OVER THE WATER
by Akazukin Elle
He's so young and so brave and so utterly stupid that she cannot speak for a moment, so overwhelmed by the massacre, the chaos, the scent of rotting corpses that she must think of how to push the air through her throat.
"You'll find everything you've ever wanted there."
"And in the morning the sun always shines -- "
" -- and at night the moon is full."
Handsome. Tall, well-muscled, fair-haired and dark-eyed. His armor doesn't fit him properly. His head is in her lap. His body is unnaturally still; he doesn't want to move and she can't blame him. Everything seems to be broken, crushed bone and angry gouges patterning his torso, colouring his pale skin. That he is talking to her is a miracle. He's choking on his own blood. His own bile. His own bravery.
"If I die, will my mother be there?"
"If she was Sent."
He smiles at her, revealing several missing teeth and a mouthful of blood. His limp fingers are long and stained with ink, smudged across the flat of the palm as though he picked up his quill without thinking. She tries to think what he might be: A scribe. An artist. A poet.
"Is it very beautiful?"
"I haven't been there yet."
Fingers in his hair. Curaga, Curaga, Curaga. Ease the pain a little. Most people don't realise that curative magics depend more on the user than the spell. The magic knows what the giver wants and what the receiver needs. It's strong in her fingers, bright along the lines of her hands, a glow that is strong without being harsh, firm without being blinding.
"If I die, will Yevon accept me?"
Her own hands brushing away the blood pooling at his mouth. It's not beautiful. It's ugly, brutal and unnecessary. Her square hands on his ears where he can feel them. There is a smear of red across the palm of her hand and for once she forgets about the people of Besaid, who brought a tailor from Bevelle to fashion her summoner's robes and paid the equivalent of a man's yearly salary to buy them for her: She wipes her hands on her thighs, and stains the silk. All of that is less important today.
"Yes. Yes, of course," she says.
She knows her eyes and her tone and her hands are gentle. Sometimes she wonders how this comes so easily to her. Spira thinks that summoners and life are synonymous. Spira's wrong.
Summoners rarely see life. That's why it's so precious to them, those moments standing above the sea with someone's arms around you, those brief gentle times when you are not surrounded by a flood of iridescent whispering light.
Summoners are there at the beginning, calling magic to their fingers, and summoners are there at the end, sending souls to the Farplane.
"Thank you, lady."
"There is no need to thank me."
But the look in his eyes says he does; he understands, this stupid little soldier, and he is still grateful. Her fingers work through his hair and she whispers her magics, soothing away the pain. She can do this. It is not beyond her; the magic is there, pooled inside and glazing her skin.
There are many things she doesn't want to do. Doesn't want to think of ihim/i with his chest bare and his eyes open and his soul raw, ripped apart by forces very much – exactly – like this one. Doesn't want to think of her father in his last moments, his final battle against Sin. Doesn't want to continue and doesn't want to stop, because either one means that she will hurt somebody, somewhere.
She wants to do this. She was born to do this. She ican/i do this.
"You're very kind." His voice is hoarse.
The final, brutal crack, the dimming of his eyes, and she whispers a Sending to him, watching his soul float into the air, destined for a place she will visit soon.
Spira thinks that pyreflies are beautiful.
Spira's still wrong.