Author's Notes: Right, I said I'd finish this fic rather quickly, and I'm going to keep my promise. Enjoy the second chapter… fortunately, it's not as long as the first one. On the other hand, I'm rather disappointed with the way it turned out… Geez, why can't I write anything decent, for a change!

To my wonderful reviewers: He-loves-me-not, Wot Wot Wark, Evil Kitten of Doom and Silvie-chan – I'm glad you liked the story so far! Thank you so much for reading, reviewing and putting me on your favs lists! As for 'Eternal Calm'… well, the fifth chapter's almost done, but every time I look at it, I feel like throwing up… Really, it's that bad… Anyway, I'll probably post it soon, pathetic as it is, and then you'll be able to happily share my disgust.

So… has anyone decided to write his/her own Seymour fic, already? Please…? C'mon, people, start working, or this fandom will never grow... Just follow He-loves-me-not's example; she's working hard on her brand new story, isn't she? -hugs tightly-

Okay, back to 'Childhood'… I poured all my lowest, fangirlish instincts into this chapter, you'll see. I just hope you won't mind, being my fellow Seymour sympathizers and all… Enjoy!

Part Two

Escape from Zanarkand

Run, just keep running. Don't look back, it's useless. She's dead, you can't help her now. Not that you ever had any chance. It was her choice. Her decision. Not your fault.

Aaaah, don't stumble like that! And stop thinking about it!

There are voices right behind you. Probably just apparitions. Ignore. Don't panic. Keep running.

Which way? Left, yes, definitely left. Over the plies of rubble. Don't slip. It gets more difficult from here. Breathe in, breathe out. Lungs hurt. Ignore.

Can't die. Won't die.

Yevon, please!

She's hot on your heels, laughing. And, suddenly, you don't think it's your imagination, not anymore… Or maybe it isn't her, just one of these undead monsters. It doesn't matter. Don't look back. Keep your eyes on the ground. And don't stumble!

AAAAAH!

Straight onto your face. Okay, it hurt… but don't make such a fuss about it! You don't have time for this! Get up! Run! Faster!

Can't… anymore…

Yes, you can. Don't give up now, when you're almost there. The exit's so close, reach it and you're safe. You need to get outside. Outside!

Don't–! ...look. Too late. Long, white hair… It really is her! How come she's got here faster than you– Ah!

And she's smiling.

Right. Behind. You.

Thirty meters left. You'll make it. Just keep running!

Outside. Into the light.

Zanarkand Ruins lie in the middle of a barren, half-flooded wasteland, which stretches endlessly for miles, up to horizon and beyond. The plains are empty, uninhabited, devoid of anything truly alive – only some fiends dwell here, accompanied by thousands of pyreflies. It is a holy, mysterious place… beautiful, even, with specters and colorful spirits hovering everywhere. Nevertheless, for all its ethereal beauty, Zanarkand is still a cold, terrifying land. It is dead.

Seymour was going to die as well, it seemed rather obvious. After all, what chance did a ten-year-old boy have in a place like this? A boy who had always depended on adults before? Alone, without food, without any weapon? Completely and utterly lost?

He had run away from the dome as far as possible, over the sinking dike and into the main city, eventually collapsing to his knees in the middle of an empty street. He had absolutely no idea where he was; tall, shattered buildings hid both the menacing cupola, as well as the Gagazet Range from view.

She wasn't chasing him anymore, was she…?

He remained on all fours for a long while, struggling to draw every single breath, until his heartbeat finally slowed down a bit. Then, still shaking like a leaf, he pushed himself back to his feet, staring at his surrounding with wide, haunted eyes. Even in bright daylight, the City of the Dead looked horrible, like a huge burial site filled with gigantic tombstones. He needed to get away from here… because literally everywhere was better than this place, and even wandering aimlessly through the ruins made more sense than just standing on some empty street. With this thought in mind, the boy started to walk; the direction was generally unimportant for now, as long as he was moving away from the dome.

Fiends didn't make him wait long, of course – the first pack of grendels showed up about half an hour later. Only four monsters, but it didn't really matter; even one was capable of tearing a human being to pieces within a couple of seconds.

In fact, the moment Seymour saw those red, glowing eyes right in front of him, he knew he was as good as dead. Too exhausted to run – the beasts were probably much faster, anyway – he didn't even feel like trying. Backing away, until his spine met a cracked wall, he watched them all come closer… oddly enough, they didn't attack him at once, maybe because they were simply unused to dealing with anything else than creatures of their own kind. Still, they kept advancing, with some sort of predatory curiosity in their swift, efficient movements.

How much time would they need to finally overcome their hesitation…? The boy had no idea. He was surrounded and defenseless… well, defenseless… except for the aeon.

The aeon that was probably powerful enough to save his life, but… he couldn't summon it. He would not acknowledge the fact that his mother had changed into that… that thing, instead of finding her rest somewhere on the Farplane. He would not! He would sooner die than–

He didn't want to die. He didn't–!

Seymour's heart was racing in his chest; the fiends were only a couple of meters away. "No…" he choked. "Mother… mama… please, h-help me…"

Nothing happened. Mother was a fayth now; silly pleas weren't enough to control her aeon, he should have expected that much. There was no other way but to… force her to come, pulling the fayth out her heavy slumber.

To her… what would it feel like…?

She had done this for him, hadn't she…?

His back still pressed against the crumbling skyscraper, Seymour finally closed his eyes, raising both hands in an ancient Yevonite ritual of the Summoning.

As he finally regained consciousness, an overly dramatic sunset was painting the sky in various shades of red and orange. The world around him seemed eerily quiet; all fiends were gone now, either annihilated or scared away by–

"It's only an aeon…" the boy whispered, to no one in particular, licking his dry lips with an equally dry tongue. "Not my mother. Not her. Not her!"

The two last words were an angry shout that bounced of the buildings' walls. Fortunately, it didn't alarm any unwelcome guests; the remaining monsters were probably still trying to hide, considering what they had seen… Seymour sighed and stayed where he was – because, for some unknown reason, movement generally hurt – staring up blankly at the flaming clouds.

The aeon… He had seen some before, hadn't he? They had all looked strange, terrifying even, and yet… none of them seemed nearly half as repulsive as this one… it was a gruesome monster, for crying out loud–! The boy trembled, instantly squeezing his eyes shut, trying to blot out the whole memory… but it didn't quite work. He could still remember the scales, the chains… as well as everything else, including that soundless shriek–

At that point, he had to dig his long fingernails into his skin to stop himself from screaming. However, it didn't stop him from wondering…

Wasn't an aeon's shape somehow dependent on its fayth's thoughts? He didn't understand this, not really – why would his mother's sacrifice give birth to something so hideous? Hideous and pitiful at the same time, and also…

Powerful. Yes, there was no point in denying that. The aeon had destroyed all fiends in one single blow, which looked like a major overkill, anyway. This kind of strength, it was truly amazing. In fact, it made him, a ten-year-old boy, almost equal to adults… Almost?

What if it made him even stronger…?

The corners of Seymour's mouth began to twitch. Ah, what did it matter? Damn it all! He never wanted an aeon! He wanted his mother, here and now, because… because… he–

Thousands of pyreflies kept dancing as the boy rolled to his side and started to cry, his body jerking violently with each quiet sob.

The night had fallen swiftly, almost unnoticeably. Cool, crisp air sobered him up a bit, and Seymour was finally beginning to realize that he would need to do something soon, if he ever wanted to leave this place alive. Well, he didn't really want to move at all, exhausted, cold and thirsty as he was, but his common sense– and some persistent survival instinct, too– told him that it was actually a very good idea.

In fact, it was easier said than done. Even sitting up soon proved to be more difficult than he had initially thought. When he tried to move, a sharp pain pierced his chest and the upper part of his left shoulder. Looking down, Seymour found himself nearly fainting at what he saw: the light-blue robes were now drenched with blood. Overcoming his initial shock and revulsion, the boy carefully slid the material aside, only to discover a long, possibly deep gash, running just beneath his collarbone. It must have happened somewhere in the middle of that summoning, he decided quickly, even though he hadn't felt any pain back then, completely blinded by adrenaline.

The injury didn't appear to be fatal, of course, but it was still bad enough to send his head spinning the moment he attempted to stand up. However, Seymour simply clenched his teeth in silent determination and, after a few moments of strained hissing, he was back on his feet, staring ahead with weary eyes. It seemed that, except for the wound and a couple of minor bruises, he was just fine… only that he wasn't.

Alone, lost in the middle of nowhere, scared out of his mind and on the verge of hysteria certainly didn't count as 'fine'. In fact, he had never felt so miserable before, not even the day he had left home… forever, it seemed now, because there was no way back without his father's permission. It could very well mean that there was no place for him return to, but he decided not to worry about that for the time being. He needed to concentrate on surviving, after all.

He wanted to live through all this, he really did… but, at the same time, he knew that his chances were slim. How far was Mount Gagazet, anyway? Three weeks' journey from here? A month? And when even making it past the city seemed so difficult, then what about climbing a huge, precipitous slope? His tired, feverish mind could find no answer to that, and yet he had no other choice but to start walking.

Nights were never too dark in Zanarkand, besides, Seymour had inherited his father's eyes – Guado eyes, which generally didn't need much light to function properly. Still, being able to see the road ahead didn't stop him from stumbling every couple of minutes, and his slender hands were soon covered with lots of small cuts. It was a minor problem, though, when even breathing hurt. The wound to his chest made his lungs radiate with pain with every single step he took, turning his midnight stroll into a considerable challenge.

Nevertheless, he kept moving, dragging one feet in front of the other, desperate not to cry, not to give in to raising despair and growing headache. He walked like this for the whole night, and didn't stop when the sun rose, once again changing the ruins into a fawn-colored desert. Minutes stretched into quarters, quarters stretched into hours… until he could simply walk no more. Tripping over a rock, he fell down onto the ground – just like all those times before – and discovered that he did not have the strength to get up, no matter how hard he tried.

He knew he was going to die – either of thirst, or at some fiend's claws – and he was slowly beginning to accept the fact. He could only hope that his end wouldn't be very painful… unlike his mother's death had been.

"What's up with these monsters today?" a short, fair-haired man spat on the ground, shaking his head angrily. "Where have they gone, dammit?"

"Calm down, Matti," an older woman barked in reply. "Keep yellin' like that, and we won't find any."

"Yeah, must've been yer voice to scare them 'way," another man chuckled, earning himself a death-glare from the one called Matti.

"But he's right, y'know," the fourth person interrupted. "No fiends today. That's weird."

Perhaps, for any other group, this sudden absence of monsters would have been something soothing and desirable, but these people were neither pilgrims nor lost travelers. They belonged to a small, nomad tribe of fiend hunters, who traveled all over the Calm Lands, occasionally climbing the holy Mount Gagazet and venturing into Southern Zanarkand. Most of them had no other home and no other family than their present comrades – Sin's attacks had been awfully frequent over the past twenty years and, as a result, many small villages had been completely erased of the map.

Lately, the hunters had given up killing almost entirely, because they found a new, better source of income: living fiends. Somewhere on the Calm Lands, there lived a crazy, old man, who kept rambling about creating 'a monster circus', or maybe 'a monster arena'. From the group's point of view, it didn't really matter, as long as they were paid for bringing captured beasts.

"Hey, Lyn," suddenly, Matti forced his chocobo to a stop, causing all his comrades to come to a halt as well. Ignoring their irritated looks, the young man stood up in the stirrups, squinting his eyes in the bright, morning sun. "Can ya see that?" he asked, pointing to a small, colorful shape in the distance.

"Eh…? What the heck's that?"

As the whole group rode closer, the immobile shape grew to the size of a small boulder… only that it wasn't a boulder. It was a living, breathing creature… although, in this case, one couldn't be too sure about 'breathing'.

"It's a damn fiend!" one of the men hissed. "Jus'not the kind we're lookin' for. Kill it!"

Without getting off his chocobo, Lyn took a spear into his hand. One had to be careful on Zanarkand Plains, where things were almost never what they looked like… those blasted pyreflies could be very tricky at times. The man turned the weapon in his hand, so that the blunt tip faced the ground. Then, he carefully prodded the small shape. There was still no reaction, so he poked a bit harder.

"Idiot! Stop!" one of the women snarled, jumping down from the saddle and walking up to the motionless figure. The others followed, although they kept a safe distance.

"Don't be so reckless, Lena."

"It's a child, dammit!" she growled irritably.

"Feh, looks like one of these spawns to me"

"Moron!" Lena snarled. "Where are your eyes, Aki? It's a child! A human boy!"

"Human boy, my ass," Riza observed laconically. "What's up with the blue hair, then?"

"Hmph!" the woman snorted. "Look here, you idiot!"

Despite a few strangled shouts of protest – this child, fiend… whatever it was… could have been infected with some sort of contagious disease, after all – she took the boy into her strong arms, lifting him of the ground and brushing his wet, messy hair aside for the others to see. The whole group was quiet for a moment; then, finally, everyone nodded their heads in silent agreement. Lena was right, it was a male child. His face was bruised, bloodied and unbelievably dirty, but it didn't make it any less human.

And, most importantly, the boy was still breathing; his chest falling and rising in a semi-steady rhythm.

Riza shrugged, scratching the back of her neck in a mixture of puzzlement and mild embarrassment. "Never mind the blue hair, then. …But, hell, what's a mere kid doing here?"

"No idea," Aki shrugged and took the unconscious form from Lena's arms. "But he's still alive and we can't leave 'im like that," he trailed off, wordlessly studying the child's pale, dirt-stained face, his blue eyelashes and, most importantly, dried blood covering a large part of his robe. "He's wounded, let's go. We're takin' him back to the camp."

"Weird kid," Lyn commented for what seemed like a tenth time in the last couple of minutes, critically eyeing the gash on the boy's chest. Quite deep, yet not exactly life-threatening, it was healing rather nicely, given the circumstances. It probably wouldn't even leave a scar, he mused… if handled with care, that is. Heh, it was a bloody miracle, really, that it hadn't become infected, or anything… The man grimaced, reaching for a fresh roll of bandages. Some things simply didn't make sense, especially–

"Still hasn't woken up, eh?" Riza asked, stopping at the entrance to the tent.

He glanced at her briefly, before answering; "Nah. But it's kinda to be expected. Y'know, he was just about to die, when we accidentally found him…" he paused. Lifting the boy up with one hand, he began to dress the wound with practiced ease. "But he'll be fine. Weird kid."

"You seem almost disappointed by the fact that he'll live," the woman snorted.

"Nah…" Lyn shook his head, serious and obviously offended by Riza's remark, even if it had been only meant as a joke. "I could've never wished such a shitty death on anyone… Y'see, when we stumbled across 'im that day, this wound 'ere was already beginnin' to heal on its own. Meaning, he prob'ly wouldn't have died 'cause of it, but of thirst, it's as simple as that. Quite a nasty death, if you'd ask me. One of the nastiest I can think of."

"Yeah…" she muttered. There wasn't much to say on that, not really.

"What makes me wonder most…" Lyn went on after a while, supporting the boy's back with his knee, as he reached for another set of bandages, "is that, just as I said, this wound was already healin'… so it must've been made at least a week ago. Now, how the hell did 'e manage to survive a week on his own up 'ere, in Zanarkand, is beyond me."

"How'd you know he was alone?"

"The scouts returned. They've searched well, but found no one…" the man scowled. "Weird kid. Ain't no human, that's for sure. Dany says he's a Guado, but I don't think so. They're supposed to look very different, y'know, long arms, pointy ears an' everythin'… and just look at 'im. He's not like that…"

"Yeah."

"…And it's not as if any of us, humans, has ever seen a Guado b'fore, either," Lyn ranted. "They never stick their noses out of their frickin', chilly forest–"

"Whatever," Riza shrugged, turning back to leave. "He may be a cross-breed, for all I know."

"Idiot. We an' Guado can't have kids together."

"Yeah," she sighed. "I know."

The air smelt of metal, smoke, animal skins and wet chocobo feathers. Seymour opened his eyes slowly, with some difficulty. His body felt hot and much heavier than usual; raising his head a bit, he discovered that the extra weight was probably coming from all the blankets he was covered with. He lay on something soft, and it wasn't a normal bed, just some sort of… fur? He looked up at the ceiling – dark, round, definitely not solid. A tent, then, he realized, but it didn't make any of his confusion go away.

And yet… he felt warm, cozy and comfortable. It was so easy to close his eyes and pretend that nothing had happened… that he was safe once again, laying in his bed in Baaj – or even in Guadosalam – simply taking an afternoon nap, until his mother came and… and…

There was this awful, unpleasant sensation in his throat, and breathing suddenly became difficult, as if somebody was trying to strangle him… but no tears came. She would never do this again, he knew. She was–

"Hey, kid! Ye awake…?"

It was some broad-shouldered, bearded man, who seemed rather friendly, in spite of his scary appearance. After a few seconds, Seymour's hands on the covers unclenched slowly. With his gaze fixed on the stranger's face, he tried to sit up, suddenly aware of a dull ache in his left shoulder. He paused, wondering what was wrong… when a hazy memory flashed before his eyes: there had been fiends… and the aeon… He gasped, unable to suppress a small whimper. Not only was she dead, but also–

The stranger stood by his side now, visibly concerned, mistaking the child's anguished expression for a sign of physical pain. "Take it easy, kid… here, lemme help ye…" he placed a large hand under Seymour's back, pushing him up, and the boy was too surprised to protest. "Better, eh? Say, how are ye feelin'…?"

Seymour only blinked at these words, still a bit dizzy, though finally able to sit on his own.

"Kid…?" the man frowned. "Ye do understand what I'm sayin', dontcha?"

He understood, of course, even in spite of the stranger's funny – vulgar, his mother would have said – accent. "I…" Seymour hesitated, his long fingers tracing the bandage that covered his arm, collarbone and some part of his chest. "Who are you? Where am I?"

"Don't touch it," the man said impassively, nodding at the child's hand. "Yer with the Hunters' Tribe, kid. I'm Aki y'Ferro. Ye?"

"Hunters' Tribe...?" Seymour frowned. "I've never heard of it…"

"Whatever, kid," the man – Aki – shrugged, looking at him expectantly, obviously demanding an answer. "So, yer name's...?"

"…Seymour."

"Seymour, eh… Seymour who?" After all, it was customary all over Spira to give your full surname when introducing yourself, but the boy stubbornly pressed his lips together, refusing to say anything else.

"Just Seymour," he finally replied, turning his head away. 'Seymour van Jyscal' would have been too much, a dead giveaway of his heritage; he suspected that even here, on the edge of the world, people were familiar with the Maesters' names. "Aki-san–" he bit his tongue, but it was already too late. "…Where are we, exactly?"

"Our camp," the man's stern expression didn't change. "I said, don't touch it."

"It's itching," the boy muttered, looking down at his fingers, which had somehow found their way to his collarbone… again. "Camp…?"

"I mean, Southern Zanarkand…" Aki paused. "Listen, kid… we found ye a couple of days ago on Zanarkand Plains, alone. Care to explain? Any people we should be searchin' for right now?" There was no reply, so the man went on, frowning. "Say… these ain't no peasant clothes yer wearin'… Who are ye, really? Yer quite too young for a pilgrimage to Zanarkand, eh? So, what were ye doin' here, in the middle of nowhere? And what happened?"

What… happened…? Yes, that was a very good question. What happened…? Seymour blinked in surprise, suddenly discovering that he simply… didn't remember. The last thing he recalled was walking up to a huge door, holding his mother's hand. She was dead now… and a fayth, too; he was painfully aware of that. But what about other things…? Like… how did his mother die, exactly? What happened after they went into that dome? Where were their escorts now? How did he end up in this tent?

"I… I don't know," he admitted, a bit helplessly, and after a long pause. "I can't remember."

The man's eyes widened, but he said nothing at first, visibly hesitating. "Kid… ye've been delirious for a week, cryin' out in yer sleep an' all… see, 'twas somethin' about your mother, so I think, mebbe we should look fo–"

"No!" Seymour shouted. "It's none of your business. Leave me alone!"

"Hey, hey!" the man raised his voice as well, his patience suddenly lost. "Yer not some kinda prince to order me around, boy!" –the said boy wisely chose not to comment on that– "And stop fumblin' with that thing, already!"

Seymour's hand reflexively dropped to his side, letting go of the bandage. And then it finally hit him – he was alive only because of these people. Yes, he practically owed his life to them… even if it seemed so worthless now, without his mother…

"I… I am sorry," he spoke softly, pushing the covers aside, deliberately ignoring the man's startled look.

"Hey, kid, whatcha doin'? Yer too sick to walk around like this… Hey!" Aki fell speechless at the sight of the blue-haired boy dropping down to his knees – on purpose, not because he was too weak to stand up – and pressing his forehead against the ground in some sort of a formal, exaggerated bow.

What could this man know about Guado customs? Seymour felt that he was doing this for himself, mostly… he needed to make sure he still cared… about his life, about everything. He remained in this rather uncomfortable position for a couple of long seconds – his head suddenly heavy, vision swirling – then pushed himself up, meeting the man's worried, confused gaze.

"Kid…?"

"I am sorry, Aki-san. Thank you for saving my life."

Stifling a bored yawn, Seymour sat at the edge of the camp, watching it disappear before his very eyes. Aki's people expected him to help with the packing, he knew… but he had never worked like this before, and he suspected that his 'help' would only cause more trouble for them, so he stayed where he was. In fact, some men had already come to scold him for his laziness, but he had simply muttered some pitiful excuse about his shoulder hurting too much – even though it had healed almost completely by now – and they had left him alone at that, allowing him to sit back and watch as they disassembled one tent after another.

"Can you ride a chocobo, boy?"

Seymour looked to his left – it was Lena, seemingly a very important person here. Even older men feared her snappy remarks; she could be quite nasty, if only she wanted to.

"Yes," he replied, standing up.

She eyed him suspiciously; so did a calm chocobo she had brought with her. "You'll be riding with me, anyway. We leave in ten minutes… Now hold the bird f'me, will you?"

She smacked her lips twice and the chocobo sat down on the ground, right next to the boy's side, who quite reluctantly took the bridle form Lena's hand. Then, the woman spun on her heel and walked away in the workers' direction, leaving Seymour alone with the huge, yellow ball of feathers, which (he was sure of that) could run away the second it wanted to.

The chocobo, however, had no intention to move. It warked quietly, watching the boy questioningly with one of its blue eyes. Seymour absently raised his hand to pat the bird's back, earning himself another, much more content wark.

Six days had passed since he had woken up in that tent, but things still didn't look very optimistic. He was in the middle of nowhere, completely dependent on some unfamiliar people he didn't quite trust, in spite of their relative friendliness. And their life… well… it left a lot to be desired, especially for a maester's son. Still, what other choice did he have, but to stick to the nomads for the time being, at least until he figured out what to do next? What if there was no other option? He couldn't simply return to Guadosalam, could he? He had never really understood why his father had sent him away, but it had happened, and he probably wasn't allowed to come back any time he wanted.

Seymour didn't have to worry about his future for too long.

Jyscal's men found him exactly three weeks later.

End of Part Two

Coming up next - Part Three, Moving On

Author's Notes: What happened in the Dome? Well, if you feel confused about that part, it's okay… you should be. Just wait for the following chapters to find out.

Also, will Seymour ever stop crying? Right now, I'm sick of all this teary, cliché-stuffed angst… but it couldn't be helped, I guess. It would be pretty OOC for a little kid not to cry, especially in a situation like this… So, please, forgive me for turning him into such a wuss.

And now… any comments? Useful criticism? Horrible sentences I need to fix? Well, did you even like this chapter…? Please, let me know!