"They say the Founder can control fiends."

It is a month after the recovery of Somasil, and Gella's face is only slightly less dour than winter itself as she challenges me. Partners weave around us in intercepting circles. A few inadvertently collide. The steps of the routine are broken clockwork, pounded out by the acolytes still novice enough to require full-padded poles.

"Where did you hear that?"

I duck under her swing, narrowly enough that the staff riffs through my hair.

"Somasil said," Gella grunts, twisting the looped-pole around her arm and building up its speed in a whirl around her waist, "that you used a trick like that to get out of the Underground." Thick wrists flash in tanned illusions as she crosses them, switches the joints around and dances the loops through the air.

"Oh?"

"Left." Not understanding her cue, I am taken off guard. The staff thuds into my ribs squarely and I am knocked to the ground, skidding off the mats with a hand planted square. A pair of trainees horsestep hurriedly away when I slide into their range; staring up the acolyte that almost kicked me in the head, I attempt to breathe a hasty apology before pushing myself back up to my feet.

The heat in the practice hall spreads sweat across everyone assembled, thick as morning butter on longwheat toast. As a result of this, most of the Lustrum have scattered their schedules to the morning and evening rather than spar during noon's rush. Only the younger recruits are forced into the hotter hours, and all of them dislike it. They cast sporadic glances at the section of the mats that Gella and I have claimed by right of seniority, but primarily because we have been here since the morning, and none have dared dislodge us.

Dopha and Shelinda have already departed the hall, intent on their own day's work. Trema held true enough to his word; after Gella's release and Somasil's case being placed permanently on hold for review, the higher ranks of Bevelle have sensed that the Lustrum were temporarily off-limits. No priests have given us specific workloads to follow. We dictate our own schedules.

Only foolishness would cause a priest to interfere with us at the current point in time. We have the favor of the Founder. Whichever manipulative game he must be playing with us, they are not so certain they wish to tamper with. Yet.

Such protection will last for but a short while, until the next opportunity comes for political maneuvering. We enjoy our freedom while we can.

"Right."

I twist in time and manage to block the woman's attack with a glancing defense. Around us I can hear the instructors demonstrating the basics to the rest of the hall; Gella and I are lost in our own quartered world, ignoring the gravity of lectures, continuing at our own relentless pace.

Summer has brought more changes with it than just the temperature. A new class of acolytes qualified for the Lustrum title have graduated to our ranks; there are three of them from what I have heard, all hesitant to even speak to the others housed within the Lustrates lest they be engaged in complex ploys. They are housed down the hall from Dopha. He reports that they scatter from the halls when they see him, like frightened mice expecting us all to be felinoid.

The new Lustrum take up the simpler work by default. With the progression to sweltering months, festival garlands must be cycled; the banners swapped out appropriately to shine their colors on alternating days, proper rituals observed while folding the cloth and shaking it out for display. Dried flowers must be replaced with fresh. And the fresh must be watered and tended daily lest they wither; at the first sign of rot, we must replace any decay with new.

Privately, I suspect the whole tradition exists only to keep the Lustrum occupied. Bevelle is largely ceremonial. Even though we have been able to avoid specific projects by the upper echelons of New Yevon, the daily business of temple maintenance remains. There is no snow to shovel in summertime, but we have a great deal of dust.

In practice, this matters less than it might. Gella and I elected Dopha to be in charge of handling the festival correspondences with the newest Lustrum. When he protested, citing the workload and rattling off numerous calculations on the square feet of the halls and walkways, Gella ordered Shelinda to help. The brown-haired girl pursed her lips in a pout of annoyance; I wonder how long it will take her to stand up for herself and say no.

Or if she ever will, and instead prefers being given direction in her life.

Time moves on. Eventually even Gella will advance to priesthood; Dopha is a certainty, and Shelinda a questionable affair. I do not know where I will go from here, whether it be to priesthood myself or to a position on the council, but I too will be swept up in the tide of months progressing.

Freed from her assignment to a deceased priest and unwanted by the more timid of officials who fear a similar fate befalling them, Gella has found herself unexpectedly idle. She fills in her days by following me. I am much too weak for my own good, she has decided. After hearing about the lizards in the Underground, the Lustrum declared that it was her debt of honor to fix my inability to fight.

So far under her brutal tutoring, I have advanced in staff ranks to single-looped poles. The tassels of the practice staffs always hit me in the face while I am swinging them in the more complex twists; that is their purpose, to teach people to dodge lest they get their noses splintered by a length of wood, or legs bruised and broken. I have not yet mastered the weapon style, and keep spitting out mouthfuls of cord.

"Footwork's lagging!" Gella's bark lends haste to my steps as I feint to the side, her attack coming low in an effort to rouse me. The staff clips my ankle. I ignore the slap of numbed nerves and begin to match my palms to the wood in an effort to spin the weapon for a counter.

Gella has already finished her wind-up by the time I have completed my twist. She lifts her arms. Hand over hand, her fingers dance. Tassels whirl. They blur together in the first start of the glinting attack, and I snap my own staff back in a hasty parry that I fear will not be enough.

We are interrupted by the first rumbled sounds of iron tongues clapping. Afternoon bells sound. The hum through the practice hall resounds in doubled peals, and Gella halts in mid-swing towards me, reining in the brutality of her attack with ease.

"We're late," she observes, succinct.

I am too busy panting, and only eye her with appropriate exhaustion.

The look upon my face causes her to bark a laugh; the sound is rich, warm, and one that I am only slowly becoming used to. The woman never had the allowance for expression before while watched by a priest intent on removing her from Somasil. Now she reintroduces her personality back to herself, remembering the features she has stifled all this while.

Gella has finally been able to change her clothes out of the stiffer robes that have confined her for the duration of her stay in Bevelle. Slacks were found, sturdy boots, and a tunic that allows her free range of motion to whirl with a brawler's speed as easily off the practice mats as on. She walks the halls with a full willingness to flaunt her change in dress, enjoying her visual rebellion as she has never been allowed before.

Since escaping the Underground, I have not worn my Lustrum coat either. Mine was torn up into bandages for Somasil, and though I could have requested others, I feel no desire to dress in the stifling trappings of Yevon once more.

Nor, since leaving Vegnagun, have I dreamed.

Gella exits with me, wiping down her neck and face with one of her practice towels. She offers it, and I decline; finding a washroom and rinsing off sweat can be done easily enough, and I will want a full shower even if I scrub myself down with a basin of water.

Following the trail of cooler stone, we take the lower passageways that wind around the base of Bevelle's temples. Fountains ripple in hydrating luxury along the paths. The trip might be longer this way, but it allows us both to walk in the breeze of the canopied pathways, and the air of the manmade rivers is refreshing to inhale. Nature is elevated to artificial waterfalls; I would find the architecture of Bevelle to be an ironic parallel to the hierarchy of the priests, but my mind is weary enough that it unwinds to simple conversation.

"How are you holding up, Gella?"

"Wit' patience." Sliding out of formality in a telling hint of her own weariness, Gella shakes out her sleeves before proceeding to tie them up around her biceps. "Still don't know when Somasil'll be allowed back. Might be a while b'fore we see each other. Just knowin' he's out there's enough for me," she confesses, slowing her words throughout her own admission and steeling through them without a hint of blush. "We're both alive. Bevelle'll forget about us. When that happens, I figure we've got time to decide what to do then."

"Will you be staying with New Yevon?"

"Don't think he'll want to come back here." The ends of Gella's hair flick around her ears when she shakes her head. One of the first things she did upon freedom was to cut it short, in defiance against a priest now-dead. "I can't leave yet neither. Got my family depending on me. Youngest sister, she's going to be counted thirteen years come winter. Don't worry your head on it, Baralai." Her boots clunk upon the hallstones, steps as precise as a metronome. "That's our problem t' figure out. You've got your own. Which reminds me."

We turn a corner and the mortarwork beneath our feet is crumbling in the scattered summer light.

"Somasil didn't have a chance to tell me much, but he said you used a trick down there to escape from a fiend. We didn't talk for long." The Lustrum's voice is blunt, country-born pragmatic as she walks beside me. "No time. He wanted me to tell you to be careful. Tricks you're learning from the Founder," a shake of her head, the name like an epithet, "you be watchful with them. He may've saved me n' Somasil from the Gaol. Doesn't mean it's not for a purpose."

Whoever thinks Gella to be a dullard judges on her accent alone. Having no proper response to the accuracy of her guess, I divert my words back to a safer matter. "I'm honored that Somasil thought enough of me to spend time expressing his concern."

"Enough to tell me to show you how to glint. Your right hand's still too low."

The meeting halls we pass form rows upon rows of open doors, wooden mouths exhaling summer heat. Windows are kept similarly propped ajar, but the air circulation in Bevelle's chambers can stand to use improvement. Buzzing words flit out from the rooms. Classes are being taught in some of them, and in others, reports and training squads receive their paperwork.

Bevelle hums with activity restrained. Gella and I pace down the half-covered walkways, and I find some measure of peace in my ability to do so without having to hide myself.

The nearest speaker's voice tarries on the air towards us.

"They are calling machina a different word, that of machines." To judge from the rank disapproval in the man's voice, such a literary slur is tantamount to raw heresy. "It appears that they are interested in creating new forms without any other guidance than their own tinkerings, bereft of the manuals of Bevelle."

Screens flicker, flashes of light in the black pit of the presentation room. Beside me, Gella rolls her eyes and continues to walk. I do the same, only half an ear on the briefing we are inadvertently eavesdropping on while we pass.

"These people are a threat." The speaker's throat is thick with smug assurance. "They have invaded the Djose region, and their leader is an Al Bhed who has been on the list for quite some time, evading successful capture thus far."

My feet slow.

"He goes by the given name of Gippal."

I am retreating before I know it, reversing my steps as neat as a tumbler to fetch up against the doorway.

The dim light of the chamber forces me to squint against the brilliance of the display screens. From here, the angle is poor; I can see the scrolling lines that ripple over the glass, the clustered ranks of soldier-heads blotting out half the view with their ridged helmets.

"Here is his dossier."

Buttons click. The screens change and now Gippal's face looms above me, magnified a dozen times taller than I am wide. His smile looks as if he could devour me. Nip my head off with his teeth and swallow it down, wink afterwards with one of those swirl-pupilled eyes. Whoever captured the image did it at the exact time that he was turning jauntily towards the recording machina; trapped slantwise between profile and full-on, Gippal grins at the room in clear-blown mockery.

Gippal? Alive? Is this even possible?

Text lines the lower half of the screen, layering itself in wanton information over Gippal's neck. Height. Weight, age. Last known locations. Known involvements. Yet there is no stamp of the Crimson Squad lingering like a bloodied stain upon Gippal's notices; it seems as if whatever crimes New Yevon sees fit to inform its soldiers upon, former membership in its organization is not one of them.

Interesting.

Could it be true?

"We will be assembling a team to Kilika for the purpose of arresting him and bringing him back for questioning," the priest announces, delivering his verdict to the room entire. "Two teams each of four. In addition, we will deploy six teams each of three to handle the emptying of Djose Temple of the Al Bhed squatters which have claimed its ownership. Prepare to leave at--"

"No."

Disturbed by my low-voiced command, the priest halts in his orders and looks back to where I stand planted in the doorway. I bear no Lustrum coat. No sign of office, and yet the man's face changes like a bottle underwater, fading from peevishness to recognition. He shifts his weight as a child might when nervous. "Sir?"

The novelty of being addressed by a priest as if I were a superior is a sensation as unique as Sin-toxin, but I deny my own amusement.

"No," I repeat, taking a step forward into the room. All eyes turn to me as I do, a simultaneous fixation of uniformed faces, shade-glass masked. I am bathed in their scrutiny and in the garish light of Gippal's face. "I will be handling this matter personally. Disassemble your teams, please. And take this man off the list."

The priest who spoke looks at me askance. Why he imagines me to be here, I am not certain; none of the Lustrum have ever been recognized on sight before Somasil was accused of murder. Yet it is unmistakable that this man knows who I am.

"But--"

"Take him off, please."

Silence in the room, broken by a shuffle of feet, a stifled cough. None of them know how to respond. I can listen to their hesitance massing, turning like a wave that may yet become an ocean.

Gippal is alive. I close my eyes, find steady footing in the blankness, and reopen them in order to speak once more. "I have taken control of this operation." Words, clipped and well-modulated in a manner that is both dictation and demand. "I will inform Lord Trema of the change in plans. Consider yourselves relieved."

No one dares speak up to question.

I am immersed in their quiet. Gippal's face flickers as the displays refresh his features in scrolling lines, constant as river tides.

We watch each other out of the corners of our eyes, the Al Bhed in memory and I in living proof before Bevelle.

"Sir..." The priest again. He hesitates and then plunges forward. "Will you be taking any support?"

I skip my gaze across the room. Yevon helmets mask identity; given no ideas, I resort to my last assignment for inspiration. "Ready my guards from Luca, please." My guards. Spoken as if I owned them--how many there were, I do not remember, and their names are even more difficult to beckon out of memory. All I have to recall is the faded shape of smiles as they assembled down the stairs, laughing together like new recruits despite the seriousness of their occupation.

"And cancel the bounty on this Al Bhed. Neither him nor this... rogue faction of his should be tampered with. He is not to be interfered with by New Yevon at this time. Is that understood?" I ask, the question disturbingly mild for all its implied ruthlessness.

"Of... course, my lord." Nodding his head, the priest swallows. His palms flex at his sides. A latent ceremonial bow, I gather, knowing the same reflex in my own wrist tendons. I technically do not outrank him, but my demeanor claims otherwise; the same determination that allowed me to join the Lustrum under a pretense elevates me once more, giving me a status unspecified, and hence dangerous.

He does not know if he should bow.

To excuse us both embarrassment, I take my leave without a parting glance.

Gella turns when I do, falling in behind as my secondary without question. We depart with the weight of uncounted gazes piercing our backs. In short, Bevelle is operating much as it always has, with half of its conspiracies only able to exist through sheer pretense alone.

How soon we return to the forms of old lies. All our travel is one step at a time in Spira; there are days I wonder if we are traveling in a flattened circle rather than ascending to a hopeful conclusion.

We do not speak for the length of the first level around the central courtyard. The gates of Bevelle lurk in the distance; the residential towers to our left, Trema's tower looming above it all. Patrols of guards change position. The colors of the banners wave, announcing celebrations of festivals whose origins have been long-forgotten in the depths of Sin-stained time.

"Is he yours?" Gella's voice, stunted in the blunt practicality of her village-phrasing, arrives on hushed lips.

I am struck by the simplicity of her question.

"Yes. He's... an old friend," I clarify, sensing the layers of unspecified meaning as I do. Such information could be used by priests if they were aware, but the hall is filled with only myself and Gella, and she has already given me her trust.

"Ah."

Gippal. There is no mistaking the Al Bhed's face; even if there was chance of cosmetic error, I know that smile. I remember its recklessness. If he is alive, then it might be that he would have an idea of how to stop Nooj. Or at least to understand what the Deathseeker is plotting. During the Crimson Squad, it was always Gippal who convinced me to try again when all seemed impossible. He communicated with us all. Scattered, alone, we have only fallen apart.

I find myself sorely missing him.

Since hearing nothing about the Al Bhed, I could only expect the worst. And yet the termination of his life would have kept the man safe from these affairs; if he were not alive, he could not be involved in what games are played out upon Spira's face. There would be no need to fear his capture. Nor his death in truth.

Yet for all that knowledge, I cannot wish the revelation undone.

Gippal is alive, or close enough that New Yevon believes it to be so. To have New Yevon fooled is more than enough reason for me to investigate. I can only hope that he, too, will not become my adversary in the accident of the Crimson Squad broken into shards.

Now that I do not have to worry about fooling the priests, the full weight of what I have undertaken covers me like a leaden cape. I did not even request a copy of whatever orders the soldiers were expected to follow. If I return and ask for one, I would only undermine my position. If I am to continue this bluff, I must do so with haste, and find my justification while I am on the road.

Kilika does not seem like a particularly logical place for Gippal to linger. There are few excavation sites for machina, and the village lacks in the trading supplies that a larger city such as Luca might offer. Claiming the empty temple of Djose with all its natural electricity is logical for an Al Bhed force, but why would he go to a jungle such as Kilika?

Even while I am wondering these things, I have turned my steps towards the Lustrates quarters. "Keep Dopha and Shelinda out of trouble if you can." The words are either order or suggestion--I know not which even as I have spoken them, but Gella absorbs the sentence without complaint. "I'm not sure about the newer recruits, but please keep an eye out to make sure that they won't be assigned to any of the priests yet."

Judging from the low chuckle to my side, the woman would like nothing better than to halt the gears of New Yevon with as much vengeance as possible. "And yourself?"

"It looks as if I'll be traveling again." Thought of more days upon the ocean wring a sigh from my lungs. Suddenly the walkways to the dining hall are much too long, and the pathways back to my chambers to pack all the more so. "What I would not give for a machina vehicle such as the one the Lady Yuna used."

Gella's reply is skeptical, but sympathetic in the raise of her brow. "There're secrets enough in this place, but I don't think an airship's one of 'em. If you're going to hurry, you'd best do it fast."