God, I'm proud of this chapter. I started writing this just to be kind of an excuse to make a really good Aurikku, but like all fun-to-write stories, it's taking on a mind of its own.
In Besaid, it rarely rained. During the day, Spira's sun glimmered at its nadir in the sky, and only wisps of clouds hung in the air, peaceful white. Now and then, he could hear the faint trace of guitar music floating on the breeze, the same calm and winding melody every day, played languidly a mile or so away - perhaps on the porch of some wrinkled old fisherman's hut. The air often tasted like... like nostalgia. Even at night, everything on the island seemed to have an internal glow. Fires were stirred, and people spoke, prayed, scolded laughing children into going to bed.
But now, that winding melody was silent, and in its place rang a steady muffled patter on tent canvas, the louder drum of rain on the waters surrounding the island. A few crashes fell on his ears, though whether it was waves against the shore or lightening at some distance on the ocean was almost indistinguishable.
He felt unwelcome. Since Yuna and Tidus had built their own tent as soon as they'd been married well over a year ago, they were unceasingly domestic. Even now, the two sat at a large, thin glass window, watching the storm in each other's arms and speaking quietly. Now and then they laughed, foreheads together, the picture of chaste intimacy. It made Lazarus cringe. They should be left alone, at least in their own living room. Unfortunately, he couldn't stand to go back to his own pallet in a closed-off area of the tent. It was too hot. Everything about this island was heat, unbelievable heat. Why he'd continued to wear black, he would never understand. Every day, the sun soaked into him and made him feel like he was baking, a roasted animal to be eaten with a few sauteed funguars and that strange round, seedless fruit they grew indoors in Guadosalam. Sitting near the doorway with the rain cooling the air was his first moment of respite in the single week he'd been here.
Here, in Besaid. Here, on Spira. Here, where every plant that waved in the wind and every human and animal that breathed the air seemed to be taunting his very existence.
I have a favor to ask, the child had said. You will not like it, but I am afraid it is indeed necessary. He floated in midair, surrounded by the unearthly beauty of Farplane flowers. Pyreflies danced overhead, and the faint, musical sound of crashing waves could be heard far beyond the field in which they now stood.
Auron blinked lazily and looked around. This wasn't... right. Suddenly, his mouth opened, and he took in a great drink of air, panting as if he'd never breathed before. The air here tasted stale, like that in a cave, but it was full of oxygen and smelled like flowers. Like an indoor sending ceremony, he thought wryly. Dreamily, he looked down and found he was naked, utterly naked, with the moisture of the flowers that had been crushed below him soaking into his skin. Everything felt warm then, too. Even the breath he pulled in greedily, hastily, was hotter than anything he could remember. Something was not right.
Do you enjoy being alive, Sir Auron? The Bevelle fayth smiled, and put his hand to his waist before giving the man a respectful bow.
Auron looked up, his eyes wide-- wait. Eyes? Yes, he realized, blinking them carefully. Both deep russet eyes were open and functional, the right one restored to full health. But that had to mean... he looked down at his body, uncaring of his blatantly nude state before the fayth. After all, the image floating before him looked like a child, but contained the soul of a man much, much older. Auron stood, surveying the wreckage. He was indeed as young as he had been before he'd received the wound that killed him. He was leaner, thinner, with skin as smooth as that of one in his prime. The wrinkles that had formed on his face were gone, and all the sagging skin that comes with age and worry had vanished, and he was as healthy and whole as when he'd fought fiends, his wide-bladed katana between Braska's various magics and Jecht's blitzball-sword weapon combination. And if that was true, the scar couldn't be there, since it had developed as a result of Yunalesca's fatal strike.
"Why am I here?" he asked, his voice shaking, unused to its youthful timbre. He almost missed the gruff bass notes to which he'd grown accustomed. The deep roughness of it had instantly commanded respect from Yuna's young guardians.
Because, said the Fayth, your services will soon be required. In exchange for helping us, we have created your living, breathing body once more. You will be able to live the life you should have lived, had Yunalesca not taken it from you. I have taken the liberty of asking one of the spirits who roam Spira to bring back a suitable outfit and a few gil. Maechen, who has been helping us to fill in the gaps concerning our knowlege of Spira, will be returning shortly. The child smiled. If, of course, he is not sidetracked by a good story on the way.
"Helping you," Auron scoffed. He drew himself up to his full height, crossing his arms before him. Despite the strangeness of the situation, he had to show some modicum of dignity. "You wake me from my rest, raise me from the dead naked as the day I was born, and you expect me to help you? I thought you fayth were supposed to be Spira's new form of divinity, not a group of pranksters. Get someone who's actually alive to do your bidding, kill this body and return me to my sleep." He tried to stare the fayth down. It seemed logical that, with two good eyes, he'd be better equipped. But the length of black hair trailing freely down his back tickled him, as did the intense warmth, so different from the constant cold of the walking dead. His gaze faltered. Being young again was... strange. He was keenly aware of every tactile sensation around him. Even the strange wind brushing over his shoulders, carrying with it the tiny fluffs of pyreflies, seemed exotic and new.
The fayth sighed, shook his head. A blur of yellow-green descended into the field of flowers, then just as suddenly vanished. In its place was a neat pile of black cloth, along with boots, gloves, a belt, and a money pouch. Thank you, Maechen, murmured the child. Auron thought he heard the faint trace of a voice saying "But of course," but it was gone before he could be certain.
Auron, I will command you if I must. We need you on the surface. You, and you alone, can calm the fury that will be unleashed in Spira before long. And all you need to do is keep a very important little girl from dying at the hands of those who would seek to destroy her. You are the only guardian who can. Not even the little girl's mother will be able, no matter how hard she tries. And if this girl is sacrificed, her blood will stain the entire world. A new Sin will be reborn. The spiral will begin anew. I cannot allow this to happen.
Once the message had sunk in, Auron fell to his knees and punched the ground, teeth gritted. He just punched with both fists again and again, crushing flowers and grass until his knuckles were stained with green pulp, and oh he wished he had something harder punch against so that his skin would break and his blood would flow and this rage would be emptied from his body. Yes, this is what it was to be young. To be himself as a man again, instead of dead and old. This passion was almost uncontrollable. And what he hated most was that he could not refuse, not because the Fayth would command him otherwise, but because he could not allow the spiral to return. Not after everything that had happened. Braska died seeking the end to that death. Jecht died for it. Yuna and all of her friends had nearly died for it.
Tidus... he'd vanished, but two years ago, after Yuna defeated Vegnagun, Auron had watched while the Bahamut Fayth created the boy again from flesh and bone and that piece of the Fayth's mind which had dreamed up the Zanarkind blitzer. He'd seen through invisible eyes how the Fayth had ripped a part of himself painfully away, molded it with his own living memories of Shuyin's Zanarkand personality. The Fayth had then shoved the bloody ethereal mass into Tidus' body and sent the body flying through the Farplane sky into the oceans of Besaid. So Auron had seen how afterwards, the boy had cried, robbed of half his own soul until the day that Tidus would die a natural human death.
But now, Auron knew, Tidus would be up there. The boy Auron had watched over for ten years would finally be truly happy, probably with Yuna, probably even married. And everyone Auron had ever loved, everyone whose lives had ever touched him, would be in danger if one little bitch weren't protected by a resurrected legendary guardian. The Fayth did not lie. Auron did not want to go. He could not go. He had to go.
"Who. Tell me who will harm this girl, and I will kill him myself as soon as I get up there and keep her from ever being harmed. And I will let myself die as soon as it's over. I don't want your offered youth, or life, or breath, I want to sleep. Let me die in the process, or don't make me go. I..." He let out a shuddering breath, then caugh another mouthful. "I beg you. Please. Do not make me go."
You cannot cut this murder off at its source, said the Fayth, for the one who may murder the girl is also one who will save her. The only way to save her is to live with her and protect her, as her guardian.
"Why?" he asked. "Why me? Why must I do this? Who is this girl? And who the hell could or would possibly summon a new damned SIN?" He was quaking, staring at the Fayth. He did not expect the answers he was given.
As to why, I cannot exactly say. The guardian must be you because of who you are, and what your experiences have made you. You must do this because it will protect Spira. And the girl... is Yuna's and Tidus' daughter, whose name I do not know. If this girl is killed by a fool's mistake, Yuna will summon the new Sin. In her anger and power as the High Summoner, Yuna, Daughter of Braska, will become the next Yu Yevon. And she will not only cause destruction and chaos in her wake once every ten years. She will destroy Spira. The people, the planet, and even the Farplane. Before turning on herself.
The man covered his face with his hands and laughed into them, his hair falling around his shoulders, bare back slumped over toward the ground. A thousand uncontrollable emotions flooded through him. Anger. Helplessness. Rage. Self-pity. Self-loathing. And so he laughed. He laughed until he screamed. It kept his face dry.
Minutes passed, the Fayth standing calm and impassive as ever, and Auron curled naked on the ground. Finally, the man moved. Weakly, he stood and walked over to the pile of clothing. He dressed slowly, forcing himself into a numb calm by the normalcy of the routine. When he was done, he placed the pouch in the folds of his tunic. In another of its internal pockets, though, was a mask. He slipped it on, slid the cloth loops onto the hooks of the undercollar, and stared at the Fayth.
"They are not to know who I am, I take it."
Precisely. This would change things. You are allowed to tell one person your true identity. Decide carefully who that person will be. Take your time. But to the rest... I suggest you decide upon a pseudonym.
He paused, watching as a crystalline road began to unfurl from the flowery field, leading from his feet to the surface. "I was dead, and I have been reborn. I'd almost forgotten how to breathe, and now I find I miss the air. So my name will be Lazarus."
So he had lied to Yuna the week before, when she "met" him anew. Rather than trekking from Bevelle, Auron-Lazarus had climbed the road from the Farplane, found himself in Luca, and spent all his money on a sword, a full sake jug, and a haircut. It made him smile to remember how that hairdresser had balked at his his high back collar and mask. He'd released the hooks for her, let the collar fall backwards, and had held the mask to his face the entire time. Goodness knew that it sparked a few rumors.
Luckily, the S.S. Liki allowed free passage, and he'd sailed past Kilika to Besaid without trouble. The island had never felt like home to him, and it certainly did not now. Everything was too quiet. For years, he realized, he would have nothing to do. Why the Fayth had to send him here so long before the girl was born, he couldn't fathom. But the Fayth were always somewhat elusive. They'd help mortals to their own conclusions, but they wouldn't just give the answers away.
Lazarus shoved his jug just beneath the mask, so that only a part of his chin was visble, and took a sip of his sake. That was the only thing helped by the warmth. For so long, he missed the way warm sake soothed him. Too often in Zanarkand, he'd tried to drink it the traditional way, only to find that it tasted cold and bitter. Hardly tasted like anything, really, except water with a kick. How Rin could stand to drink those tiny frosted-glass bottles he kept in an auto-blizzard box, Lazarus would never know. The box was an interesting invention, though. Some tiny Al Bhed mechanism cast Blizzard continually within a tight seal, keeping everything inside cool. Practical people, those Al Bhed.
A sound interrupted him from his musings. A woman's breath, somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Lazarus did not bother looking. He grabbed his sword, stood and, without a word, stepped out of the tent and into the rainstorm. Being present during a time of chaste intimacy was one thing. But real intimacy... he shoved it out of his mind and stomped through wet sand toward the bridge that led through a small forest to the port. The fiends here were weak, but it would be something. He raised the sake bottle to his mouth and chugged, took as much of it in as he possibly could before doubling over, coughing and sputtering in the rain. The burn in his throat was nothing, but it made his arms feel a little weaker, mind a little number. He made a mental note to get stronger stuff. He'd need it, to survive just living here for so long.
Another small swallow, calmer this time, and he clipped the bottle to the belt. Resting his terribly bland new sword on his shoulder, he began to pace along the road. The metal on his boots and gloves weighed him down, making him slower, but helped to build his slightly atrophied muscles at every movement.
"Where the hell is Masamune when I need it?" he asked the rain, which answered by soaking entirely through his mask.
Finally, the fiends seemed to catch his scent despite the rain, and a few pitiful-looking wolves came out to growl at the resurrected warrior. Lazarus ran with surprising ease at the first. The sword seemed lighter than it had in previous battles, though he had to use more of his bodyweight to make the swing. Most of the weight resided in the metal straps of the gloves on his forearms. The new clothing, though wet, hindered him less as well. As the first wolf disappeared into pyreflies, Laz gave a "hmph" of approval. This would do. He didn't feel as slow as he once was, though the Fayth had done well to restore even his musculature back to the day before he'd died. The man smirked faintly as he waited for the other two wolves to attack, ducking their shots. Tired of your smelly old sake-guzzling guardian? Try the New and Improved Lazarus! Only 1000 gil at your nearest Fayth retailer!
He'd just finished off the second wolf, when a clanking mechanical sound made him turn. It was Rikku's airship... what did they call it? The Farenheit? Lazarus smiled. It looked like a huge version of a motorcycle he'd had to deny Tidus in Zanarkand. The ten-year-old had pouted for a week.
The third wolf attacked while he was distracted, but Laz rolled his eyes at the minimal damage and countered, sending the fiend to the farplane. A few extra gil and two potions in the pockets of his tunic, one of which he went ahead and used on himself. Not bad, but not enough exercise for his tastes. When he turned to look at the airship, he could see that it had docked, but no one had yet left. Fine, he'd go to meet them. It would cure the boredom, at least.