"Assemble!"
Seven days of thinking. One week spent in an empty void of mechanical action, performing rote tasks and laughing blank-faced with the other Lustrum at meal hours. Nothing of my work to string together the conversation with the Founder has succeeded; with all the back-and-forth fencing of our words, I am not even certain what I myself said.
Trema offered to destroy evidence for me. Trema spoke to me about freedom, and in the same breath, insisted that I would work for him from now on. Trema told me that the High Summoner Yuna defeated Sin because she could overcome her own memories, or maybe I just think that's what he said. It's hard to tell. Nothing makes sense. My mind is tired, so tired from all these games I have had to play keeping people safely separated, and sometimes it does not look as if I am any closer to my goal than when I began.
I can't understand anything. I need to. I have to be at the peak of my wits to outmaster Trema, to work with the loyalty of the Lustrum and to lie to all of Bevelle; I do not dare stumble blindly through the webbing of the Founder's plans to snare me.
If Gippal were here, I could talk to him. Figure everything out. If Paine were here, she could listen to all the matters I usually worry about and scoff at my tendencies to think ahead. If Nooj--
If Nooj were here, I would have to call for the guards and then think of a convenient excuse for why I just tried to arrest Mi'ihen's Deathseeker.
But I am alone. There is no one I can speak to here. This is because there is a good reason for me to work in Bevelle on my own, and even if I cannot remember it clearly or why, I know I must stay that way. Friends are distractions. Yevon is a religion of deception, and it would destroy them. It will destroy me as well unless I can find a way to change the past into the future like a mage spelling ice water out the sky, and make Yevon into something truly New at last.
No matter how much I might want for my old Team back, I remind myself that I must remain detached if I wish to have any chances of succeeding against Nooj.
I can't think well these days. My own motivations have become suspect.
All Trema's humming and vague discussion blurs together in my mind. Further retrospection only presents me with vivid images of Paine disappearing before my eyes, and I cut off all my paths of thought right there.
I hate being confused.
"Face!"
Seven days, and I have no idea what really happened in that study between myself and Trema. All I can count on is that the sphere I was afraid would be used as leverage to condemn me has been destroyed. No one will find it now, not unless they can sift through the Farplane itself to reassemble the memory from pyrefly sparks.
Twice already I have woken up cold, shivering in the small hours of the morning. The violence of my recent dreams has been enough to throw the covers entirely off the bed.
All I remember of my nightmares is the image of the Squad melting away underneath Trema's grip. Their faces run together like red tallow-wax. They scream like the mouths of the Fayth on the Founder's study door, and I have begun to show up early to breakfast for the distraction of Dopha's latest research paper rather than spend any time longer asleep than I have to.
"Present!"
This is a miserable situation.
The lack of concentration makes sparring practice even more difficult. I managed to skip the last time they were held, citing illusionary work to file, but too many absences would look irregular to the priests and attract unwanted attention from them. Meaning, really, any attention at all. For all that Trema has claimed he has taken me on in assignment, I have not received any word from the Founder and so do not yet believe I am free from the other priests yet.
The staffs we are practicing with today are looped-poles. They are thinnest at the middle, widening at the ends to form a flared trumpet-cylinder on either side that is then weighted down to aid in spinning. The name for them comes from the oblong holes punched through the main body of the staff at strategic locations, reinforced by metal capping to keep them from cracking at the gaps. The openings are meant to serve as informal guards against bladed weapons as well as reinforce the grip during lunges.
Some scoff at the use of such a design, claiming that the holes only weaken the structural integrity. My own opinion is uncertain. I was part of the audience that watched Gella perform a demonstration with these against a pair of swordfighters; Gella use the fluted edge of this type of staff to crack the kneecap of one clean out of socket. As I understand it, she is trying to change the classification to that of a polearm, but I have not paid as much attention to weapons standards.
Today, I have been matched with Somasil. This alone is a rarity. Customarily, Somasil is teamed up against Gella. Their training levels are both high enough that the two are a fair match, while they usually trounce any other of the Lustrum they are faced against. By the same token, Shelinda and Dopha are matched together at the far end. Neither look as if they know how to hold their quarterstaff properly; Dopha is holding his away from his body as if he was forced to carry a dead rat.
"Salute!"
We turn and face one another.
The tassels lashed around the ends of my pole are green, and I shake the top one out of being tangled before I tilt the staff forward to tap that of Somasil's. Not before coming to the Lustrates Halls have I ever used a weapon like this; my training in the Crimson Squad mostly concerned the handling of machina guns, which I have stopped favoring due to their tendency to run out of ammunition during fiend attacks.
He returns the gesture with a harsh slap of his weapon against mine. The expression on the Lustrum's face is not like his customary placidity. Somasil is a dark-haired man and bullish in his build; normally this is not intimidating, for he tends to a restrained ease of motion that the physically strong acquire when they are forced to handle glassware for too long. Now he grips the looped-pole with fingers that know full well that they are capable of snapping another beneath them.
I last remember seeing Somasil in practice on my way to the consul hall. Then, We raised our hands in greeting to one another; this is not a welcome I see upon him now, but only a muted glare.
"What's wrong?" My voice is quiet as I whisper across the distance between us. Scouring about for a reason, my mind summarizes a vague guess. The only times that it is safe for Somasil to encounter Gella is during these practice sessions. Any other hour and the watchers set out by Gella's priest are all too eager to report Somasil, alert the New Yevon official that Gella is going stray.
"Are you upset that you didn't get paired with Gella? I'm as surprised as you are..."
Somasil cuts me off with a cold spitting of words. "I was the one who requested you. We have to talk."
"Begin!"
The roar of the practice official sets Somasil into motion first. He throws his weight low, resorting to a half-crouch so that he can send the pole forward in a thrust for my midsection. The tassels spasm in the air, flaring the blue strands tied to his weapon towards my ribs.
Surprised into silence, I duck automatically when the staff comes whistling through the air. A twist to the left takes me out of harm's way. I barely have enough time to regain my balance when Somasil follows up, advances his left food forward and spins the staff down towards my shoulder. I gauge its speed and sidestep once more. The wind of its passing scrapes down my face; playing the attacks any more narrowly will get me in trouble.
This close in proximity, masked by the sounds of the other Lustrum in spar, Somasil grits out the rest of his accusation. "I know you've been talking to her, Baralai. Maybe I can't see her directly," and his voice is sullen, sour, "but that doesn't mean I don't know what's going on."
"What?"
At first I have not the slightest clue of what is on Somasil's mind. My question is blurted out in a hasty breath, one that I should have saved in order to do more than throw a hasty parry to deflect the next blow coming towards me. A head shot this time, and when I lift my staff to block it squarely with both hands, Somasil turns the weapon down to brace it against the ground and lash out with his foot.
The added leverage grants the Lustrum a nasty bit of force. I tumble, rolling back automatically and am up on my feet in time to properly shield from the next strike.
Somasil has me on the defensive. In more ways than one; I can barely get a minute to dispel the man's suspicions, let alone change the pace of the battle to be more in my control.
"Don't play stupid, Baralai." Somasil grunts as he whips the quarterstaff around in a low sweep, aiming for my legs. I throw my weight on a hand to spring up, into a crouch, and from there up onto my feet and in the air. The strike misses. "I saw her going to your room last week. She's been missing a lot, and Dopha says it's because she's doing things for you."
Her?
Gella?
The concept is so strange that I am lax to counterattack, missing the other Lustrum by a clear handspan of inches. Most of my focus is on hissing out my words under my breath. "Gella's been helping me out against the priests, Somasil. We have no interest in each other like that. I know the involvement you and she have, and I also know why you can't be together. Believe me, please." If only so that I will not have my skull caved in.
Now I am panting, trying to get the words out in hopes that they might slow the flurry of Somasil's attack. "She's doing me a favor as a friend. That's all it is. Believe me," I repeat. "I want to help you both out."
Both our sets of feet pound against the thin practice mats, the layered fabric long-worn from numerous sessions. I can feel the struggles of the other pairs of Lustrum communicated through the vibrations to my soles. Hopefully the luckless individual matched against Gella is not having nearly the rough time I am.
Somasil's face tightens as he pulls his staff up, giving the wood a warning spin that easily soaks the impetus of my strike against it. "Help us, Baralai?" The anger in him is a fraying one. He holds fast to it, growling out the only questions he can guess in the doublefaced culture of Bevelle. "Or isn't that really, help yourself?"
There is no reason for Somasil to think otherwise. He knows that a person can expect little that is completely honest from Yevon, New or otherwise. Somasil is a man speaking with the desperation of one who knows that they have everything to lose, and it is slipping out of their hands each day.
Desperation. I have become good friends with that emotion. I see it in the Lustrum around me, and feel it in my own heart the longer I remain in Bevelle. I am separated from my friends, as I know I must be, and yet I am losing track of what it is I am actually here as time goes on.
"I'm here for the person I love, Somasil." Those words come out curiously intense. I do not pause to think if I am exaggerating them into a form the other Lustrum will respect. "There's something I need to do to keep her safe. I can only get that done here, and I need the help of the other Lustrum."
We reverse position on the mats, Somasil backing towards the edge of the boundary lines, and I the one advancing.
Thirst racks my throat. Trying to hold a civil discussion while in the middle of this fight is a nightmare fit to join the dreams of the Squad dissolving. Staffs clatter around us both in wooden chorus, matched with the shouts of the other Lustrum.
If I can only force Somasil out of the mat-lines, I can technically count a victory. Maybe luck will fall on my side. For once.
Somasil does not seem to notice the widening chances for my success. He takes one step back, then another, shifting his staff in his hands to cleanly block each of my forward swings. "Safe?" The word comes out in his voice like a child wondering aloud at fiends. "And risking getting Gella in even more trouble's going to do that?"
"I'm not--" I start, and then Somasil seems to revive himself, halts his own retreat. His feet plant themselves on the mat and brace against the impacts of my advance; only a few seconds go by as we are locked in impasse, and then he digs his own staff low to hook it out at an acute angle. One of the loop-holes catches the edge of my weapon. I struggle to free it, but Somasil levers his up, forces me to try and step away if I wish to retain my grip.
The other Lustrum bears down on me. I twitch my weapon from one side to the other in an attempt to break the lock. Sweat stands out on his face; my own must be damp with it, from all the fury that the Lustrum has tried to vent.
In a last effort, I dig the other end of my quarterstaff into the mats, set my foot against it to try and keep the weapon from skidding. Somasil halts. At first I think I have managed to thwart the worst of his charge, but then I focus on his face, and the panted words he is growling out. "What proof do I have of any of what you say, Baralai?"
I think I can taste my own lungs trying to crawl out of my throat.
"None." I am like Nooj. I ask others to believe me while giving them nothing but empty hands in return. Perhaps I smile while I do so, but in the end, I leave others with nothing but questions.
No. I am not like Nooj. If I were, I would be packing a gun to this spar.
With a gritted mutter, Somasil twists his staff to the side. It sends my own slipping down; automatically, I spin with it to try and keep it from being lost. My mistake. Even as I am turning, Somasil has lifted his foot again and slams his heel into my ribs.
I hit the mats less gracefully than before this time. Half my muscles inform me rather cynically that they would prefer to stay down rather than be forced back into the fight. I ignore them. Only one of my hands managed to keep its death-grip on the looped-staff; pulling it towards me, I crane my head up just in time to see the worst.
Somasil has planted his feet again in a full stance, taking advantage of my disorientation to dance his staff in his hands. The weapon is lifted above his head, whirling like a dust storm; the blue tassels have run together like colors in the rain, painting twin circles in the air that seem to rotate freely around the nexus of the Lustrum.
It is too late for me to block. The end of the looped-staff slams into my shoulder and skims off it to crash into my jaw. Teeth clack shut with a hot bloom of blood; judging from the pain, I have just bit into a healthy part of my tongue.
I have seen this maneuver before. Somasil calls it glinting, because of the way that light catches itself off the staff and causes it to blur in a hypnotic illusion, causing any victims watching to believe that the staff itself has actually grown in length to strike them. In reality, Somasil only switches his hands down the grips to extend his reach. The speed of the staff whirls around where he stands in the center and keeps it from falling in mid-air. Somasil has torn apart two practice dummies at once with that attack before; it figures that I'd catch the brunt of one of his signature moves.
I didn't realize that it hurt so much.
If we were on better speaking terms, I might ask for a repeat. At this rate, though, I think the demonstration dummy would be myself.
Somasil doesn't wait to give me a hand up off the ground. I lever myself up painfully on my own, the backs of my fingers rubbing against the swelling already beginning to manifest on my jaw. The tang of blood paints the inside of my mouth. I think about spitting it out, and then decide not to until I can probe for any loose teeth first.
He regards me with scorn. When he speaks, the Lustrum's voice is soft enough that it almost drowns in the noise of the hall and the training official's call for a medic. "You're not strong enough to do anything, Baralai. I don't trust you to help us. Not now. Not ever."