Zeru looked down at her patient, her face clouded with thought. Now that she thought back to it, she figured that her and Jaz and Cathy really shouldn't have been alive right now. That fiend, Garuda, was more powerful than any she had ever seen, maybe even as strong as the Sinspawn of legend.
In addition to her White magic, she had a not inconsiderable amount of empathic ability she had inherited from someone a ways back in her family line. Before the beast-bird had knocked her unconscious, she had gotten a pretty good reading off it.
Unwavering hatred for all living things. Unstoppable rage for all those who stood against it. Unending hunger for blood and hurt and pain. More intense than anything she had ever felt before. There was no way a creature like that would knock them all unconscious and then just fly away as soon as they were helpless. 'So what had happened?' she thought, mulling it over.
Any way she looked at it, it was a disturbing thought.
When she looked down at the boy again, she was surprised to see his eyes open, but unaware, unseeing in delirium. His mouth was moving rapidly as he whispered under his breath. Before she could rise, his hand shot out like a kicked blitzball and latched onto her wrist with an iron grip, so fast she could barely even register the movement.
Trying to ignore the burning pain in her wrist, she leaned in closer to hear.
"…Coming, Yuna…" the boy whispered, his eyes still fevered, but now fixed on her face.
"What...?" she whispered, confusion swirling across her face. "What is that supposed to mean?"
But the boy had already slipped into deeper unconsciousness, his features smoothing into blankness.
---
He sat up with a suddenness that nearly catapulted him out of his bed. "Where am I?" he asked to the empty air and glowing moon.
Within moments, it came rushing back to him. What little there was, at any rate. He remembered the fight with that creature, and the people he had met just before. Everything was still unexplained, but it was unexplained in a more acceptable manner.
He noted, belatedly, the girl asleep in the chair beside him. She was darkly tanned, her shoulder length black hair tied with a white headband adorned with beads and feathers at the temples. She was dressed simply, in a tan jerkin, dark green vest and black knee-length pants. He also noticed the dark brown boots had seen a lot of action; they were worn and scuffed and covered in scratches and dirt.
He remembered her as one of the group he had found.
But what was she doing here? Or he?
He stood without making a sound, and drifted to the window to look out into the starry night.
Moonlight shone down softly on huts and tents set up in more-or-less straight line. The boy frowned, a headache developing. He knew this place, or one like it. Without any warning, an image superimposed itself on the peaceful night with the force of an oracle's vision.
/There were two people arguing beside a roaring fire, a man and a woman, the man's tanned skin a vivid contrast to the woman's pale hue. The woman hissed something and left, the straps that made up her dress tinkling and swirling around her like a grey mist. The man sighed regretfully, and let her go./
The vision ended then. What had that woman in black and grey said to the man in yellow, he wondered. He did not know, but he knew it for a piece of memory. He sighed. Maybe a walk would clear his head.
---
The village, he noticed, was an odd blend of ancient and modern, old ways and new. He had noticed running water in the huts, but they were still thatched in the traditional way. He had seen the sentries toting fairly advanced weaponry - guns he had never seen the like of before, but the doors were still merely scraps of woven cloth, and they used fire for light and warmth.
Quite peculiar.
After wandering around a bit, he realized that the village itself seemed to form an avenue leading straight towards a massive structure. His curiosity getting the better of him, he decided to check it out.
Inside, the place seemed smaller than its outside had indicated. There was just one large, high-domed room, and three doors. An elderly man in a robe of yellow with green trim met him at the door. "Greetings, young visitor, to the holy temple of Besaid." His voice whispery and as ancient as the man himself, but his bow was surprisingly fluid and graceful. "May I assist you in some way?"
"Ah, no. I'm just here to.. look around," the amnesiac muttered, looking uncomfortable.
The old man nodded. "Well then, take all the time you wish. These are the statues of great heroes long past. I will be in my quarters-" here he pointed at the right hand door, "-should you have need of me. I should, however, warn you, that the Chamber of the Fayth-" this time he nodded towards the middle door, "-is off-limits and quite dangerous, so I would advise you not to attempt to enter."
The boy nodded back and stepped forward. The hall was a riot of images, murals and statues covering every inch of available room. He slowly wandered past unfamiliar people of every size, shape, and look.
There, in that alcove, were twin statues, a man and a woman. The man was tall and strong, clad in a trench coat. Brass knuckles adorned his hands, and the devil danced in his eyes. The hand not clutching the woman's was raised in defiance. The woman - girl, really - was as different from the man as night is to day; a lovely, demure girl with big eyes in a ruffled dress, clutching a book inscribed with runes.
Across the hall from the couple were more statues, these a pair of boys, likely not more than sixteen. They both wore armor and held swords; and despite their young age, their statues exuded confidence and competence.
A mural depicted a group of harried fighters battling a man clad entirely in black leather, with a single angel's wing protruding from his shoulder. In another, a group of four fought a dark, sinister-looking tree-thing surrounded by fog.
There was another statue further down, showcasing a hard, grim man in fighting leathers, with a weapon that was both a sword and gun slung over his shoulder. On the ceiling, a boy with wings - one living and one complex machinery - raced through the sky, hounded by winged enemies.
Another statue of a man, this one wearing a sort of clear glass eye patch, with a pair of cutlasses hanging from his belt, grinned sightlessly at him, his arms around two girls in outfits that screamed 'pirate.'
Everywhere he looked showed the paintings and statuary; there must have been hundreds of them.
He looked at the next statue on the right. Oholland was the name engraved on it. A rather massive man, with what he recognized as a blitz ball under one arm. He seemed vaguely familiar. He'd heard of this man before.
/Master Oholland, guide our feet./
He blinked suddenly. The voice had seem to come from all around, whispered, hushed voices speaking to him from thin air. Creepy. But if he could learn more about himself, about his past here, then he would have to try.
He moved determinedly to the next statue, a young boy with what looked like a sock doing double duty as a hat. But he felt nothing, heard nothing. The next, an expressionless girl with long, flowing hair. Nothing. Beginning to despair, he rushed to the next: a man with a shaved head in a flowing robe. Kinoc. And the voices came again, sounding almost sorrowful.
/This plan won't work. You know that. We'll just let them dream a little longer.
The next was a small, older man, slightly stooped. The name engraved on the statue read Mika. The voices were dark and hissing as they spoke.
/Men die. Beasts die. Even continents perish. Only the power of Death truly commands in Spira. Resisting its power is futile./
He heard, but he did not understand. He kept moving. More statues that evoked nothing. Until he reached another statue: Braska. The feeling of familiarity was even stronger. The voices were silent but he knew he knew this man, somehow. Just as he knew that the robe the color of stone should be blue and white, and the hair made of granite should be brown.
He wandered to the other side of the room, gazing at the statues that held bits of his past. The next statue was of a wild man. The statue's hair almost seemed to move in an unfelt wind, barely held back by a bandana. His shirt was missing, and there were scars on him. The voices nearly bombarded him when he approached. He knew, without having to look at the engraving, that this man's name was Jecht, and he both loved him and hated him with a passionate intensity.
/I call it 'The Sublimely Magnificent Jecht Shot Mark III'./
/Hah! You got tall, but you're all skin and bones! You eating right, boy/
/Yeah, but you're still bigger./
/Well, I am Sin, you know./
/You'll cry. You're gonna cry. You always cry. See? You're cryin'./
/You are my son after all./
The boy pulled himself to his feet. He had curled up into a fetal position without even noticing when the words once again entered his mind like a knife . He breathed heavily, as if he'd run a marathon, his head was killing him, and he was barely half way through. He wiped irritably at the tears that had trailed down his face and stepped forward to the next.
To come face to face with a man, grey in his black hair, a pair of shades covering his eyes, and yards of black and red cloth covering everything else. He had the oddest feeling that if he could pull the collar down, he'd find a smirk hiding beneath. Whatever artist they had found to carve these was really something. His heart seemed to clench merely gazing upon him. Auron, the Legendary Guardian.
This time, instead of a barrage, there was a single thought, an idea, so powerful it seemed to brand itself in big scalding letters across his mind.
/THIS IS IT. THIS IS YOUR STORY. IT ALL BEGINS HERE./
He shook his head and rushed on. He wasn't stopping before each statue anymore. He wasn't sure he could take it. He broke into a staggering run past them, their features blurring as he picked up speed.
A boy with spiky hair held back by a headband and twin swords grinned at him.
A man, glaring darkly, one hand on a sword and the other encased in a metal gauntlet, standing next to a short-haired woman with twin short swords.
A tall man in a black bodysuit.
Another boy, a bandana atop his head, clutching what looked like a double-headed paddle with blades on both ends.
A girl with warpaint on her face and beads in her hair, a dagger in hand.
A beastman with a broken horn…
A wordless, soundless roar filled the air.
A woman in black leather, clutching a stuffed toy…
/Failure is not an option./
A grinning man with a blitz ball under one arm…
/I became a guardian to fight Sin, ya/
An Al Bhed girl with laughing eyes.
/Memories are nice, but that's all they are. I keep my memories on the inside./
And then…
The man from before, Auron. Wrapped up in a coat he knows should be red as old blood. The man comes across as world-weary, somewhere across the eyes. Seen it all before, and wasn't impressed then.
And him.
Though not exactly as he felt, these days. His statue seemed ready to break free of its pedestal and walk out, ready and willing to take on the world. Bright youth and way too much exuberance wrapped up in a five foot six frame. He felt more ready to identify with the Auron statue, these days. He felt… tired.
But he pushed on, and came to a single, final statue. His knees hit the floor without him even realizing it, or caring. There, wreathing in glowing candles, was a girl. She was dressed in a flowing skirt that reached her bare feet - the sculptor had even captures the stars and moons on the hem.
She was leaning on a staff and looked… sad. Not break-into-sobs sad. No theatricality in her. But a quiet sadness, tempered with stubbornness. The weight of the world bowing her shoulders.
This girl was the reason. He knew that instinctively. She had been more important than his life, once.
"Yes. I had wondered how long it would take you to find your way here."
Somehow, he knew what he would find if he turned around - a creature of power in the shape of a child - and so he didn't. He put a name to the child - Fayth. The Fayth answer a question he had not put voice to: "Tidus, everyone you have ever loved or known as been dead and buried for a thousand years. Again."
He was Tidus. He filed that information away. The other bit of information the Fayth offered was… too great. Too much to think about. He couldn't wrap his mind around it.
Again the child-Fayth answered a question he had not realized he had. "You are here because we needed you here, in this time. Sin is stirring. But these people are not ready. Those three, you must protect them. They are the hope of the world. They have the blood of Yuna running through them, however faint. They can Summon. They must survive."
Blood of Yuna. Children of Yuna. Yuna, his sad-eyed girl, had had children. Married. He tried to picture her as a kindly matron, with a happy family around her. It didn't compute. It was too far from the Yuna he knew. His head hurt.
The child-Fayth's voice seemed to come from a great distance away. "Remember, Tidus. There will come a chance to join them on a journey. Only one. Take it, and protect them, so that they may protect the world. Remember. And… I'm sorry."
And his consciousness fled into darkness.
---
Cathy blinked. So that was where their guest had gone. They'd had people out searching, combing the jungle in a panic, thinking he'd wandered off while delirious. And here he was in the temple the wholetime, asleep in the Legendary Summoner's alcove.
She hefted him onto her shoulder in a fireman's carry, staggered once, and straightened. He wasn't a big guy, but he was still 120 pounds of limp, dead weight.
"This sucks," she muttered as she staggered her way back to the infirmary.
---
TBC...
A/N: I took a few ideas for this story from Roger Zelazny's Chronicles of Amber, especially the first book. Good stuff. Anyway... the next update will probably be a couple months down the road. Sorry about that, for anyone who's gotten this far.