Only Yourself
For as long as he could remember, he had understood a basic truth- rely only on yourself. The world was uncertain, people were uncertain, and neither the world nor people would always be there when you needed them. All you could really count on was your own strength, your own will, your own spirit. Those would always be there.
He remembered first lessons, first taking on the ways of the monk. Long sessions of meditation, building steely awareness of the very act of existing, the rush of air through his lungs and the steady pulse of his heart and the way his crossed legs pressed weight to the cool ground. Gruelling training sessions, learning to channel his very life force into blows from his palms, channel it to ease his body's pain, channel it to bring spite to an enemy. He had been little more than a child but he trained long and hard, until the lamp's flame flickered down to nothing and only starlight let him see, until his thick crimson hair was damp with sweat.
Of course, those who taught him were not always there. They left soon enough. People always did. But he preferred not to think about that.
He remembered his first set of claws, that first gleaming weapon amongst the shop's riffraff. Three simple tines of wicked iron and a thick leather strap that he tightened around wide knuckles. He hardly had that much gil but the claws were worth it. They weren't just a weapon, they were an extension of him, a keen metal edge on his lean, gangly young self. He grew used to the added weight and learned to wield his claws in quick strikes, his very essence driving them. And when he was in trouble, when ferocity was needed, the claws were there.
There came other claws, better claws with vicious blades. He travelled. He continued to train, and grew strong. Weapon at rest in his lap, dry wind passing over his bare shoulders, he meditated and felt that constant strength, will and spirit. No matter what he had to do to get by, those would always be there.
Allying with the monkey-tailed boy was strange. Others fought alongside him, and took blows for him when his claws just weren't quick enough. Hadn't they any sense? He watched, silent and studious, figuring out what made them do what they did. It wasn't concern for themselves. It was more reckless emotions. It took some effort, but he learned to focus his healing life force on others, when white magic's aura wasn't enough. He had never particularly liked to watch people bleed.
He soon slipped on new claws- the Rune Claws, treasure of Memoria. He eyed the jewel-glittering surface, the ancient inscriptions made faint by time, the razored talons that reflected eerie red light. He was pleased. Their weight was comfortable, they felt right. Something different could still be right, of course. The others charged up stairs of lion-hued stone, toward chaos, and he followed at a pace his own. Strong fingers tightened around his claws. He could rely on himself, but maybe if they were foolish or brave enough, others could, too....