I do not know when I started thinking of Bevelle's temple as home. For all that I have grown up within the city, learning the canal-graced walkways and hearing the distant chimes of the hour tolled, the center of Yevon has ever been a foreign, priest-ridden place. Yet, between the time my ship has disembarked and I have hauled my supplies through the front gates, I have given thanks at least once to have returned.
The doorways pull back. My head lifts like an animal scenting a familiar stall; my name is called in greeting by the guards, and I am welcomed into the temple as if I belong there.
Judging by the lightening of tension in my shoulders, it is true. I am home.
Bevelle is ever-cooler in comparison to the warmer regions, muggy by degrees. Fountains pour their clear waters in a never-ending bubble. It is not uncommon to catch a guard pausing in their daily patrols to kneel, cup a handful of fluid, and bathe their face free from grime. I do the same at the stairwells leading to the Lustrum heights. Dipping my fingers into the nearest font, I splash my skin once, and taste the season from a drop that creeps its way into my mouth.
My face stares back at me from the wavering reflection below.
A year ago, I had come to New Yevon with a machina wound still fresh upon my body. The Lustrum acolytes were only names to me; I did not trust them, did not expect them to become involved with my life. My plots were risky to begin with, and yet now, they have grown to encompass New Yevon itself.
Did I look like this, so many months ago? Were my eyes colder then, or have even I changed at all?
Droplets scatter from my hand when I give a shake of my wrist, and my features shatter, the water's mirror broken.
With summer already beginning its gradual secession to fall, the shadows cast by the walkways spread long and full. I walk between gradations of light. The turns are taken without forethought; I pace my way back to the Lustrates halls with a sleepwalker's patience, and find my mind busy with uncertain suspicions.
Gippal is right. It's uncustomary for Nooj to be bloodthirsty. It is as if I am seeing a side of him that never existed before. Everything the Deathseeker has done seems deliberately to encourage a rise out of me--and I do not know why. What use does Nooj have if I hate him?
Does he secretly want for me to stop his plans?
Half of how he has behaved is performed in that droll cynicism of his; that part is familiar, tied in with memories of desert moons and canvas tents. The rest is foreign. Strange. As unexpected as the bullet that left scars in my skin twice-over, this hatred for Bevelle and unreasoning taste for destruction.
Whatever happened to us in the Den of Woe, it has made Nooj a stranger to all I understood him to be.
If I pooled what I knew with Gippal, we might be able to figure this out. With him, or even with Nooj if we were able--limited cooperation might get to the bottom of this, if only through observation.
But I cannot see Nooj without one of us taking a jab at the other. And Gippal has already professed his desire to stay out of it.
I can't trust Nooj. Even though I might want to get to the bottom of this mystery, I can't bring myself to believe in him once more. It's as if some lynchpin to bridge our gaps has been removed--separated, we hang apart, clatter like spokes on a wagon wheel removed.
We argue. Already, we have begun to fight. And somewhere out there, lost from our circles, Paine still struggles to discover what happened to break the Team.
What are we all going to do?
We can't bring each other together, no matter how we might want to. Blood does not wash out of snow.
Resignation attends me while I take the last flight of stairs up through the Lustrates halls, passing set after set of guards. Loose ends bury themselves in the dirt of my past. Gippal. Nooj. The Crimson Squad. Vegnagun. All these, I must confront in the future; I must do this without my former team if necessary, even if it brings disaster.
Only when my fingers touch the door to my room do I realize what I have forgotten.
Paine. I had promised to try and find her the next time that I departed Bevelle. With news of Gippal spread all over the ports and Nooj drawn there beside, I cannot assume that our former recorder would not have found her way to Kilika. Too, my brief meeting with Gippal. My hasty departure besides.
I didn't wait to see if she was there. She must think that I'm a liar. No message left, no chance to meet. Nothing.
It is far too late to run back to the port. I can only hope Paine will be willing to speak to me again on our next encounter.
My room smells of summer must, the peculiar dryness of air warmed over by the cycle of days hitting high noon before they quell themselves in night once more. The sparse emptiness of the chamber greets me like a relative gone comatose in a medical bed. Nothing has changed while I was away. Everything is silent, recognizing me even while expecting that I will journey anew.
When I reach for the tableside lights, the lamp that comes first to my fingers sheds blue oceans across the stone. Daylight meets the drapes and filters a dull orange to match; there is no war of colors today, lacking the fire of winter.
Automatically, my gaze hunts out the hollowed flagstone near the fireplace, but there is no need for me to check if my secrets have been found in my absence. There has not been ever since I sold that Crimson Sphere to Trema.
The satchel goes on the bed. A few arbitrary snaps undone and I am dragging out the clothing which needs to be sent for a wash, which would be the most of it. These, I leave upon the sheets for now, staring down upon the casualties of Kilika as marked by the sea-salt stained fabric.
A knock scrapes the silence.
"Baralai?"
"Come in," I call back, abandoning the clothes for now. Two steps brings me nearer to the windows, and I begin to yank open the drapes and introduce sun to my bedroom.
The door squeaks open behind me. I frown at the dust that has accumulated on one of the windowpanes, and then rub at it with a hand.
"Baralai!" My name repeated turns my attention back to my guest, in time to watch as the tousled head of Dopha nods twice in relieved greeting. "I heard your ship would be coming in later, but it looks like the winds have favored you? How was your trip?"
Wading through the grateful babble, I abandon the window and cross to properly regard the other. Summer has not altered Dopha. Though the hour is well after noon, he remains dressed in the simpler robes of an acolyte, rather than the thrice-layered formalities of a full Lustrum. His hair remains raked into short, stubby fencepoles that bear evidence of the scholar's forgetfulness, an ill habit of rubbing his skull when deep in thought. The smile is wide upon his face.
By the look of it, I would estimate that Dopha has not yet been reselected by a priest. All the Lustrum must be free at ease, this entire class of new trainees that have slipped the nets of Yevon's tradition. Somasil wrought better than he knew, to drive a schism built by wariness between the ranks.
The younger members of the temple are gaining dominance. It's a satisfying feeling.
Kilika takes sparse concentration to recall as I rattle off the basic specifications of the port to answer Dopha's curiosity. The number of docked ships is pulled like vague taffy from my mind; the veracity does not really matter, nor the cosmetic affairs such as the fish served for dinner, or the ever-present heat.
Of Gippal, I say little. Gella knows I had gone traveling because of the eyepatched Al Bhed, so I cannot deny his presence; the encounter with Nooj, however, is completely glossed over and forgotten. Any talk of spheres is discarded. As far as I intend to describe, the intrusion of New Yevon was officially centered around the Al Bhed, and nothing more.
Unable to sit still while he listens, the Lustrum paces across my chamber, placing his feet heel-to-toe while he measures out the spatial allowance of my sleeping quarters. At last he turns on one heel, a precise forty-five degree angle that is unconsciously mimicked by an elbow at his waist, and thrusts forth a question. "Are you going to report to Trema?"
"I have no choice." My sigh carries itself across the room, slicing over the path that Dopha has been tracing with his body. "He'll want to know why I was absent so unexpectedly."
Interrupted between the angle of my dresser and the bed, the acolyte roughs one hand through his hair. "Do you... want me to come with you?"
Dopha's solemnity ill befits him, coming from a man so normally unconcerned with courage. Despite the rarity of the offer, I refuse. "No. I want you to stay and keep an eye on Shelinda. Nothing's happened to her yet," I add, only now realizing I have not given thought to the mouse-tempered woman otherwise, "has it? Or to Gella?"
The Lustrum gives a shake of his head, unbrushed locks scattering.
Such news is a relief. "Give Shelinda work orders if you can. Keep her out of the way, as busy as possible. As for Gella," I continue, returning to one of the windows just in time to watch a patrol of guards take their ascent across a lower bridge, "tell her to keep her eyes open, and to be ready."
Dopha has never been the bravest of us. Hearing warnings from me brings his eyes wide, white, and nervous. "Is something going to happen, Baralai?"
The Lustrum's words set definition to the heaviness of the air. I answer, and hear my own voice gone wary with caution.
"I'm not sure, Dopha."
There is a shortcut through the back of a presentation hall from the Lustrum heights to the Founder's tower, and I take it with aplomb, crossing on the fringe of a machina presentation already in progress. Shadows flicker as the display screens swap images, the lecturer droning patiently on as he describes the reliance upon established procedure in order to minimize malfunctions.
I walk out just as he is beginning to introduce machina rifles, and then I am gone.
The sphere from Kilika rests hidden beneath my vest, concealed from the pairs of guards that stand at each intersection of the temple. New Yevon's gears twist onward, secretly betraying all the priests and their traditions with them.
Trema. He's right, when I think about it. There is no way to salvage Yevon from its thousand year-old sin without abandoning the past--not unless another thousand years were to be sacrificed in reparations. But all must be done carefully. Exactingly. Trema's vision is solid, but his power may be too revolutionary; he is the only one who believes whole-heartedly in his future, and that leaves the rest of us expendable if need be.
I would be a fool if I thought Trema to hold trust in the younger generation without retaining a fail-safe should we rise against him in turn. As we gain power, he will not leave us free rein forever. My own bargain with the Founder leaves me obedient so long as he destroys the records from the Crimson Squad--I have no guarantee that he will not retain at least one of them, in event of blackmail.
Trema's power is unmeasured.
I do not like that.
Doubt twists in my mind like a severed worm as I take the final stairs up the tower, finding the Founder's study closed before me. Seeing Gippal has reminded me that there are more paths than I might be resigned to. By the time I have unlatched the handles to let myself inside, the Al Bhed's advice has worked its way into my mind, and I find my thoughts brewing.
Trema had heard my knock; present, the Founder stands interrupted at one of his bookshelves. Crates once again line the bulk of his study. Processed tags peek out from between the wooden slats. The heat of summer has risen, bubbling up through the tower's hollow innards to bob like a child's balloon in the rooftop of the study, and it sets the air humid and heavy.
When Trema turns to face me, I am nearly overcome by a sudden whiff of rot.
"Baralai." The Founder speaks, and now gone is the stench, almost as if it were a dream but for the lingering sour-reek in my nostrils. "So you have decided to return from your errand at last. How was, ah… Kilika?"
Old man's ruminations ring hollow as a clock tower. Trema's voice still quavers, but there is a quality slipping in his words, a pretense improperly worn. There is no carpet pulled back this time to hint at what I might be missing, but I do not doubt that signals remain.
"It was fair, my lord." I speak over my own disquiet, shoulders straight as I ignore the unease. "I encountered the Al Bhed and his faction, and estimated that they would not be a threat. After doing so, I returned to Bevelle to report my findings."
A twist moves on Trema's mouth. Fast as a fly, it buzzes, and then departs to beat itself to death in a hidden corner of the room. "You did not even propose your trip to me in person before you left. I expected more than, mm, a notification delivered to my desk, Baralai."
Now, in confrontation, I realize why my instincts have been hissing against my hindbrain. In the long gaps involving my absences, Trema has changed. Slowly, of course--slow even for an instigator against Bevelle, but there are differences. The old man's quaver remains, but his words depart frequently from their humming, senile tempo. He ignores his own mask of age, and that means he is dangerous.
"Do you bring me back justification for your absence, Baralai, along with your commandeering of the teams which would have otherwise reclaimed Djose's Temple? I had wondered about your haste to Kilika, until I received reports that spheres had been located there. And yet you bring me back nothing. Is that... all you discovered there?"
The question is burdened with reproach. I hesitate, and then plunge ahead in a thin thread of hope. "Yes, my lord. There was nothing else of note."
The dry chuckle of Trema's laughter holds nothing of amusement in its withered grasp. "All this time, Baralai, and you have not yet learned that you cannot conceal such things from me. I sense what you are holding back." His proximity once more introduces a wave of cloying disease upon the air; moving towards me like a shade-fiend, slow menace dressed in endless patience, Trema halts himself a spare handful of feet away. "Within your jacket, inside the second pocket. A sphere. Did you not even think to share it with me?"
Decorum makes it proper for me to drop my eyes in shame. I do so, but only because it is sloppy to have forgotten the Founder's inexplicable talent.
All is not lost. My eyes avert themselves. "It is not that, my lord." As if unable to hide the truth, I whisper my answer woodenly. "I found... a sphere that revealed the location of Vegnagun. I had forgotten about it."
"Forgotten?" White brows pull themselves up, the surprise as cynical as a marionette on the fiftieth act of the night. "That is not at all like you, Baralai. But ah... I can feel the pyreflies bottled up inside, forced to bear the weight of memories inscribed upon them. How can you let your spirit ignore such a call?"
Pyreflies.
"I sense nothing, my lord."
"Can you not hear them? Their energies whispering to your own…" The Founder reaches out an age-spotted finger to stroke it down the front of my tunic, and I draw back instinctively, repulsed, before I realize that Trema is touching the cloth over the sphere. Even armed with that knowledge, I find myself holding my breath deep in my lungs.
Decaying sweetness crawls into my nostrils, pushing its way down my throat.
The Founder does not stop running his hand on my jacket. The interest is unnatural. "In time, boy. You will hear them too. There is much left to learn. And I will teach it to you when you are ready. When you can survive the tests required of you..."
In self-defense, I slide my hand into my vest and tug out the sphere, wrapped as it still is in Gippal's oil-rag.
"Here, my lord. I apologize for my... lapse of memory. I will put it with the others."
True to form, Trema's attention breaks away from me; drawn towards the cloth-covered record, the Founder twists his fingers towards the sphere. "This, then... this is your prize from Kilika? Your Vegnagun secret?"
My mind flashes to the memory of a single green eye, stained in Al Bhed swirls.
"Yes."
"Play it."
"It only shows the chamber in the Underground, my lord." Trapped, I smother my own fear as neatly as a rabbit beneath a bedsheet. "Little more than that. When I heard that there was a sphere in Kilika, I thought the chances were too high that it might be one which revealed Bevelle's technology. As a port town, Kilika's traveling population is second to Luca's," I continue, lifting my head as I wrestle with the flow of the discussion. "The risks of exposure are far too great, particularly with the Al Bhed in the region. If New Yevon had responded to the Djose Al Bhed as a potential threat, it might cause them to suspect that we are hiding something from them after all."
"Kilika." Trema responds to my hasty defensiveness as desired. The inhuman cast upon his features passes; wrestling himself away from whatever song the pyreflies might have entranced him with, the Founder turns away and begins to stroll back towards his desk. "Are you certain that your haste, mm, it was not because Nooj was stationed near the port?"
My skin is dark. I have always thanked that fact; it helps to hide the rapid flush. Thoughts of the Deathseeker bring frustration in tow. "It isn't that. Machina prejudice, if continued, will only restrict future advancements from New Yevon." Months at Bevelle have made my tongue quick; knowing the angle that Trema pursues, I tailor my rationales to fit. "Even though it will be impossible to work with Al Bhed directly for the time being, I believe we can still benefit."
In the freefall quiet of Trema's study, my words soar to the roofbeams and find themselves dying from heat.
After a time, Trema stirs. "Yes, this is true. If you desire power, you must be willing to shed the restrictions which keep you from it. These things of the past that hold you back… mm, memory, yes, that would be it." One of his hands pushes a stack of paper aside on his desk, and he turns back towards me, gaze as steady as a hawk's. "I believe it is time to proceed with another stage of New Yevon's, ah... development. Reports state that the Seekers have collected a full crop of spheres. It is time that we put them to use."
Memories. Chains of the past, limitations--I have heard Trema speak of this again and again, until I can parrot back his own beliefs in my sleep. I have followed what he has said. There is a value in his philosophy that has been a lever out of my own quagmire with the Crimson Squad; it explains nothing of the Founder's powers, however, his intimacy with pyreflies. Nor his attraction.
These things, I do not understand.
"Will you be destroying them now, my lord?"
"Such a release of pyreflies outside of the Farplane is unsafe if not performed near a Summoner." A snort is my reward for such a reckless question. "No. I will soon be traveling deep within Bevelle, into the labyrinth known as the Via Infinito. You must pack the crates of spheres for me upon the lists, and deliver them so that they may be destroyed. Do not journey any deeper than the first entrance, boy," he chastens me when I perform an arbitrary nod of obedience. "The Via is a living thing. It will swallow you if you are, ah... unwary. Leave the crates at the surface, and I will be able to handle them from there."
My eyes flicker to the sides, tallying the study's worth of records that I can account for from one simple glance.
"All of them, my lord?"
Not every sphere collected in this room details illicit activities. New Yevon's Seekers have been indiscriminate. Wedding ceremonies are mixed in with trader's tales, messages passed on to family members which speak of nothing more wicked than the color of Macalania's forests at dawn. For every record that implies ill of New Yevon, there are at least a dozen more that have been gathered for no other purpose than that they happen to be a memento of the past.
"All."
Boxes upon boxes hold the treasures of Spira's memory. It would take days to tally up all these spheres anew and realize just how many stories will be so carelessly destroyed. And my sphere, labeled Vegnagun--I will smuggle it so deeply down that Trema will not realize my deception until it is too late. If he manages to catch it at all.
"Yes, my lord." Deftly tucking the sphere away into my vest, I spend the time upon a ritual bow to help deflect Trema's attention away, lest he demand a replay now. "I will put this one with the others, for your... disposal."
"Such sacrifice, Baralai." The Founder's observation runs condescending fingers across my nerves. "I might believe you are truly ready to defend Vegnagun as is required, to keep it from being used as a tool of war. Now you must prepare yourself. "I intend to instruct you on a small matter that may assist you in your defense. It is a spell which is but a trifle of the greater magics, one which mages once formally called Demivitas but... mm, youth shortens it these days to simply Demi."
Demivitas. The name does not sound familiar, though the nickname whispers familiar to me of fiends. My experience with magics is limited, regulated to only that which Yevon's courses has enforced--and those involved with healing, not death. Regeneration, curatives; that which paralyzed and drained are not my regard.
It should not surprise me any longer that Trema knows of unholy spells, even worse than the numbing wound he applied once to my arm.
"My lord," I protest, shaking my head against the lurch of my stomach, my inexperience with blacker spells, "I do not--"
His rheumy-eyed glare interrupts me. "You will need these things, Baralai. Do not think for one moment that you will not. After you are done learning these spells, I will go to the Via. I expect you to manage Bevelle in my absence. If I return, and you have been killed out of your own incompetence, I shall be very displeased."
Our eyes meet. Gazes war. In the clouded depths of the Founder's vision, any potential reflection of myself goes lost in the smeared cataracts of his age. And yet, as I watch, Trema's eyes begin to clear; dark, sharp, they focus on me with an ease I cannot comprehend, not from a man who should be too ancient to care for the immediacy of the present.
I relent first. My regard shifts to the floor, chin dipping as I avert my eyes. "Yes, my lord." In such a neutrality of voice before, I have agreed to so very much. "I accept this necessity."
Fixated as I am upon the richly patterned weave, I only hear Trema as he begins to move, creasing steps into the carpet. "This is mere preparation, Baralai. You must remain willing to leave your own hesitation behind. As my acolyte, you shall follow me when all is ready. After the spheres are destroyed, you and the rest of the Lustrum will join the council of Bevelle as I help to usher in the truth of a New Yevon."
His voice has grown louder. Now the tips of Trema's boots enter my vision, even while I am wondering how long it might take before these twisting ploys will kill me.
Trema answers my unspoken question for me as his hand rests itself on the back of my head, an unholy benediction of one intrigue to another. His fingers are heavy. I hold my breath against the miasma of sickly-smelling power unexplained.
"The path has only just begun, Baralai. Today, and every day, until eternity itself meets the Farplane. We have forever to walk."