A brilliant flash of white light, zooming through the darkened hallways of memory. That was all Reis remembered after falling unconscious. A cold wind whistled through the dark and narrow corridor.
Standing up, Reis walked over to the nearest thing that caught her eye. A painting, of herself during childhood. She placed her hand upon the coarse canvas, reminiscing about the happy days then. It was nearly as though she were there once again; the singing of the songbirds of the forest, the pearly white, fluffy clouds drifting gently across the sky. She thought once she saw the young form of herself within her reminiscence; an energetic, wild girl, vast sheets of flowing blonde hair trailing behind her as she skipped and played around in the forest clearing.
She shook the memory away from her. Once again she was in the cold, windy corridor of memory; the vision had been simply a hallucination, she thought. Then, traveling down the cobbled tunnel, another portrait caught her eye.
A flaming house, collapsing to the earth. A number of people on the ground, slain. Reis drew a gasp and clapped her hands to her mouth. This was the killing of her family by bandits, when she was only fourteen. She leant against the landscape, sobbing away at the reminder of her sufferings.
Once again the strange visions appeared. She felt once again the heat of the flames upon her face, the blood of her family soaking her bare feet. Reis knew that the only reason she survived—was because of Beowulf. He was a cadet back then, on holiday leave, only seventeen years of age. She would not forget the day that Beowulf let her survive-valiantly defending her, cleaving asunder flesh and bone, steel and leather. Not a bandit touched her once. Falling on her knees, Reis grieved on the death of her family-a terrible reminder to the grave disaster.
The vision faded away, leaving Reis wondering why she was on the ground sobbing, the cold air causing her blonde sheets to fan out in the draught. Running down the dark corridor trying to forget the darkness of the place, she stumbled on a statue.
'Where are you going, Reis?' the statue asked her, in a disturbing echoing voice, as though mocking.
'Come back here, Reis,' another spoke, crashing down in front of her when she tried to double back.
'We know you are afraid,' they both spoke in chorus.
'Stop it! Stop it!' Reis shouted, clapping her hands to her ears, 'I don't want to see the scenes of destruction anymore. Please, let me return to…to…'…and then she faltered, and stopped talking. She didn't know where this was. She didn't know if this was real. She didn't know if she was still even alive.
'We are your deepest fears,' one growled, sneering menacingly into her face.
'You will confront us here, in the land of memory, before you will return to whence you came from,'
They advanced on her, driving her backwards, until she was pinned to the frosty stone wall. Recoiling in shock, she knew she had to fight or die.
Transforming into a dragon, she reared up onto two legs, allowing the statues to rush forward.
Striking down on one with a heavy claw, she shattered a part of one. However, the other stamped down on her rear leg with a sickening thud.
Reis roared again, anger powering her next strike. Sweeping her tail in a wide arc, she caught the statue that had crushed her leg around the middle, shattering it to powder. The other she struck again, this time with both claws. It too crumbled to dust, the soft powder slowly eroding away by the wind.
Limping forwards, further along the tunnel, holding back the pain that stabbed away at her mind, she discovered another image.
It was Beowulf, presenting her with an engagement ring. She remembered this quite clearly; it was the very day that Buremonda transformed her into a dragon. No—it wasn't his intention to turn her into a dragon. She knew that Lionel Temple's high priest was jealous of Beowulf, how he had received her love. The very spell that cast Reis into years of loneliness and depravity was not meant for her—it was for Beowulf. Ironically, she had taken the full blast of the spell—saving Beowulf, Buremonda shocked at what he had done; instead of removing his opposition, he had cursed away the woman that he loved.
The familiar rush of air, and back to the tunnel. The end of it was visible now—a tiny dot of white light was visible at the end, small, distant, and yet there. She jogged—the memories were refreshed in her mind. Her young years of happiness floated to mind. Smiling, she recounted the days of her happiness, the peace reigning on Ivalice. Those were the good years of her life…if only they had lasted, even for a month longer during these times.
She ran. Memories of grief and sorrow rose to the front of her mind next. The brutal murder of her family…her condemnation to years of solitude and sorrow. Of not being able to meet her family and friends again. She had her revenge on them—Buremonda she had dispatched to the Abyss, and the bandits Beowulf had slain for her.
The light was quite near now, and she ran through that shining gateway…