The war of seasons has been fought and won while I was abroad. Bevelle has moved on without me in my absence. Nothing better serves to drive the point in hard that you are expendable than to return home and see that not even nature has bothered to wait.

Winter's harsh fury has lessened during my travels away. Cooler still than Luca, which is a blessing after the heat of the port. At first I welcomed the temperatures. Then I had to stay there for a week. Returning to Bevelle has brought some of the summer-port's clime with us; there is snow, but it hunkers down in mud-stained clumps at the sides of walkways rather than encompassing them in full.

That snow, I find out later, had not receded quickly enough to save one man's life.

Dopha recalls the story in bits and pieces to me over breakfast. Huddled together on the bench near to the firehearth, he waves the crust of bread clutched in his fingers to embellish the tale.

"They'd have called it an accident, save for the guards stationed by the West Gate of the Lustrates," he enunciates through a mouthful of crumbs. Around us, serving dishes clatter as the cooks carry trays back and forth from the kitchens. We sit close enough to the side doors that the air is mixed with ash and greasefat, tinged with the firepits of kitchen and dining hall alike.

For once, the hall is more empty than it is full. The priests tend to their own business. No one has cleared their throat imperiously, begun to hand out assignments for the daily chores. All of Bevelle moves in a void; private, individualized, and very much alone.

"But the pair of them, they said--"

"One moment." After three unsuccessful attempts to wave down one of the maids, I finally resort to standing, physically blocking the path of the nearest with my arm. She looks to me with no fair amount of surprise for my interruption. Then her eyes progress past me to Dopha, back to myself once more, and the tray in her arms shudders with a tight-knit surprise.

I reach out to claim the flagon of coffee for myself, apologizing quietly before retaking my seat.

Dopha's face is sympathetic. "They've been like that ever since. The staff," he explains, with a nod to the already-retreating back of the woman. "It's because of Gella's priest. Baralai, they found him at the bottom of the East Lustrates. He'd fallen along the long flights. All the way down," the Lustrum adds, pasty-faced mournfulness, "to the courtyard level."

Mental recollection of the details brings to me a distance of greater than three floors. I do not need to ask how the guards must have known the priest was dead. Anything that could have survived that manner of descent, jostling against the stone-hewed steps, would have certainly been a fiend afterwards if not before.

"Didn't they blame the weather?" Attempting to keep from premature conclusions, I instead reach my hand out to hook the dish of butter. It slides across the table with a rattle. I liberate it of a knife and proceed to dollop the substance onto my own slice of bread. "It would be more surprising if no accidents happened at all in winter, considering the conditions here."

"They might have." Dopha's agreement was pensive. "But the guards on the West Gate said they saw Somasil at approximately that hour. He was with Gella, both in a rush. The watchers didn't stop them since they were going back to the Lustrates--I suppose it made sense, since it was evening and time to retire for sleep--but they noticed that the two looked as if they had been arguing. The body was discovered only a few hours later. After the watchmen reported, the priests called a search for Gella and Somasil both. That's what they're telling us, at least," he added, glum. "What really happened, only Gella, Somasil, and the guards know, and the chances of us finding out the truth are slim at best."

At last, I understand just why Dopha and myself are given such a wide berth in this morning meal. We are Lustrum acolytes. No one in their right mind wants to be near to a Bevelle conspiracy, whether the guilt is real or falsified.

I am very careful while I finish buttering my toast, and set the knife down on its dish with a precise metal click.

Dopha continues to volunteer information now that he has already begun his confession of the tale, scholar's detachment stripping any mystery from the whole. "So far, they've only caught Gella. The pair of them were both in her room, packing everything she had a rush. They say that she didn't struggle at all, but Somasil fought like a madman, broke one of the lampstands and used it as a staff. Half of them split off to chase him. The rest brought Gella down to be imprisoned until further interrogation. They've... they've put her in the Gaol, Baralai."

Talk of the Gaol brings to mind the heavy, sharp tang of rusting metal. I have only visited the chamber twice, both times in exploration. Both times were visits too many. The cages swing like overripe fruits on iron boughs; I do not care to imagine any of the Lustrum there.

"How long ago was that?"

"A few days. The guards that were to take Somasil haven't returned yet either. It's assumed that he's fled into the Underground. They have watchmen posted on the entrances that are known, priests on the more private lifts, but no one knows where everything is in this place." Now Dopha's voice has returned to a semblance of normal; any discussion of disordered information gives him that wheedle, the affronted injustice that a universe was not in perfect categorization. "It could be that he's already found a way out. I just don't know how."

"Lady Yuna found one, when she was sentenced to her death in the Via Purifico." The words slip free from my lips with the same ease as a sleepwalker finding a cliff to fall from, unaware that their dream of flying is in actuality a doom. "She escaped Bevelle and all its priests, continuing her pilgrimage to Zanarkand despite them."

Such a statement causes Dopha to look at me with some surprise. "I didn't know you were an enthusiast of the High Summoner."

By his tone, I'd imagine he thought me to be another of the enamored crowd which jostle for paintings to hang upon their walls, Yuna's smile gleaming back from every possible angle. Having someone watching me like that could give me even more nightmares. "I've been recently told to study her." Neutral is my hand while I pick up my toast and take a bite from it, then drinking from my coffee to wash the meal down. "More importantly... do you think Somasil did it?"

Return to the more somber conversation takes some of the enthusiasm back out of Dopha; his shoulders deflate, slump. "The priests certainly believe so. Most claim they expected such an act from him. They cite his temper, saying that everyone knew him to be off-balance. Even you've seen how angry he's been lately, Baralai." Dopha's chin jerks up towards me. "He almost broke your jaw just in a training spar."

I am already shaking my head, dismissing the memory of bandages and salves. "They've been waiting to blame something like this on him for a while, Dopha. We all saw it. In fact... even those of us in the Lustrum have been avoiding him, haven't we." The statement comes out flat. Not a question. "We knew he was under their eye."

Far too late to consider if doing otherwise could have changed anything. The Lustrum acolytes have acted like cattle, separating themselves from the one they fear is sick--and I am as guilty as the rest of them.

Though I justified it on not wanting to be involved, the end arrived regardless.

"It gets even more complicated." Dopha wags his cup at me in warning. "They're not getting any information about Somasil from Gella, and Somasil himself hasn't appeared either. Not only that, but Gella's claimed to them that she pushed her priest off." Ceramic thunks against the table as the man sets his mug down for punctuation. "The priests who believe the matter to be Somasil's fault insist that he's still committed a wrongdoing by attacking the guards who came for her. Until he's found, they're both under suspicion anyway."

"They're trying to save one another. But they'll fail," I find myself saying, more sharply than I intend. "Both of them will only be destroyed that way."

Dopha stares at me. "Baralai."

My name in his mouth is a word abandoned, wandering.

I glance at him then, hearing my voice repeat in bitter echo. My heart twists unaccountably. Pressing a palm against my sternum, I set my coffee down and resolve not to have another cup. "You'll have to forgive me, Dopha. I've had... some problems recently with relationships."

His look, I think, contains some sympathy after that.

"What do you think will happen to them?"

"I wish I could say I knew." Using my crust to sop up a trace of spilled jam from my plate, I push the remains of my breakfast back and stand. "I'll speak with Trema."

First comes the visit to my room.

The delay is acceptable. Hurrying along the walkways from the Lustrates to the Founder's tower brings me past several pairs of guards, many of whom snap their eyes to me in attention. I can feel them tracking my path. Perhaps they will part from their posts to search the stairwells, wondering if I, too, have just killed a priest of my own.

There is no attention to spare upon them. Running exacerbates the illness burbling in my chest, inside my stomach where it fights with the morning breakfast fare. I do not know if this sickness in my heart is dread--or worse, anger. It is a miasma that festers inside the twin scars on my body and makes me impatient to change this slow crumbling of my life.

I am over-familiar with the taste of despair.

All that beats in my mind now is the desire to see the pattern of authority shattered. If Yevon were not so steeped in manipulations, none of us would have to scurry like this in futile attempts to hide ourselves. We would not have to count how many guards are paid to spy upon us, and check to see how many times our rooms have been searched during meal hours.

If the priests were gone, I would not have to fear for Paine so much.

The Lustrum are the newer generation of Yevon. They stand to inherit the mantles of office. At its heart, this conflict is a clash of power. Age-old dominance has set in stone the foundation of Yevon's hierarchy, teaching us all that we can never overcome the dictates of our past.

It might well be that this would be a chance to break tradition by sending the message to the younger priests that control is within their grasp.

And the younger priests would not persecute Paine, not as familiar with me as they are. Nor would they seek to play with her. They are already resentful of games that have removed their own friends under the pretense of Yevon's justice; they would not do the same against one they believe to be their ally.

Namely, me.

If the younger Lustrum were to succeed to full priesthood while bearing a desire to resist their elders, it might be possible to alter New Yevon in truth.

And I would no longer have to force Paine away.

These thoughts keep me company as I pelt through the halls. The guards waiting on either side of the Founder's lift scarce give me pause; I ignore them and their abbreviated queries for my business and if I have an appointment. They give way when I bat the machina barrel of one weapon out of my path and key in the activation for the lift.

As the machina platform rises, I remember the faces of the guards that attended me to Luca, and regret my rude haste.

I take the stairs up the tower quickly, my head buzzing. Running all over Bevelle might have delayed me, but the stop to my room was worth it. If the Founder is as resolute about changing the destiny of New Yevon as he would like to convince me, then I have no better card to play; if this attempt does not work, I cannot imagine what else could.

The weight in my inner pocket bounces against my chest with each step.

Barely a knock to announce my presence before I push the doors open, a straight-armed thrust that leaves me standing center, breathless. "Trema." Then I catch myself and some of my wits in the bargain. "My lord."

The target of my informality is seated facing towards one of the shelves, having rolled his chair over to the wall. At my intrusion he looks up. If ever I might see Trema surprised, today would not be that time; if anything, the Founder seems amused by my state of dishevel. "Such enthusiasm, mm... befits you, Baralai. And how was your trip to Luca? It must have been so exciting that you wanted to save all the tale for me, and not grant anyone else a single word."

I knew I would get into trouble for not handing in a report on the Seeker results.

Considering that I have come back alive from the city, and hence in theory did not get killed during a furious confrontation with Nooj, I let the matter pass for now. It is a secondary concern. I can file the approved dossiers later.

"My lord, you must have heard about the trouble with the Lustrum." Crossing the room in hard thumps of my boots against the carpet, I place my hands upon his desk. The wood is a dark moat of mahogany between us; Trema regards me from the other side, impassive and deadly as a crocodile.

"And what of it?"

I temper the volume of my words even as I shape them; the haste by which I do is well-timed, for they come out loud even with my best efforts. "If you speak the truth by wishing for a new future, my lord, you will have to allow the Lustrum to win through this. Gella must be freed. Give Somasil a banishment at worst--blame the weather, ill luck, fiends. Anything, but let the Lustrum know you are on their side." My hands have formed into fists at my side. Carefully, I relax them. "You must take advantage of this opportunity to let the acolytes see the future that you offer them. Otherwise, their spirits will be broken by this. They will learn only that they can change nothing. New Yevon will be little better than a sham."

Silence breeches the study after my long string of declarations. I consider it; it stares back at me, and we are mutually astonished at how much I have said.

Trema waits for a span of minutes before he deigns to answer.

"You cannot propose that I simply overturn all justice to fit your whims, Baralai. I would be accused of favoring you--and rightfully so, in this situation." A whisper of pages, and Trema closes the book in his lap, slides it back into place on the shelf near to his elbow. "What reason would I have to use such a... mm, dramatic means to my ends?"

"This."

The chime of the sphere is a hollow thunk as I set it upon the table.

Replay of this particular memory is a painful one. With that in mind, I do not thumb the playback on. In all the time I have concealed the sphere in the stonework of my room's hearth, I do not think I expected to sell it like this. It is the only memento I possess that clearly shows Yevon's betrayal of my Team. The record is enough to grant me clemency in a dozen villages hostile to Bevelle, and more.

It is the only thing I have left of value that I can trade.

"That?" Trema's clipped parody of my offer rings in an ancient's mockery. "That is only a sphere, Baralai. Of great import to you, I have no doubt," he adds, squinting at the tell-tale crimson light that marks a Squad crystal, "but, ah... hardly worth my consideration as anything other than a collection of pyreflies."

"Accept it as a token of my willingness to help you," I retort, tuning my voice to a reasonable degree. "You have left me alive for that reason. I know about Vegnagun. I have lost everything else about my life by staying here in search of it. You have spoken to me about the need to leave the past behind--now I am asking you to prove your beliefs in turn. If I can surrender so much of my own history to New Yevon, then surely you can make that organization exist as more than two simple words."

My eyes do not leave the other man. I have faced down worse before; I have stared at Seymour while bidding for my freedom, knowing the half-Guado could sell me to Kinoc at any moment.

The Founder cannot be more terrible than what I already am poised to lose.

I am not prepared for his laughter.

It is a dry, crackling sound; autumn leaves crushed underfoot is an appropriate comparison, if they all were given voice to cheer on their own mutilation. "Are you so ready?"

I answer with a good deal more conviction than I feel. "Yes."

A withered brow raises in my direction. The Founder's skepticism is clear.

"If you will be traveling down into the reaches of Bevelle, you will not survive as you are now, Baralai." Gone is the humming of his casual speech. Reed-woven as his voice may be, Trema gives me only hard words. "Are you able yet to abandon your past? Can you truly shed yourself of old attachments if doing so will advance you further to your goals? I see no proof of this." He stands to face me, and the folds of his gold-stained robe crinkle with his slow steps towards the desk. "Only... a child's recklessness."

I draw a breath in strong, focus on the air in my lungs and the way the study smells of must and hidden rot. "My goal is to keep Nooj from fulfilling his plan. If he reaches this Vegnagun, then I know I will lose something important. And I..." I halt in place, realizing only when I touch my tongue to my lips to wet them that my entire mouth is dry as cotton. "I have something I need to keep alive. Even if I must give everything up in order to do so."

At last, Trema's gaze flickers down to the sphere. His interest settles on the crimson promise of memory, the orb that gleams with the color of Paine's eyes.

I have him.

"So..." One clawed hand lowers, caressing the record with a strange affection. "Sentiment rules you in the end, Baralai. You may yet remain nostalgia's victim." Ruddy light awakens with Trema's touch to the sphere's surface. It simmers, rises to brush against his palm and highlights his skin in red. "But if it is the urge to protect which motivates you... perhaps you will not be such a poor choice."

Trema lifts his voice even while I am puzzling through his implications, continues his revelations past my thoughts. "I recommend you keep that feeling in your heart, Baralai. You will find something that has a great need of such a, mm, guardian. Very well." An announcement made brisk. "If you can bring your friend back, mm, alive, then I will see what can be done. I make no promises, Baralai," he stresses, fixing an eye too sharp to be rheumed upon me. "Though I may show you the door, it is up to you to survive the descent. Did you think to bring a weapon?"

I blink, brought up short by Trema's verbal meanderings and thrown against the immediacy of my plans. I had been in too great a hurry to stop by the training halls.

My lack of foresight is stunning.

With a patriarch's sigh, Trema slides the top drawer of his desk out. Wrinkled fingers paw through it and retrieve a bulky machina pistol; this, he sets upon the desk, where it glimmers dull in the banked light of the sphere beside it. "Take this," he instructs, with the same patient suffering as a teacher. "Use it sparingly. Now pull back the rug."

The heavy pattern of the carpet is a design I have studied before, but never did I expect to take it into my hands. I start with the corner next to the fireplace, gripping the weight and dragging the length of it back. Underneath is naught other than stone floor. I should know; I have stood on it frequently enough to know it to be solid.

Trema waves me closer to the hearth with an imperious hand once he sees the confusion on my features. "Reach underneath the mantle," he commands. "The second button. No, the second," he repeats impatiently, watching my finger fumble in the small depressions I would otherwise swear to be imperfections in the marble.

A click rewards me as I crook a knuckle.

Blue light traces a square in the center of the cleared space, wide enough for several people to stand upon with ease; the color is familiar, and I recognize it to be the boundary lights of a transportation lift. For a man who receives few private audiences, I have wondered why Trema's study kept such a void of carpet to stand upon. Before this moment, I thought it mere intimidation for any guests, forcing them to speak on tapestry's stage.

Now I am grateful that there is enough room on the outlined stone that I will not fear falling.

The Founder does not wait for my full appreciation of his ruse. He continues speaking, a litany of details handed out with dispassion. "This lift will take you to a sector of the Underground that bypasses the greater security of the guards. Your arrival point lands after the Cloister of Trials. It may be that your friend has fled near there if they have not yet discovered him. Not many," Trema continues, his voice shading a hint of wry, "think to invade the Temples themselves in search of rogue influences."

"My lord," I answer, nodding my head in nervous half-bow. "Thank you..."

He interrupts me, cold. "Go. If I see you alive after this, you can express your gratitude at that time. This is your final test, Baralai." An age-spotted hand tightens on the sphere-offering, possessive of the tribute I have bought my passage with. "Only you will be able to guarantee your own survival. Use your time well."