds of rebellion. Outlaws run out of Yevonite cities in the far east beyond Bevelle had banned together out west, forming a loose sort of organized crime. They traveled nomadically, making their living in deeds of an underhanded sort, though they proved to be capable of decent trade if the mood struck them. They had bought off many of those in positions of power to the point where the trade in some towns was almost completely reliant on them. They went by no name and had no hierarchy of which to speak, and were recognized only by the black sashes they wore.
They had one common calling however, something general that had been given to them by the people they victimized.
"It's really a sin"---or so it was said whenever they came up in conversation. This was repeated so often throughout Spira that the wandering gangsters were soon branded with a title at long last: the Sin, the Pirates on Foot.
There are many tales of the Sin, and of Spira in those days, of dashing chocobo riders, Al Bhed uprisings, and the making of history by the many Maesters. Among the many one such stands out, for good reason: that of the end of the Walking Pirates, a victory that wasn't achieved without sacrifice and great loss. The origins of their demise lay in the romance of a singer, a performer at a theater in one of the fastest growing cities in Spira, and a drifter in hiding, who came into her life on the wings of a promise.
What follows is their story.
The sky: a sapphire caught in a sunbeam, blue and blinding.
The city: a dusty contrast to the clarity overhead, of dirt roads, rows of buildings with sprawling porches, stirring chocobos, and irate citizens.
Irate, because a most unwanted notice was being nailed up at the front the dwelling of the relatively new Maester of Zanarkand. The wielder of the hammer was one Wen Kinock, town marshal and one of six assembled guardians to the Maester and his young wife.
It was the decree of the priests of Yevon in Bevelle that all summoners in positions of power have at their sides in public men-at-arms for defense. It was hardly necessary, but it was put into place due to an incident that happened ten years ago, in which Zanarkand's last Maester, another summoner, had been kidnapped along with many town officials and found dead months later in a location miles out of town. The people of Zanarkand demanded protection for their leaders, and devoted as they were to Yevon Bevelle answered their cries immediately.
But the new law that Maester Seymour Guado had passed today was a slap in the face of that faraway city. The tall summoner stood unaffected by the shouts of the angered throng before him, his face a perfect mask, his thick Guado mane nearly completely unruffled by the hot breeze. It's necessary, you idiots. It's for your own good.
At his side stood the willowy figure of his wife and fellow summoner, Yuna, daughter of the aforementioned slain Maester. Though much shorter than her husband, she stood as a formidable paragon of silence that stifling afternoon, holding a ruffle-trimmed parasol over her head. Fanned out behind her were the other five guardians, one of them a Ronso with a broken horn, clad in exotic attire.
Kinock was hammering away at the last nail to the parchment when Seymour finally had enough of the protests. He stepped forward and held up his hands in an attempt to quiet the gathering. "Calm down, all of you! Calm down and listen!"
One by one the cries and murmurings of discontent faded away. Someone in the far back coughed and a chocobo squawked, but all else was still for the moment.
Seymour began his speech. "This law is for your own good. Putting guns in your hands gives you the power to defend yourselves against the Sin---"
He was cut off by a voice from the crowd---"Defyin' Bevelle ain't no defense!"---which spawned a few more in agreement:
"Bevelle is our defense against the Sin!"
"Guns are forbidden machina!"
Seymour's impatient sigh was lost amid the turbulence. He spoke again. "Tell me, what defense has Bevelle provided the lot of you? My concern is not so much the adherence to Yevon's teachings as it is to the survival of this town---"
A gentle hand alighted on his arm. Seymour saw the lady Yuna step up, at first to his side, then on ahead of him, her eyes fixed on her people. She tilted her parasol back against her right shoulder, revealing a pale face and bright eyes, one green, the other blue. "We have to do what's necessary," she began. Her voice couldn't match Seymour's for strength, but her gentleness and determination often swayed the men and women of Zanarkand. "I'm as devoted to Yevon and Bevelle as you are, but the Maester is right. The Sin have been starting up too much trouble here lately and the weapon searches at the city gates aren't working! You've seen it for yourselves a few days ago, and that wasn't the first time that happened! They always manage to sneak something in. What we're hoping is that this law shows the Sin that we're not afraid to bend the teachings a little, and that we're just as concerned about our survival as we are our religion."
Kinock had finished nailing up the notice and turned around, right in time to hear the strains of protests against Yuna's flow. They're less angry, he noted with a touch of amusement. It's always like that when she's doing the talking. Yevon, you oughta start letting her deliver the speeches, Seymour.
Yuna addressed the complaints against Seymour's idea with composure that was enviable. "Yes, swords and spears are more ethical, but so far they haven't been doing a very good job. The only language the pirates seem to understand is brute force."
"Ain't true! The ones I've dealt with are decent folk. They do their share of business!" An older woman in the middle of the crowd spoke up. "They do dealings with weapons! Just yesterday they traded my husband near worth five hundred gil of spears and rapiers from as far west as Besaid! Wouldn'a got his hands on those if it weren't for the Sin!"
"And they also rape our women and rob our businesses and disturb the peace, don't forget," Seymour cut in icily. "I have more complaints of barroom brawls than I care to sift through on a day like this, and Judge Maechen has been sitting in overtime to deal with all arrests." Particularly the trials for murder. And most of the court officials here have rather heavy pockets because of the Sin. His expression soured at that thought.
"And the Sin aren't our only means of trade," Yuna added. "Bevelle, for one---"
"Bevelle nuthin', if you keep breakin' the laws with all this machina! I heard a railroad'll be runnin' through this city in a few years. You're turnin' Bevelle against us!" A very upset man at the fore of the gathering hurled those remarks close to a mute and anxious Lady Yuna.
Yuna threw Seymour a warning glance over her shoulder. The crowd broke out into an indecipherable buzz of chatter once more. Instinctively the guardians came forward beside their protectees, swords and spears pointed at the gathering. Several disgusted people began to leave.
Kinock drew his scimitar and turned to the Maester. "You want us to quiet 'em, sir?"
Seymour shook his head. "No. There is no need. This mess is over." He sidled up to Yuna and addressed the people of Zanarkand for a final time. "There is no need to stand around here and complain. This law is effective immediately. You'll thank me for this, ladies and gentlemen. You'll thank me when your streets are safer, when you have the power to keep them so." He turned then and walked away, frustration and disgust at the fore of his thoughts. Yuna gave the mob one last look, soundlessly pleading for them to be reasonable, before giving up and following suite.
A few paces away, Seymour had stopped to wait for her. When she was at his side, the two walked together.
Their guardians were assembled around them in a fashion of two before and behind and one on either side. This time there was only one man in front, since Kinock had remained behind to take care of the stragglers at the Maester's porch. The guardians stood far apart enough to allow the Lord and Lady as much space as was proper. Every outing was like a major procession. Yuna was immune to it, but to Seymour it was yet another perk of his lofty position, which he had won through years of excessive toil and---truth be told---some luck as well.
The Maester's thoughts returned to his people and he frowned. "So thickheaded," he fumed. "To the point of being bloody stupid," he added afterward, lowering his voice a few notches. "How could they be so blindly devoted to this religion to the point of losing all sense?"
Yuna didn't answer right away. "It's all they know," she stated after a time. "We all were raised on Yevon's teachings. Spira's changing so fast these days; it's all the people can do to cling to what they feel they know well. It comforts them."
Seymour snorted. "Even if it degrades this very city, to see it be pirated day in and day out? We have a reputation to uphold. We'll be as big as Bevelle in a few years, if we can last long enough. It's no secret how many wallets the Sin fattens; that gives me enough trouble. If it means a minor infraction on the teachings to secure the future of this town, then so be it. My first concern is Zanarkand. It's just a pity that I must stoop to spoon feeding reason to its people."
There was quiet for a long time between the two. Suddenly Seymour turned and offered Yuna his hand. A sliver of a grin graced his face then, and for once he looked less stiff, warmer. She took it albeit her fraction of a pause, as something was eating away at the back of her mind.
Your first concern is Zanarkand the city...but my first concern is its people. It was where the Maester and his wife failed to see eye to eye. Seymour was such a radical leader; Yuna's father Braska had played by the rules for the most part and despite the Sin the people were happy under his leadership. My father didn't try to revolutionize their way of thinking. He fought the Sin in his own small way, I was told.
Seymour's grip was big and almost cold, but not at all unpleasant. Yuna's thoughts roamed while the pair headed crossed Main Street, broken only when Seymour asked her, "Would you care to accompany me for a little drink? You look a bit flushed."
She acquiesced. "I think I could do with a little something. I just need to get out of this awful sun."
The pair headed for Zanarkand's Three Trade Foxes, one of the city's smaller establishments, but one that held quite a few memories, especially for Seymour. Most of the old days had been spent there, when he'd visit Zanarkand from his native Guadosalam as a summoner in training. Aside from Marshal Kinock, most of the boys from those days were long gone, perished, victims of the Sin along with the late Maester Braska. Still, because of its relatively quiet atmosphere---especially when compared to other pubs---it served as a nice spot to relax and temporarily shrug off troubles.
Back at the Maester's porch, Kinock had cleared away the crowds. He sheathed his scimitar and gazed off into the distance, where he saw the Lord and Lady of Zanarkand heading for the Three Trade Foxes. Off for a drink after work, are you? Hey, maybe Lulu'll show up there again... Oh, but hell, she's for the evening, ain't she?
Nevertheless the marshal had his duties as the summoners' guardian to uphold, so he had to follow. He took off after the two, clinging to a small scrap of hope that the woman, foreigner from Besaid and a local entertainer, would make an appearance.
It was near one o'clock that afternoon when a dead man came within the outskirts of Zanarkand, mounted atop a stolen black chocobo and armed to his teeth: shotgun at either hip, his belt a leather display of dagger hilts and the hilt of one massive sword.
Dead man he was, to many. He had been among the officials under Maester Braska many years ago, a deputy marshal, and had disappeared with him ten years ago. The only difference between the legendary Sir Auron and the others was simple and straightforward: his body had never been found. It couldn't possibly have been, as it managed to survive even when his spirit had been broken. Indeed, he was very much alive when he had barely any desire to be so.
Once a great and glorified personage, a man many had looked up to, he had been whittled down by time and events to a mere wanderer. He survived by means that had once been below his lofty stature---pick pocketing, chocobo stealing, and the like. He had spent part of the past decade in hiding, avoiding the pirates' eye, but he owed the majority of his absence to other things. Eventually, after near death and through the pain and reality of his situation, he persisted, driven from one day to the next by the fuel of a promise to the man who had spared him.
In short, he had made his way to Zanarkand now because he felt he had to. There was no way that his creditor could check to see if he was living up to his word; it was sheer principle.
"I got a son back in Zanarkand. ... Yeah, you were from there, weren'tcha? Kid's a real crybaby. I had a mind to make him into a man someday, but I never had the chance....
"I'll let you out of here on that condition. Do for me what I can't do now. Make a man outta that little son of a bitch."
And so Auron would, if he could find the boy, who fell under the vague description of being brown-haired and blue-eyed and who answered to the name Tidus. There came an address with the name---thirteenth house on Fourth Street---but considering that it had taken Auron so long to get himself together and reach Zanarkand, any guarantees he had of the situation remaining unchanged had logically flown the coop. He doubted he would ever find this Tidus, but it was all he could do. He was bound by his word.
He was coming upon the city gates now. His good eye---the left one, as the right had been scarred shut---skimmed the horizon, where the cityscape of Zanarkand was beginning to appear. Against the backdrop of parched earth and distant mountains he must have stood out more plainly than was his liking, a situation that wasn't helped by the contrast of his clothing: long black coat, black trousers, white shirt. His eyes were inscrutable, hidden by shadow cast by a black hat and silver-rimmed glasses that were normally an Al Bhed disguise. In Auron's case, they were there to hide the bad eye and long scar of which he was inwardly self-conscious.
His stolen chocobo was now treading Zanarkand's outskirts. There was a small group of children playing a game a little ways off to his left; they stopped in the midst of it to gawk at him as he passed. Often Auron's intensity drew the eyes of passersby, and over the opposite sex it could near cast a spell.
When last he had been in Zanarkand, guns were among the machina that Bevelle had forbid. Thus Auron pulled his coat over his holstered pistols. If he were lucky, he'd be walking into the shift of a very lazy weapon searcher now, who would be too weary from the heat to inquire about any hidden firearms.
Ever closer he drew, and as he did he noticed that something was amiss. There's no one there?
He squinted. No, there was no sign of anyone waiting there, and no stockpile of weapons in a box, to be claimed via vague description when the owner left town.
Ha, fool that I am. I've been gone so long, everything that happened seems like a dream. So then, that means...Yuna? No, she couldn't be Maester. Bevelle would raise hell if that happened. The town wouldn't allow it, either.
Yuna... Last I saw her she was half my size. She should be a right proper woman by now.
It was hard to make head or tails of the situation without any information. Auron steered his chocobo further into the city, entering from the outskirts and onto one of Zanarkand's many side streets. According to the sign, his mount was kicking up the dust of Twelfth Street.
He remembered it well, though he had been away for so long. Memory served him faithfully. I follow this to its end, past two intersections, and I'm on Main Street. The Maester lives east from there, eighth house on that road.
But Auron couldn't call on the new Maester yet. It was better to be prepared of the city's changes before charging blindly forth to meet them. And to do so, he'd go to a place where he whiled away much of his leisure time when he was younger.
He couldn't get over all the gunslingers on the streets. Nevertheless, he made no issue out of it as he dismounted his chocobo and secured it outside, near a trough of water shared by several others. To his slight dismay, he noticed other black ones there. Now here's some real change. Ten years ago, the Sin ignored this place.
He entered the Three Trade Foxes without the slightest break in his stride. As his good eye adjusted to the darkness of the building he removed his hat, the proper custom, revealing a very thick and dark mane streaked at the crown and temples with silver. In Auron's case, those silver hairs owed their existence to suffering in the extreme degree.
The pub oozed tobacco smoke and patron chitchat. Auron took a moment to drink it all in. He eyed the mural on the eastern wall, a raunchy painting of a summoner-woman reaching for her aeon, a great crimson winged beast. Ten years of aging made it fuzzy, darker, but he could still make it out well in the dim lighting. He'd always thought of that as being too explicit for his tastes. A friend of his assured him long ago that art was a very liberal field. Auron had scoffed him. Although inside he found himself moved if he could get something deep out of a particular piece, he really didn't consider himself to be a patron of the arts.
Philistine, that friend of his had called him.
Who was that, now? Ah, that's right: Seymour, the last time I saw him. Wonder what he's up to now.
His hampered sight alighted on the pub's piano, sitting in the far right corner at the back of the room. It was unoccupied. He smiled at another memory.
We talked Kinock into playing De Chocobo Races on that once. We were pretty drunk then.
Kinock and Auron went as far back as their days in Bevelle, when the two were amongst the religious men-at-arms there, the warrior monks. One memory in particular was a thorn in his side---the story of their disenchantment with Yevon and subsequent departure. Though that wasn't the only reason for my leaving.
He turned and made for the bar, close to his left. The current tender there gave him a queer look; his eyes flashed with recognition. Auron recognized him too: though his hair was very gray, a far cry from the black of his younger days, he still had the same somber look about the brow, a trait that spoke more than words ever could of his realist outlook.
Yet there was no fuss made by either man. The bartender greeted Auron in the usual fashion. "Howdy, stranger. What can I get ya?"
"Wouldn't mind a shot of gin."
The bartender got to work right away. Auron took a seat before the bar and let his good eye wander again. There, sitting at a table near the center of the room and slightly off to the right, were a pack of Walking Pirates, their black sashes hanging unassumingly from their belts. The former deputy marshal grew tense instinctively. I knew a few would be in here. His eyes left them quickly, not wanting to draw attention to himself by staring, and took to skimming the rest of the patrons for any vaguely familiar faces.
"Your shot, stranger."
Auron turned around to see his shot glass set before him, now shining amber with the liquor. Automatically he dug through his pockets. "Let's see. Last I was here, it was three gil for a shot." He produced a five-gil piece from the pocket of his trousers and looked the bartender in the eye. "But that was a very long time ago."
The bartender stared back, knitting his brows. "That was four years ago, actually. Business is booming nowadays, so I can charge one gil and still afford upkeep." When Auron offered him the five gil, he went to get change but was stopped.
"Keep it," said Auron.
The barkeep chuckled in mild surprise. "If you say so, stranger. Can't turn down a generous tipper." He put the money away, still talking. "You say you've been here before? I thought you looked familiar. Ain't seen many new faces around here for a while, save some new Sin recruits---" There he paused, throwing a glance around the room. "Best to keep that sort of thing quiet though. The Black Sashes' got far-reachin' ears, if you follow me, and I don't want no trouble here." He drew himself up taller. "Now then, I don't believe I caught your name."
Auron downed the contents of the shot glass. You probably won't believe me when you hear it, he thought, and turning he gave the pirates behind him a glance. Then he looked back and said, "It's Auron, former deputy marshal under Maester Braska."
He'd been right on the money; the bartender looked shocked to the marrow of his bones. But the shock subsided quickly, a brief passing that left cynicism in its wake. "Yeah, sure you are. Awful disrespectful of you, stranger, tryin' to pass yourself off as him. If I remember right Sir Auron didn't have no scar runnin' down the side of his face..." He narrowed his eyes, all manner of friendliness melting away.
But Auron wasn't the least bit affected by the man's change in demeanor. He chuckled good-naturedly. "Well, it has been ten years. I feel so out of place, but I guess that's only natural. I'm supposed to be dead, aren't I, Milt?"
Surprise returned to the face of the bartender, a man named Milton Spence. "Hey, you... How... Aw, I'll be damned." He squinted at Auron again, scrutinizing him. "Sir Auron? Was the scar that threw me off, that's what. Yevon, I can't believe I'm lookin' at you. You look like hell."
"Well, when you travel around there, you tend to bring back souvenirs." He dove into his pockets again and placed another five gil beside his empty glass. "I'll have another."
The bartender took the gil and glass mechanically. He was still trying to rationalize the return of a man who had aged more than seemed natural in all his years of absence. "I, I got to tell people about this. They aren't gonna believe it: Sir Auron's back in town..." He went and refilled the shot glass.
At that Auron fixed the man with a very sharp look. "Don't. The less who know, the better. I'm trying to keep a low profile."
"Ha, that's downright next to impossible here."
"It might be, but I don't think I'll be easily recognized...."
He trailed off there. The bartender's eyes were looking over his head now, at someone standing behind him. Before he could turn around to look, he heard a voice.
"Well now, I can't believe my ears. Wouldn'a thought anything of you 'til I came over here and heard your voice. Yevon, it's hard to believe you're still alive..."
Auron stiffened. Every inch of him expected a meeting between his flesh and the cold end of a shotgun, the stimulus for the reflex of a man who had spent many years looking over his shoulder.
His right hand flew to his pistol. Man on the run that he had been, he'd fashioned himself into a fast draw almost effortlessly. He then whirled around, the pistol drawn, cocked and ready to fire.