Author's Notes: Hey, guess what - I decided to turn 'Childhood' into a longer story. First of all, I hate leaving important things unsaid, so I had to at least sketch the reasons that made Seymour's mother act the way she did. Secondly, I thought that it would be nice to write some more parent-child angst. Say, are you happy? ;)

Don't expect Seymour's dad to be too IC in this. Actually, I have a fair idea of what an in-character Jyscal might look like, but I couldn't afford to be too sympathetic towards him this time. You see, 'Childhood' is written mostly from Seymour's point of view… and the poor boy has no idea how certain things may seem from his father's perspective. You, dear readers, shall also remain unaware. ;) And yes, Yunalesca's pretty evil in this, too – even though I took some of her morbid quotes straight from the game, she still ended up being slightly nastier than usual.

For any unfamiliar, Japanese-sounding words in this chapter, check the A/N at the end of Part One.

Silvie-chan, Silver Chaotic of Randomia, Neko Kuroban… you are great - great, I tell you! Sticking to me, even though I wrote such a horrible filler chapter… Thanks! Your support has been invaluable!

Silvie-chan, your story rules! I've read it at least twenty times by now… and I still can't get enough of it! You have to write more, please! -points at story- You, people! Go read! And review! Now!

Silver Chaotic of Randomia, I'm glad you like my angst. ;) Hopefully, the two final chapters of 'Childhood' will meet your expectations!

Neko Kuroban, thanks to you, I learned a new word - 'spiffy'. :))) Yep, I'm serious, my English vocabulary is that limited. Anyway, keep working on your Seymour fic! You have my blessing! -gives some fancy Yevon blessing- (And… have I already mentioned that, for some unknown reason, I love you as a person? Hm, perhaps it has something to do with that 'cześć' in one of your reviews...? ;))

Well, anyway! Enjoy the new chapter!

Part Four

Heritage

"Why aren't you asleep, 'tousan?"

There is a glass of some liquid in his father's hand. Wine, perhaps? It smells a bit different, though, and has a funny, golden color. When he climbs onto the sofa to get a better look, Father gracefully puts his drink onto a nearby table.

"And you? It's already quite late, aren't you supposed to be in bed?"

"I couldn't sleep." He pauses, absently playing with his own toes. "'Tousan?"

"Neither could I," Father sighs, and there's something wrong with his voice. "What is it, Shimoa?"

"'Tousan," he asks, looking up at the pale, tired face. "Mama says we'll be going away…" He struggles to remember the place's name, but no words come to mind, "Um, somewhere, tomorrow… And that you won't be coming with us. Why?"

"No," Father finally says, "I won't."

"Why?"

"I have to stay here and take care of home." The Guado's hand reaches slowly for the golden glass, but it suddenly stops, falling down to the man's side.

"I want to stay, too," he says firmly, trying to sound as serious as possible. "I don't want to go anywhere."

Father stares down at him for a couple of long moments, before he actually pulls him closer, into his lap. Now, 'tousan hardly ever does things like that anymore, and Seymour is completely surprised, but he doesn't protest. The touch isn't unpleasant, quite the opposite.

"You have to leave Guadosalam," Father says.

"No! I don't want to–!" There are tears in his eyes, he knows, and he feels bad about it. Father has never liked to see him cry… but this time there is no disappointment in the man's gaze, only something akin to hatred. Is it because of his outburst? "Chichiue?" he tries uncertainly. "Are you angry with me?"

"No," the man interrupts sharply, "I'm not angry with you. It's not your fault." And then he utters one of those bad, ugly words, words that Seymour isn't even supposed to know, because well-mannered people don't use them, anyway.

If it is not his fault, then why is Father so upset? He falls silent for a while, trying hard to understand, yet failing miserably.

"When will we come back?" Unfortunately, 'tousan can't answer, because exactly at this moment 'kaasan appears in the doorway.

"Seymour," her voice is harsh, hostile. "What are you doing here?"

The boy tenses; why is she acting like this? He hasn't done anything bad, has he? Why are they both so mad at him?

But… she isn't even looking his way. Her gaze is fixed solely on father's face, and when Seymour looks up, he discovers that the man is staring back at her.

"Don't you know how late it already is?" she snaps irritably. "Come."

He is scared, but listens anyway—or rather tries to listen. Father's hands are still holding him tightly, and he cannot move. Mother notices this, too, and her expression changes into that of fury and…

Sadness?

"Jyscal," she says after an uncomfortably long moment. "Don't. Please. You will regret it someday."

"I am afraid that you are right," Father replies in a dry, humorless voice. "But I don't have a choice, do I? It wouldn't work, anyway. They tolerated you as my mistress… wife, even. But now… you've seen it with your own eyes. After his birth, they just won't stay silent." The boy frowns, why are his parents saying things like that? "Neither of you can live here any longer. I simply cannot guarantee your safety anymore."

"'Tousan?" He looks up, even though he knows it's very rude to interrupt. "What's a 'mistress'?"

"It's not fair, Jyscal," Mother whispers harshly, and she's almost… crying? "We leave, and what happens next? Will you find yourself some green-haired beauty and have a perfect Guado child with her? Even though our marriage isn't officially over?"

…Over? What's going on?

"No, I will not," Father is dangerously close to loosing his temper. Suddenly, Seymour doesn't feel safe in his lap anymore, but he can't run away, not really, because the man is clutching him so tightly, too tightly–

"'Tousan," he whimpers, struggling to break free from these large, incredibly strong hands. "I can't breathe!"

Mother's eyes are dark, full of mockery. "Well, obviously, it's what they want, isn't it? They will find you some whore within a month from our depart–"

"Avalon," Father hisses. He is furious now. "We've been through this many times before. I have already told you that–"

"Not in front of the child," she suddenly interrupts, and Father instantly falls silent, even though he's still angry. Slowly, his grip loosens, and Seymour is finally able to jump down from his lap––but he doesn't do it at once. There's something wrong with 'kaasan's eyes, and it's scary…

"Come, Seymour," she says at last. "We need to get up early tomorrow." Her voice is still far from normal, but he walks up to her, anyway––what other choice does he have? She promptly lifts him into her arms, as she keeps glaring at the sitting man. Seymour bits his lip, her touch doesn't feel nice. She's holding him like… like a something, not somebody. Much like 'tousan did only a short while ago… "Say goodbye to your lord father," she demands coldly, and strangely enough, just this once her Guado accent doesn't strike him as funny, "because you will never see him again."

The chamber was long, narrow and empty, except for the many padded benches that ran along its uneven, wooden walls. It resembled a throne room of sorts, even though there was no actual throne in sight, and all seats looked identical.

Only one of those seats was taken.

Seymour really, really didn't want to be here. He felt so small in this hall, so totally out of place. Still wearing his simple, traveling robes, with his hair pulled back into a short, messy braid, he knew he must have looked terrible, especially compared to his father's magnificent figure. When it came to appearances, Lord Jyscal was the very epitome of Guado wealth, masculinity and grace: well-built, tall, long-fingered, complete with a thoughtful, intelligent gaze.

Faris had escorted the boy nearly all the way to the maester's seat, then fell to the floor, only to stand up and flee––yes, flee––a couple of seconds later. Seymour wished that the captain hadn't left him all alone. He wasn't sure how to act, where to look, what to say… and was he really supposed to bow like this, when it seemed so strange and unnatural?

He could hear the soft rustling of his father's robes, of course, but he still kept his head low, even when the man rose and took a few steps in his direction. The prolonging silence was awful, stiff with tension, filled with suppressed, restrained emotions.

"Shimoa…" the lord said slowly, as if tasting his son's long unspoken name on his lips, and only then did the boy finally look up. "Don't be afraid, my child. Come closer… It has been an eternity, it seems. You have changed."

Seymour didn't move. He wasn't afraid, just a bit… a bit…

A bit what, actually?

Alright, so maybe it was fear… mixed with awe, curiosity, distrust… So many different feelings, and it was terribly confusing.

"I said, don't be afraid of me, child. Don't you remember me at all?" Jyscal's commanding, yet somehow sorrowful voice broke the uneasy silence.

Seymour wordlessly shook his head. Over the past five years, his father had become an almost empty name, a distant, faceless figure. Back then, on Baaj, when he had tried to think of him––of home, in general––all he could remember had been some fuzzy images, small shards of happy childhood memories: a swing somewhere in the garden, narrow stairs that led into a dusty storeroom filled with strange chests, silver trees shining in the dark… but those had been places, not people.

Jyscal raised a hand to his temple, as if suddenly having to deal with a horrible headache. He was silent for a long while, carefully studying his son's blank face. "You look just like your grandfather," he finally said, not a hint of a smile on his tight, pale lips. "…Yes, what a striking resemblance." He chuckled slightly, even though he still appeared rather angry. "Wait until they see this."

They? Who? Seymour blinked in surprise, what was his father talking about? He looked nothing like his grandfather, that much he knew for sure. Gwyan-dono was an old, tall, sinewy man, with gray hair and–

"Come," his father said. "I will show you."

He was led farther into the mansion, up a couple of stairs, past a few doors and through a dimly lit corridor, until they finally entered an incredibly long, spacious hallway, filled with hundreds––no, thousands––of portraits. The boy nearly paused in his steps, staring around in bewilderment, but his father instantly threw him an impatient look, and he had no other choice but to follow.

"The Guado are the oldest race on Spira," Jyscal began in a strong, authoritative voice that simply demanded attention. They both kept walking, on and on, until Seymour started to suspect that they would never stop. "Older even then the Ronso. The many portraits on these walls, they are all your ancestors, Shimoa. It is an impressive heritage for you to live up to," he paused, turning briefly to glance at his son. "Regardless of what people may tell you, you are still a part of this place, and you should never think otherwise. Those who will stand in your way are only jealous of your position. Those who will try to support you may turn out to be traitors. You need to grow independent and learn how to tell a lie from the truth."

Seymour nodded, still a bit overwhelmed with the man's speech. He felt like choking on the enormous responsibility suddenly pushed onto his shoulders, so soon after he had set foot in this place—but on the other hand, he could feel a great of acceptance in his father's words, and it filled him with immense relief. Before he could ponder over the meaning of it all, however, Jyscal stopped abruptly in front of one of the pictures.

"You are a part of this heritage," he said calmly. "Look."

The boy lifted his gaze—and finally understood what his father had meant earlier.

The person in the portrait, a man in his early forties, perhaps, stared back at him with a pair of violet eyes. They were pretty, yet with an unmistakable hint of coldness and cruelty to them. His hair was blue, exactly the same shade as Seymour's. Long and twisted, tied back loosely in a traditional fashion, it hung over the man's shoulders, reaching well past his waist. And his facial features...

The eleven-year-old boy found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the image. There were many differences between him and the Guado, of course, based on their respective ages and racial backgrounds alone… but still, it was just like his father had said: a striking resemblance.

"Doys van Brama," said the maester, his voice calm and detached. "My father. You are his heir, Shimoa. My heir. Your portrait, too, will hang on these walls one day."

Seymour nodded in silence. He could only guess that it was his father's unusual way of saying 'Welcome home'.

"You haven't spoken a single word so far, child." Jyscal looked almost worried. "Is there really nothing you want to say to me, after all this time?"

The boy swallowed and lowered his head, feeling that it would be quite safe to look at the floor, instead of meeting the man's hypnotizing gaze.

"I… I missed you, father," he finally said, suddenly realizing that it was true, and at the same time inwardly wincing at his own words. They sounded so utterly pathetic, so artificial, no matter how real they might be. Not to mention––he cringed at this thought, too––that compared to his father's, his own accent was now horrible. He had spent too much time with soldiers and servants, it seemed, because it showed clearly in the way he spoke.

It was the lord's turn to remain silent. "…Go now, child. I shall see you tomorrow morning. I still need to ask you a couple of questions, so be prepared to answer."

That night he had trouble falling asleep. He felt strange in this place, alien, insecure. The palace was huge, much bigger that he had remembered, and his room––it wasn't his old one, he could swear––seemed cold and unfamiliar. He lay in his bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling, until, eventually, the trees' sweet melody lulled him to an exhausted, dreamless slumber.

The morning came, and he didn't feel any better. In fact, many things irritated him beyond measure. It irritated him how the maid talked to him––in slow, broken sentences, as if somehow unable to believe that he really understood her. It irritated him how formal she was––stiff, reserved, awfully polite, yet also very distant at the same time, as if she didn't like the idea of touching him. (Faris had sometimes helped him dress, too, and he had never been like this, had he?) It irritated him how she carefully combed his hair down, as if trying to hide his ears––they were different from theirs, he knew, but still, why was she making such a fuss about it? Her long, sharp-nailed fingers irritated him, too, so much unlike his mother's soft, delicate ones…

Even his own reflection in the mirror was annoying, because although his face still appeared distinctively boyish, he was under the impression that he looked like a girl in this formal, decorative haori, with his longish, blue hair falling down onto his shoulders, not really managing to cover a pair of shiny, diamond earrings…

I can't see what's wrong with these clothes, Your Highness – the maid said surprisingly harshly, when he had dared to complain. – It's the finest silk I've ever seen, sewn by the best Guado artisans, too. Not some tight, buffoonish costume only a barbarian could wear.

The reference to human fashion was clear. Seymour pressed his lips and didn't say anything else.

"Usually, I don't eat breakfast this late," his father told him calmly, pouring himself some wine, since all their servants were absent from the chamber. "Today, however, I made an exception for you." Seymour bristled slightly; the man had made it sound nearly like a reproach, whereas it wasn't his fault that nobody had woken him up earlier. "I assume that you have already recovered from your journey?"

The boy didn't answer at first, having just noticed the contents of their table. Some things he had probably eaten before––although he wasn't quite sure about most of them––but the others… Well, they looked completely inedible, at least compared to everything he had tasted in the past five years.

How much else had he forgotten? It was still his home, wasn't it…?

Looking up from his plate, he suddenly realized that the silence had lasted for too long. Jyscal seemed slightly impatient.

"Yes," he replied quickly. "I guess so… 'tousan."

"'I guess so, my lord'," his father corrected him instantly, not a trace of irritation in his voice.

"Wha–" Seymour bit his tongue before it was too late, blushing furiously in embarrassment. Yes, definitely too much time in soldiers' company. "I mean… I beg your pardon?"

"'My lord'," the man repeated calmly, taking a sip from his decorative glass. "It is how everybody is supposed to address the Lord of Guadosalam, including you, Shimoa. Hm…? What is the matter?" Jyscal titled his head to the side. Only then did Seymour realize that he had been staring.

"I… ah… I'm sorry. It's nothing."

Jyscal sighed; his brow suddenly furrowed in a rare display of emotion. "You are not a little boy anymore, Shimoa. Not an adult yet, of course, but past your tenth birthday, thus no longer a child who can be forgiven any blunder. As such, you have to hold on to etiquette. Tiresome as it may seem at first, you will soon get used to it."

Even when we are alone? Seymour wondered, but didn't dare to ask out loud.

"It is for your own good, anyway," the man added as a second thought. "You cannot afford making any mistakes, do you understand?" The boy nodded, surprised with the urgency in Jyscal's voice. "Ah, they would have never forgiven you, of all people…"

Seymour lowered his gaze. It seemed that his father had once again lapsed into an odd, contemplative silence. His behavior made little sense right now, anyway, and the boy quickly decided that he would think about it later. Picking up a pair of long, elegant chopsticks, he tried to concentrate on his food instead. The strange brown mushrooms had a funny taste, which wasn't unpleasant, yet not particularly nice, either.

"Shimoa," Lord Jyscal spoke suddenly. Without thinking, the boy raised his head, and the look in his father's eyes instantly made him forget about breakfast. "Tell me about Zanarkand. What happened there?"

With a loud, perfectly audible crack, the chopsticks snapped in two in Seymour's fingers.

He had expected this, of course, yet he still felt like weeping in frustration. Why did everybody insist on asking him this question? He had already told his grandfather everything he could remember, there was nothing more… and he certainly didn't want to go through this story twice…

"Shimoa…" Jyscal took a deep breath. "I know it is hard for you, but I must know… I simply must!" The usually composed man was visibly upset. With an odd mixture of fear and fascination, Seymour discovered that he could not tear his gaze away from the maester's long, trembling fingers. "Why did she go to Zanarkand? Why didn't she stay on Baaj?"

He knew that he would eventually have to reply, no matter how badly he wanted to remain silent. "She was dying," he whispered softly.

"Dying?" Jyscal echoed, disbelief clearly written across his aging face. "But… why? She has never mentioned anything about–"

"She never wanted you to know," Seymour mumbled, "…that's why she never told you. Maybe she just didn't want to upset you… but she forced all servants to keep her illness a secret. Letters from…" he frowned, "from home came so rarely that it wasn't very difficult to hide it from you."

If Lord Jyscal noticed and was somehow displeased by the lack of proper form of address in his son's speech, he certainly didn't let it show. He kept opening and closing his mouth, apparently wanting to say something, yet quite unable to. "But it still doesn't explain," he spoke after a long pause, standing up, "why she would go to Zanarkand, taking almost everyone with her…"

"She… she…" Seymour stuttered, realizing that the worst part was still to come, "she wanted us…" -just get it over with- "well, me to…" -and don't you dare to start crying- "…defeat Sin."

-and, for some reason or other, I messed it all up-

Jyscal was speechless for a long while. "…Why?" he finally managed.

"She wanted… 'to save Spira'," he recited almost automatically; after all, she had used that phrase so many times before…

"'To save Spira'…?"

"Yes… that's why she took us both to Zanarkand… and… and became a fayth."

"A… fayth…"

"Yes," Seymour nodded slowly, no longer caring about his tears. His father couldn't see them anyway; he stood at the opposite side of the chamber, with his back turned on the boy.

"…How?" The question was harsh, demanding.

"I don't know… I can't remember anything…" He was sobbing openly now, and he hated himself for being so weak in this man's presence. "Is… is that all… chichue? …Can I go now? Please?"

"No," his father said sharply, "there is one final thing. Show me the aeon."

He can't run. He can't hide. He can't scream.

He is completely paralyzed.

He can only watch.

The last guard falls to the ground with a broken neck. At least he didn't suffer much, unlike some others, whose chests had been ripped open by her magic.

"No one walks out of here alive." Her soft voice belies the gruesome words. "The secrets of Zanarkand shall remain within these walls."

The astral chamber is once again silent, except for his own, ragged breathing. The beautiful, white-haired woman straightens herself up, absently raising a small, slender hand to examine her fingers. They are covered in blood; she frowns and shakes the remaining droplets away. A few pyreflies escape from her body, and her skin is once again flawless, unmarred by any red stains.

He can't move. His limbs are made of ice. Sprawled on the floor in the farthest corner of the narrow platform, he can only stare at the sight.

This isn't really happening, is it?

Slowly, he tries to push himself up to a sitting position. It's rather difficult. His arms won't stop shaking.

She finally looks down at him, and there is neither malice nor a trace of compassion in her eyes, only pure indifference. He gasps––and yet doesn't back away, because he simply can't––when she takes a couple of steps in his direction, stopping but a few meters away.

"So, boy," she begins. "Are you ready?"

He can't answer her, he can't speak at all. Lady Yunalesca shakes her head, extending a hand towards him, as if trying to help him stand up.

"There is nothing to fear. You will soon be freed of worry and pain, for once you call forth the Final Aeon, your life will end. Death is the ultimate and final liberation."

He stares at her hand for a moment, but then he can't help himself––his eyes dart back to the side.

"Boy…?" Lady Yunalesca frowns, reflexively following his gaze. Ah, yes, the child's mother lies there, her eyes still wide open and body intact––only the soul has been taken. She would have looked almost peaceful if it weren't for the pained, frightened expression on her face.

"It is okay, my dear. Your mother's sacrifice was beautiful, she will make a splendid aeon. I am sure that you will have no trouble defeating Sin. Do not worry. I will help you."

He meets her gaze, shaking just as badly as before. She smiles at him in an almost reassuring manner.

"But… you just s-said that Sin will be reborn," he finally chokes out.

"Correct. It is eternal. Every aeon that defeats it becomes Sin in its place."

-Every aeon that defeats it…- "S-she w-will… Mother will…"

"Yes, she will. Such is the nature of Sin," Yunalesca admits calmly in her low, singing voice. "What are you waiting for, boy? Just think about it… you will bring a new Calm to Spira. People will worship you as a High Summoner… It was your mother's wish, I think."

"S-she will…" -become the next Sin?-

"Just do it," Yunalesca grows impatient. "And it will be all over."

Mama…

Why…?

"I can't do it!" he cries out. "I don't want her to become Sin! I won't do it!"

She watches the hysterical boy for a while, finally flipping her long hair over her shoulder. "…Do not be unreasonable."

"I just won't" he cries, glaring up at her from his spot on the floor. He looks pathetic and deadly serious at the same time.

"Well," she seems rather disappointed, "suit yourself. But then I will just have to kill you, and your mother's sacrifice will be all in vain… do you really want that, child?"

He is back on his feet in an instant, his breath coming out in short gasps. "No!"

A second later he brakes into a run, disappearing through the portal before she can actually react.

What a nuisance.

It is exactly as she said. No one walks out of this place alive.

"Shimoa-sama!"

"No!" he screamed in fright, not fully aware of what was happening. "No! Stay away!"

"Your Highness!?"

A man's voice, not hers, not her laughter, not–

Still panting heavily, as if he had really just run through the entire dome, Seymour dared to lower his arms a bit, only to find himself staring straight into an unfamiliar Guado face. He blinked a couple of times, frantically trying to figure out where he was, not recognizing his surroundings at first. Finally, after a few long, horrifying moments, he realized what was going on. He was in his bedroom. In Guadosalam. And he had just woken up from a terrible nightmare–

Not a nightmare!

It had been a real memory… Seymour moaned, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching his head with both hands. It didn't help him at all––the sounds, smells, images remained buried within his mind, frozen under his eyelids… Mother's eyes, when she had kissed him goodbye, his own growing terror, her pained gasp when Lady Yunalesca– No! he didn't want to remember! Her eyes had been so hollow. She had murdered everyone… no remorse, no regrets, nothing… She had almost caught him, too. Almost. He remembered running back through the empty corridor, slipping and falling down at least several times, yet struggling on, towards the gate, desperately wanting to get outside, out of that place–

Someone was shaking him gently. Looking up, he realized it was the Guado from before: a servant, and he seemed quite frightened, too.

"Your Highness…?"

"I… I'm fine…" Seymour whispered, his throat still sore from screaming too much. "It was… just a dream."

"Young master…" The man didn't appear very convinced. "Are you sure you are alright?"

"Yes, I'm sure," he insisted, surprised at the sudden strength in his voice, strength that he thought he didn't have. "Leave."

As soon as the hesitant servant was gone, Seymour's body once again turned limp and the boy fell back on his pillows. Yes, he remembered it now… all too clearly…

Mother had been weeping… Why? She had always wanted this, hadn't she? She had told him to be strong, to be brave, to stop crying. Everything is alright, she had said, bending down to hug him for the last time. You will save Spira and people will love you for that. Don't be afraid, sweetheart. I won't die, not really. I will leave you only for a short while and then you will join me, and we will stay together… Forever. In death.

Death, he wondered. Why was death so beautiful? Why couldn't they both stay alive?

…And it wouldn't have worked, anyway. Sin was immortal. It couldn't be defeated. There was no hope for Spira, other than the Final Summoning.

But… the Final Summoning… it was just a lie, wasn't it?

He hadn't saved Spira. He had failed his mother's expectations. She was now suffering from a fate worse than death. Father knew and he probably hated him for it.

He tried to occupy himself with reading. Not that it really helped much. Usually, he would just sit with an open book in his lap, staring down at the pages, not understanding a single word, because his mind was far, far away. In Zanarkand.

Several uneventful days had passed since his father had made him summon the aeon, still nameless and without a temple. Seymour felt exhausted, unable to sleep, unable to do anything else but remember. He would wake up a couple of times every night, screaming, crying, sobbing, shaking, calling out for his mother…

He was driving his servants mad, he knew. Father didn't seem to care. Did he even realize?

Perhaps not. After all, they hadn't even seen each other after that day, and the boy certainly didn't feel like trying to talk to the man without his permission, afraid of angering him even more––because Lord Jyscal, one of the strongest, calmest men Seymour had ever known, had nearly fainted in shock and revulsion when he had seen the aeon.

He was slowly beginning to suspect that this was going to turn into a habit. Every time his father wanted something from him, Seymour would be summoned to the dinning room, to accompany the man in one of his meals… as if the lord was somehow unable to concentrate on his son only. Seymour wondered if this was the case, absently picking up a pair of hashi. Father's presence only made him uneasy… but still…

Didn't the man care at all…?

"Shimoa," Jyscal's voice startled him, pulling him out of his thoughts. "The fayth… it needs a temple."

Eyes widening in utter disbelief, Seymour nearly dropped his food to the table. So that was what his mother was now, reduced to a mere 'it' by a man who had once––or so the official palace rumor went, anyway––loved her dearly?

"Yes…'it' does," he agreed blankly, suddenly not interested in his meal anymore. He felt sick.

"True," Jyscal either hadn't heard the sarcasm in his son's voice, or he had simply chosen to ignore it. "I have decided to create one within the next couple of months, a year at the very most. I think that Baaj would be a very suitable place," he paused, as if waiting for Seymour to reply.

"Ah," the boy's voice was quiet, empty, concealing his inner turmoil almost perfectly. "I see."

"I will write a letter to the Grand Temple," Jyscal went on calmly, so calmly that it almost seemed unnatural. "I am sure that they will send someone straight away. First, I need to see these people here, of course, but they will be dispatched to Baaj as soon as possible. Would you like to go with them, then, to supervise their work?"

-Wanting to send me away so soon?-

Seymour flinched. "…No."

"No?" his father looked genuinely surprised.

The boy's mask slipped away for a moment. "I… I will go only when the temple is ready… please."

"Fine," the man said calmly, after a short pause. "If that is what you wish."

"Wouldn't you…" He froze, but it was already too late, he had no other choice but to finish his sentence. "Wouldn't you go, too… chichiue?"

"No," his father replied instantly.

Seymour's hands on his knees were dangerously close to digging into his skin and drawing blood, but he didn't lower his eyes. "Why?"

"I would rather never see her again," came the harsh reply. The boy pressed his lips into a thin line; so it was 'her' now, wasn't it? "There is no need for that. Dwelling on the past is useless."

-Dwelling on the past is useless. You are a part of this heritage. You need to grow independent and learn how to tell a lie from the truth.-

-Find yourself some purpose in life. You do realize that you will become a maester someday, don't you? She would have wanted it… I'm sure of it.-

-We are leaving, Seymour. I want us… you… to save Spira. Use me and defeat Sin… only then will the people accept you.-

-It is eternal. Every aeon that defeats it becomes Sin in its place. What are you waiting for, boy? It was your mother's wish, I think.-

He was truly alone now, he knew, stuck in a maze of other people's choices, decisions, expectations, some of which he had already failed. His life had never been his own, and there was no way out of this madness. He wanted to leave the past behind, but the past still lived within him, slowly eating his soul away.

End of Part Four

Coming up next: Part Five: Changes

Author's Notes:

1) Yes, there will be another chapter, just like I said. I still need to post an extra, additional epilogue, in which Seymour will return to Baaj and learn the truth behind his mother's wish to 'save Spira' (not that it's so hard to guess, anyway).

2) Yes, my little Seymour wears long, diamond earrings – about five centimeters long, to be precise. And he still looks like a boy, every inch a perfect bishounen. Besides, I generally imagine him with normal hair, thick and twisted, yes, but not exactly gravity-defying. I told you, I am a sick fangirl. Got a problem with that? ;)

3) I'm obsessed with accents and languages, can't you tell? I love writing a bilingual Seymour, in fact, I make almost all my fic characters bilingual, even if they are not.

4) Don't be shy, leave me some comments! I really want to know how many people are reading this story. Well, and I'd also like to remind you that I'm not afraid of criticism… if you feel that some things in this chapter could've been written better, just say so! My English's far from perfect, too – any messed up expressions you noticed, perhaps? Okay, then: click the blue button! It's not that difficult. Pretty please?