Disclaimer: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this.
A/N: This chapter is all over the place... going back and forth along the timeline every other paragraph or so... but I can't help it, every time I try and rewrite it, it turns out just as convoluted. I guess it's just the way Scar is!
When Worlds Collide
Duty of Every Summoner
Scar grimaced as yet another of the 'ghosts' joined the babbling group crowding the Summoner.
The silvery, see-through creatures unnerved him. Badly. He'd seen some horrifying things… homunculi… deformed experiments... empty objects with independent thought... animated corpses... but somehow, he found these... spectres... the most disturbing.
'Unsent', Harry had called them.
Even their name was unnerving.
Their Summoner had explained, the previous night after they'd retreated to the rooms they'd been given, that they were souls that had not accepted their own death and refused or been unable to 'go on'.
"Why the hell would they stick around?" had cried Seifer, slashing air with his weapon like he always did when something upset him.
Scar had snorted silently.
Why indeed? He didn't need to ask this question. He knew all too well. That Seifer could be perplexed by the idea certainly spoke of his youth. For all his cynicism and sarcasm, for all his skills and smarts, the blond was still such a child.
The quest for immortality was so common… so foolish… so human.
Even his own people, whose religion had for centuries forbidden such lines of thoughts, had not been immune to the allure, if not of lingering in the world, at least of keeping their loved ones close forever.
In fact, he probably shouldn't have been so shocked by these pearly souls refusing their own death and stubbornly clinging to life. Well... existence, at any rate.
Countless had tried to cheat death in innumerable ways. So why not this?
It still unnerved him though and he would have much preferred them to keep away from his Summoner.
Unfortunately, the numerous spectres seemed instead determined to cling to Harry.
The main reason why the ghosts were crowding the Lord Summoner was an offer he'd made the previous night, just before leaving the banquet held in his honour – which, in Scar's opinion, hadn't ended a minute too soon. If he never had to attend such a thing again, he would count himself blessed!
The students gawking and loudly whispering their sappy and ignorant gossip the whole bloody time, he could have coped with: he'd been steeling himself for the task of bearing with their silliness ever since he'd found out they were going to a school.
But politicians?
Those he'd have gladly done without.
How Harry could remain politely neutral in the face of their greedy pettiness and narrow-minded egocentrism, Scar didn't know. Their nonsensical nattering had made him itch to break some bones. They talked to the Summoner endlessly in a saccharine adulatory tone of voice, obviously trying to get on his good side, and managed to slip a boisterous self-aggrandizing comment every two sentences – clearly they liked to talk about themselves. Then there were the giggly and flirty 'wives of' – Scar had lost count of how many attempts at getting unnecessarily close to the Summoner his fellow Guardians and he had had to stifle with glares and hissed threats (or, in Seifer's case, by redirecting their irritating admiration upon himself).
Scar had been unspeakably glad to be leaving them, along with all their annoying questions about the Summoner's personal life, the blatant requests to support this or that absurd charity or cause, and the ridiculous claims of their own prominence and power.
Nor had the previous evening been enough! This morning they'd been at it again – absurd people hounding the Summoner, trying to get him to help out some complete stranger's career, or get some fawning sycophant in the newspaper... At least Scar's own impassive mask as stoic unapproachable Guardian had served him well as shield; poor Harry instead had been forced to shake hands and murmur greetings for the better part of the morning, the only relief, if it could be considered such, the time he'd spent giving the speech he'd been roped into holding for the assembled students.
Which had been magnificent: Harry had cut a striking figure in his preferred cobalt blue outfit, standing on a dais in front of hundreds of children and adults, with his odd orange goggles raised above his forehead to keep his unruly hair in check. Seifer, who had remained straight and alert a step behind him, the whole time eyeing the crowd closely, looking for any hostiles like the perfect bodyguard, had added to the dramatic picture too.
The speech itself, delivered in the Summoner's most awe-inspiring voice – steadfast and gentle at once, the tone Harry reserved for the moments when he 'acted the part' for the people they met in their travels – was the kind that would nestle in the listeners' hearts and hardly be forgotten: the words unrolling over the reverent audience would likely be carried to the grave by each and every one of them, so strong had been their impact.
Scar found himself shaking his head in wonder every time, when Harry went into 'Summoner mode': in sharp contrast with his often irritating or childish bouts of everyday attitude, whenever he fell into the role of Summoner he displayed wisdom and maturity that would have shocked Scar, had he seen them in someone else that young. Yet the "Lord Summoner's" age was not so easily definable as "Harry's": some measure of experience appeared in his eyes and behaviour when he assumed his role that belied his youth. Scar put it down to the Summoner's peculiar and almost incomprehensible relationship with the ageless, immortal Aeons.
The message of the speech, as was often the case with Harry, was at once extremely simple and nowhere near easy.
The importance of friendship and unity... 'Sticking together, helping each other' - that was the alpha and omega of Harry's take on life. His Guardians had certainly been subjected to passionate speeches on the matter often enough, not that they minded. Their very lives as they were now were proof of it after all: despite their less than ideal backgrounds, despite their tendency towards being lone wolves, despite their striking differences, they had become as close and as tight as a family. Thanks to Harry.
"Children see you as a hero," had told him the Headmaster - and Harry had promptly turned the table on the students: "You don't need awesome powers, or fantastical riches, or unheard-of skills to be heroes," his voice had echoed in the enraptured silence, "you don't need to fight crime or rule over thousands: a hero is anyone who tries to make a difference and believe me, even an everyday person can change the world for the better. A Healer who cures a terrible illness. A Designer who invents a product that makes life easier for many people. A Trader who shares unusual goods all over the world... Every one of you can be a hero. But one thing I am positive about is that no-one can do it on their own. As someone once told me... there are some things you can't do alone. But they become easy with friends beside you. Remember that. Cherish your friends, make new ones; and when the time comes to walk into the darkness, do it together..."
Harry had confessed at the end of the lecture that a lot of his speech had been inspired by a similar one he'd heard as a child, from three 'heroes' who were, apparently, some of the most admired leaders of his home world.
It didn't change the fact that it would never have had the impact it had if Harry hadn't believed utterly and completely in every single word. That faith shone through every look and gesture he offered the students and made it all the more awe-inspiring.
It was a pity that Scar had only been able to hear bits and pieces of it and had been distracted for most of the morning. Unavoidable, however. Normally he enjoyed these moments in which Harry's odd wisdom made him look ageless and otherworldly, but his duty as Guardian came before anything and that morning both he and Itachi had been preoccupied with another task.
Namely, figuring out why their Summoner's looks had completely shocked most of the adults they'd met in this fancy castle.
The reactions when, just before taking his seat at the feast, Harry had tossed back his hood and raised his weird goggles over his forehead, using them to hold back his unruly black bangs, had been completely unexpected. Revealing his face – his green eyes especially – had drawn startled gasps and frantic mutterings and Scar's sharp eyes had narrowed as he took in the unanticipated responses: shock... disbelief... surliness here and there, some measure of worry, even... happiness, hope, a couple instances of elation... a lot of general upset – and all in the space of a few heartbeats.
One thing had appeared sure: his looks were familiar to the older generation at least. And offering them Harry's name had certainly made an impression!
Scar and Itachi had exchanged a brief, meaningful glance, as usual agreeing perfectly without the need for words. It was imperative that they found out what that was all about...
Despite their efforts, though – efforts to which they'd dedicated the better part of the morning – they hadn't been able to get a straight answer yet and it didn't sit well with him. Some half-buried instinct told him that this was important, but everybody seemed to have clammed up completely. It was frustrating, and worrisome.
At least, Harry had born it all more calmly than Scar could have ever imagined, both that morning and the previous evening; and when the feast had finally – finally – been drawing to an end, he'd surprised everybody, including his own Guardians, by turning to the Headmaster and saying: "If you would allow me, Professor Dumbledore, I would be grateful for the opportunity to make a small offer..."
The Headmaster, who'd been thoughtful and meditative the whole time after seeing Harry's face (as well as happy and guilty and calculating, which was disturbing), had recovered in an instant all of his exuberance: "Of course! Of course! In fact," his eyes had started twinkling madly, to Scar's mild alarm, and that had been when he'd trapped them in the speech-giving: "if I may presume... I was hoping you would be willing to speak to the children..."
"...speak to the children?" had echoed Harry a little perplexed.
"Of course!" had enthused the Headmaster. "It is very encouraging when someone famous and admired gives a speech, after all. You are, without a doubt, a role model for all of us... the students see you as a hero and I am sure that they would be enthusiastic about a few words from you! Perhaps a little demonstration, even..."
The Summoner had blinked, surprised, but had quickly recovered: "Oh, hum, sure... right, uh... how about tomorrow morning then?"
"That sounds perfect," had smiled the old Headmaster – and thus they'd been set up for a less than interesting way to spend the morning, no matter how riveting Harry's charisma could make a speech; but Scar had refrained from complaining. It wasn't his place, for one, and for two, Seifer did it better.
Then the Headmaster, remembering the Summoner's request, had stood and raised a hand, instantly commanding silence from the rows and rows of teenaged students.
"We truly are living in wondrous times!" he'd exclaimed joyously, making Scar roll his eyes, albeit discreetly. The man felt powerful, was clearly intelligent, but he acted too much like a jovial politician for someone who was supposed to be head of a school. "The coming of a Lord Summoner is a rare event and in fact, it hasn't happened for centuries. It is a great honour for our school to be hosting such a guest and I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our guests while they are with us. And now, without further ado, it is my very great pleasure to present you... the Lord Summoner Harry."
He'd kept smiling winsomely as he'd sat again and gestured for Harry to step up and the glint of – was that pride? - in his eyes as he mentioned the Summoner's name had given Scar a very uneasy feeling.
Harry had hesitated only a moment before nodding graciously and then had stood to address the gathered students. "Thank you for your kind welcome. I have travelled a lot in my life and each stop was, in its own way, unforgettable. I can already tell that Hogwarts, too, will be a visit I will cherish in memory for as long as I live."
There had been a smattering of applause at that. At every table, Scar could see people either gazing raptly, or else whispering fervently to their neighbours. But then Harry had spoken again, and the Hall had quieted once more.
"I will hold a brief conference tomorrow in the morning, so if you have any questions for me, you'll have a chance to ask them then. Also... I wish to extend an invitation to all of the unresting spirits."
He'd sought out with his gaze the four translucent figures at the long House tables and told them calmly: "I will perform a Sending tomorrow."
Instantly there had been an uproar from the spirits present (and Scar was still grimacing with shock that they were allowed near children) as well as from the confused humans.
To the shock of many, a pearly-white see-through figure of a fat, short man with a habit held by a rope belt and a transparent mug in his hand had streaked through the Hall, heedless of what and who he was running through – literally – and shouting about having to 'tell everybody else immediately!'
Not everybody had looked pleased however. A tall transparent woman wearing a floor-length cloak, who, Scar thought with a brief pang of old regret, would have been as beautiful as Lust had she not looked so haughty and arrogant, was screeching her upset and when the remaining two ghosts, two gentlemen if Scar was to guess, had tried to approach her, she'd fled, her whitish waist-length hair flapping dramatically.
The two male spectres had sighed, then bowed low to the Summoner before leaving the Hall to track her.
The confusion had only increased, with everybody wondering and speculating ever more loudly. Harry had looked, Scar'd noticed, rather flabbergasted; but then he tended to consider as normal things that to most people were beyond even imagination. He probably couldn't understand how mind-boggling most of his life was to others. Part of his charm, in Scar's opinion.
The Headmaster had regained order with a loud bang from his wand, that'd made Seifer jump and glare at him and Itachi and Scar twitch, though he doubted anyone had taken notice; then he'd politely asked the Summoner to explain.
Harry had shaken his head in mild shock: "I... do not understand this uproar. I merely wish to offer a Sending to the Unsent..."
"A... Sending?" had frowned the Deputy Headmistress, the old, stern lady who had welcomed them to the castle, who'd asked curiously: "What is that?"
Many other adults were interestedly listening in, teachers and politicians alike; the children, on the other hand, had gone back to excitedly discussing the peculiar evening among each other, sharing their awe for the Summoner and his Guardians alike.
Harry had stayed silent for a long moment, brow furrowed and eyes distant, likely gathering his thoughts for the answer.
Then, slowly, but with calm confidence, had explained: "The dead need guidance. Not all of them, of course, but... often, especially if their death was unexpected, or violent, if their taste for life is still strong enough that they yearn to live on and resent those still alive... filled with grief over their own death, they refuse to face their fate. And so they linger..."
"We know what a ghost is," had grumbled acidly an unpleasant-looking wizard with dark, oily hair that had done little but glaring furiously at Harry from the moment he'd revealed his face, thus gaining himself a place on Itachi's 'to carefully keep under observation since I cannot simply kill him, unfortunately' list.
Harry had regarded him levelly: "But it is not what they crave, that tarriance; merely a shadow of the existence they once knew... because of that, they envy the living. And in time, that envy can turn to anger, even hate."
The Headmaster had frowned: "None of our ghosts are in any way violent or..."
"I do not doubt it, Headmaster," had interrupted the Summoner, "however, it is not a good existence, by any reckoning. Nor is it healthy for those souls: should they remain in the world for too long, they might become fiends that prey on the living. I have seen it happen... And even if their will is strong enough not to fall into mindlessness, is it not right to give them release? What I am offering is a freeing Ritual... the Sending takes them to the Farplane, where they may rest in peace."
After a moment of silence, he'd added, a little edgily: "It is part of the duty of every Summoner."
Most of the adults had looked either perplexed or fascinated, or both.
"Well, if that is the case..." the Headmaster had trailed off with a curious mix of uncertainty and eagerness. "However, the members of all Houses' Quidditch teams have organized a friendly match in your honour, that is our sport, you know, a much loved one, played on flying broomsticks... the match is to be held tomorrow, right after lunch, and will be preceded by a show of talents our Clubs have prepared: surely you won't disappoint the children by denying us your presence...?"
Scar – and, he was sure, Itachi and Seifer too – had mentally groaned at the idea of another very public, no doubt very crowded event they couldn't get out of, where security would be a nightmare and the entertainment value likely non-existent.
Which had turned out to be true for him at least; the stands surrounding the pitch had been crowded with wildly cheering people, continually jumping up and down and waving arms and flags, far too close for comfort. The game itself had made no sense to the Ishvalan; Harry though had looked intrigued and kept muttering comparisons to 'blitzball', whatever that was. When he'd congratulated both teams at the end, Scar could tell it wasn't just his usual I'm-dealing-with-the-public politeness: he had enjoyed the match.
The previous evening however the Summoner had let all mentions of odd flying sports fall aside, and merely thanked the school at large with perfect politeness, assuring the Headmaster that after the match would be soon enough for the Sending.
"Will you need us to provide anything...?" had asked the Deputy Headistress. "And where do you wish to... perform, this... ceremony?"
Harry had smiled just a little: "On the lake would be best, I think" he had replied, and so here they were this sunny afternoon, making their way through a bright green lawn towards the majestic body of water nearby the castle.
The place was admittedly beautiful.
Born and bred on desert soil, Scar was always at once yearning and uneasy when confronted with green lands, where clear waters abounded and the harshness of rocks and sand was hidden under the lush of softly rolling meadows. Some part of him felt almost as if the resilience and strict codes of conduct his people had always prided themselves in, became diluted and weakened by the lure of relaxation a flowery grassland offered.
Yet at the same time, he could not deny that the sunny lake banks were a wonderful corner of dreamland.
The only drawbacks he could bring himself to find were strategic: he knew his fellow Guardians would be just as displeased as him with the open expanse and number of people there. Crowds weren't the optimal conditions to ensure the protection of their charge. By far.
Itachi, he could see it, was silently fuming, on edge with all these armed civilians so close. Not that it was easy to tell. He was perfectly relaxed and perfectly poised - on the surface. Scar knew better by now, however.
Seifer... was basking in the giggling admiration of a bunch of silly girls. Predictably.
Scar noticed however that the blond's sharp gaze was sweeping the area for potential threats anyway: he might be a cocky attention-seeking brat, but he was also a powerful, well-trained elite mercenary and damn good at the job.
Scar hid his annoyance at yet another useless politician, who like many others had for some reason felt it his due to remain long after he'd overstayed any usefulness, pompously approaching the Lord Summoner, so full of his own self-inflated importance that Scar was surprised he didn't start floating like an obnoxious, rotund, gas-filled balloon.
He didn't let his mind wander, though: his eyes stayed sharp, ready to catch even the slightest hint of a possible threat, however unlikely to come from such a source.
Truthfully, he did not expect anything untoward to happen. So far, this visit had gone pretty smoothly. The place didn't seem in the least hostile and most people looked too intimidated and awed by the Summoner to even approach, thankfully: only the stupidest annoying schemers and those ghosts did.
However just because the place appeared safe didn't mean he would lower his guard even for a minute. He would ensure his Lord Summoner's safety. At any cost.
One of the silvery, transparent figures sailed out of the crowd, his bearing impressively regal despite the fact that it was floating, and Scar clenched his teeth.
It was an imposing man, gaunt and very pale, with wide, sunken black eyes. Scar recognized one of the gentlemen that were at the feast the previous evening. In the daylight, the fact that his pearly-white robes were covered in silver bloodstains was definitely noticeable.
Scar examined it closely, tensing slightly when it made its way purposefully to the Summoner, scattering the others who looked at it nervously. But there was no threat in its countenance.
"My Lord Summoner..." it said in a deep, hoarse voice, bowing low. "I cannot express my gratitude for your generous offer. I am more than ready to leave this existence..."
"Of course," answered Harry politely, bowing his head and performing his peculiar greeting with his usual grace.
"Hey, what's with the chains, grampa?" blurted Seifer, who had heard of good manners and decided they were a not altogether desirable optional in life. Scar rolled his eyes.
The ghost glowered at the impertinent youth, but whatever he might have said was interrupted by a female voice ringing out with loud bitterness: "He wears them in penance!"
"Helena!" cried the ghost in mild shock.
"Don't you dare!" The spectral woman of the night before sailed out of the crowd like an avenging angel. "Don't – you – dare – use my given name! You have no right... and I can't believe you – I can't believe you would choose to move on when-"
"Helena, for the love of-"
"Hold your tongue!" she shrieked.
"Helena! How can you be so unreasonable! For so long we have lingered – and to what end!"
"You dare ask...?"
"Your anger has not relented..."
"Of course not!"
"...my guilt has not abated!"
"It better not!"
"I am tired, Helena. Tired of this all... I have repented. I want peace," the translucent gentleman stressed.
Scar's eyes swept the sea of ghosts, students and other gawkers around him, well aware that distractions like this could be exploited by ill-doers, but everybody was gazing transfixed at the fighting spirits, holding their breath before the unfolding drama.
"Don't forget it, Baron! I know what you've done! I know who you truly are! Violent, hot-tempered..."
"Ten centuries, Helena! Ten centuries of this..." the transparent chains rattled soundlessly. "What man would still be the same after so long?"
"If you think I've forgotten..."
"How far do you intend to take your revenge, Helena?"
"Revenge! Is this what you think I'm doing?"
"What else do you call it?"
"Justice!"
"This is no justice! Neither you nor I have any right to use that word!"
"You certainly have not! I remember, Baron! I remember what you did... how you tracked me to the forest where I was hiding and when I refused to return with you..."
"I sinned, and every hour of every day since, I have regretted my foolish actions, but-"
"You stabbed me!" she shrieked, drowning his pleading explanations.
Gasps rose from the crowd, dismayed and avid at once.
"You're a murderer!" she accused.
"And you're a thief!" retorted the Baron snappishly, drawing more gasps from the onlookers.
"And you're both dead," intervened the Summoner quietly, serenely.
Somehow, his calm voice echoed clearly and managed to cut through the entire scene and freeze everybody.
"You are dead," Harry reiterated gently. "Let grudges and wishes fade... let rancour and vindictiveness be things of the past... you no longer belong in this world..."
It was that, Scar thought, that calm, that even tone of truth, that had always struck him the most about his Lord Summoner. He had met children too mature for their age – the Fullmetal Alchemist and his cat-loving brother came to mind – but even they burned with passion and contradictory emotions. Of course, Harry too had his fair share of teenage tantrums and foolish fun – and Seifer had been a bad, bad influence in that area – but when the situation called for it...
He could manage a level of serenity and impartiality that, in Scar's experience, was almost unreachable. Especially when discussing death.
Too bad some people couldn't realize what a precious gift this composed wisdom was when the Summoner offered to share it.
The ghastly lady was still screeching: "You were jealous of my freedom! You couldn't accept-"
But the gentleman seemed to have had enough at last and cut her off roaring: "I'm tired of your self-righteous recriminations. Tired of lingering only to be berated and bedevilled. I want peace, and so should you! It is time to move on!"
"And be forever forgotten?" she yelled, furious and scared. "You would like that, wouldn't you? For your sins to be washed away from memory... but I, I don't want to disappear!"
Scar closed his eyes with a heavy feeling of resignation wrapped around him. Of course, that was the problem in the end. So, so human...
Suddenly Harry moved forth, determination in every step: he placed himself between the two and stared down the enraged, frightened woman, unintimidated by her wild expression and eerily twisting long hair.
"I'm going to ask you something, Lady," said the Summoner severely, "and I expect a honest answer. Is this truly what you want? This? To walk palely where your living self once trod? To forever endure this feeble imitation of life?"
"You don't understand..."
"You speak with dread of being forgotten. But are you remembered after all? No-one here knows your name or your story, do they?"
She faltered: "The Baron..."
"You don't want him to move on because you know he is the last to bear the memory of what you were," said the Summoner matter-of-factly. "Selfish."
She backed away from him, shooting wild looks at the students and teachers gathered and watching: "It is his penance to..."
"You're dead," repeated Harry once more, as patient and as unmoving as a granite rock. "Penance, sins, anger, regrets... None of that matters anymore."
"I don't want to disappear," hissed the woman desperately, hunching on herself.
The Summoner took another step toward her and lowered his voice to a soothing, gentle tone: "Our dead are never lost to us, until we have forgotten them. Yet you, Lady... you are lost already and it isn't death that makes you so. Here you are, but while the imprint of your spirit lingers, what makes you you is forgotten; too hidden beneath your shame and remorse, too jealously guarded to be known, to be remembered. You are here, yet you are already gone, in every way that counts. So what is the point?"
A heart-wrenching sob tore itself from the ghost.
"Oh, Helena..." moaned the Baron, hovering worriedly. She refused to let him close, though, and curled even more onto herself.
"Dear lady, I ask you to have the courage of placing your life in the memory of the living," coaxed the Summoner. "Tell us your story, Lady Helena... tell it in full, the way it should be remembered. No lies, no omissions, no twisted representations of yourself: tell us about you. And then... then, let go. We will remember, for that is for the living to do. And you... will be at peace."
There was a long silence. It felt as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting on the spirit's decision.
Then, a whisper: "I am scared."
"It is not uncommon to be afraid of death," Harry's voice took on a reassuring timbre. "As children fear to go in the dark, so adults fear to walk to their death, and much for the same reason: because we do not know what awaits us there. Yet just like that natural fear of darkness in children is increased by tales, so is our fear of death. Fear, too, will vanish when you accept your passing. It is an emotion for the livings... let it go."
"And if I don't want to?" a last defiance, bravado and pettiness more than anything.
"Is it not more frightening to endure an inadequate life? Do you not think it possible that the peace awaiting you in the Farplane is a better choice after all?"
The ghost was visibly calming down and looking at the Summoner with wide, hope-filled eyes as he continued to murmur, compassionate and caring.
And that was just like Harry, thought Scar in amazement that didn't fade despite being, by now, an usual occurrence. He was always so empathetic. And by the naturalness with which he did it, it wasn't something he'd learned or been trained in. He'd been born with the ability to understand and share the feelings of another, and an instinctual desire to make things better if he but could.
It was, quite possibly, one of the reason the power of a Summoner had been entrusted to him, and also the only thing that could bring Scar to doubt his place at Harry's side.
What could he be doing so close to someone like Harry?
He was an assassin... he had seen, and done, countless horrors... he had been, at one point in life, so blinded by his grief-fuelled arrogance that he'd forgotten and trashed every value his people cherished and turned to that which had been shunned as evil just so as to do as much damage to his fellow humans as possible.
The fact that he'd been justified – or at least had felt so – didn't change the truth.
He used to be a mass murderer. Targeting Alchemists working for the state military of Amestris to avenge his people – the race of Ishval that was exterminated during the civil war – even if it meant becoming an exile and severing his ties to the very people he wished to avenge. He wouldn't deny it – he had chosen that path, that crime, and accepted the responsibility of his evildoings as the price for his revenge.
When they'd first met, Harry had naively asked whether 'Scar' was his actual name: "I have no name," had been his only answer.
And he didn't.
The alias the world used was derived from the prominent X-shaped scar that decorated his brow. His birth name no longer had any meaning, no longer had any value. He'd lost it along with everything else – his brother, his people, his faith, his life...
The fact that he had, somehow, been granted a second chance, a chance at redemption and meaningful purpose, at his Lord Summoner's side, was a fragile miracle that he feared might be smashed into cutting shards if exposed to the harsh reality of his past. A past he did his best to keep from Harry - and he was grateful that his Lord never asked.
It was one of the reasons he almost never talked. His silence was a bubble encasing the horrors he carried within his memory, not to protect them, but to spare the world, and most of all his elected charge, from experiencing them, even second hand.
Itachi understood. His fellow Guardian had a similar horror to contend with in his past. Not that he knew for sure what it was – Itachi, too, did not talk – but he could recognize it in the other's black eyes.
No two burdens of grief and guilt could be alike, but they did breed empathy: a shared kinship beyond those untouched by those kind of tragedies.
Even Seifer, for all his angsty dramatics, was still a child compared to them. He cried out loud for attention and affection. They were beyond that, too broken to even hope.
In spite of Harry.
Yes, his past was dark with terrible shadows that often reached out of his tormented heart to taint his view of the world – and of himself.
But Harry never seemed bothered by it. Or by Scar's stubborn, defeated silence.
The Summoner that had somehow swept him up and made him a part of his life, was a bright, bright soul. He was like an aglow comet – and they, the tail that followed that glow, drawn in and captivated.
Scar's mind wandered down the meanders of memory to the first time he'd seen the full strength of Harry's bright compassion...
It had been in the war-torn desert city of Lior. He'd been there with the idea of implementing his ultimate plan to stop the action of the State Military, a plan born of the gruelling studies that had at long last brought him to realize the true nature of his arm as an incomplete Philosopher's Stone.
He'd been all set to inscribe a gigantic transmutation circle around the city itself but in the end, he'd never got to it, because while he was doing a round to check that no obstacles would impede him, he'd by chance walked out of a ruined tunnel and into a wide, circular room, right on time to see a monstrous creature run out of the shadows and through the dimly lit stone floor.
The room had had a ceiling higher than two floors and columns lining it in a wide circumference, supporting ornate but decaying balconies, and the weird creature had climbed a column with ferocity and launched itself in a mad run along the railings, going round and round the room so fast it was dizzying to follow.
A chimera, he'd realized with a silent hiss: a creature synthesized by alchemically crossing two or more dissimilar living beings into a new, complete form displaying attributes of its 'components'. The realization had been accompanied by the usual twinge of horror: he'd met many of the horrid things, as they were well-suited for guard duty and were frequently positioned as such by the State Military, but the aberrations never failed to fuel his hatred of the State Alchemists.
Then his attention had been caught by two figures stepping cautiously forth.
Scar had ignored the aberration and tuned out its furious growls and cries, focusing instead on the two strangers, silently assessing them.
They were young, in their early teens he guessed, but the Elrich brothers had taught him that youth was not enough of a reason to lower his guard. One of them moved like a seasoned martial artist anyway.
The other... well, he'd admit easily that his first impression of the Lord Summoner had been of an oddball. Not only had he been wearing orange goggles: his cerulean blue clothes had been riddled with strings and leather straps and little stones and sparkly bits sewn in and he didn't even know what else. On top of that, he had been holding an extremely elaborated staff out horizontally, about as high as his shoulders, and Scar could have sworn that the thing had been humming.
The blue-clad boy had shouted something that sounded like a rhyme: "Gift us with speed, make swift our limbs!" and the giant, fluorescent, pink and gold outline of a complex clock – or maybe it was an Alchemical Circle, albeit unconventional – had appeared before the two, hovering for a long instant before vanishing into nothing.
An instant later they'd sprung away with shocking speed, barely avoiding the monstrous body of the chimera that had launched itself at them and crash-landed right where they'd stood not a second before.
Scar had followed their flash-quick movements through the room, amazed at the sheer speed they were displaying: every gesture they'd made had seemed sped up beyond the possibility of a human body, no matter how trained.
A part of Scar's mind had busily tried to work out what kind of Alchemical mumbo-jumbo might have generated such an effect, because it simply shouldn't have been possible; but the rest of him was already propelling his body forward in a ready stance.
He'd always been good at melée tactics and his hand-to-hand skills were more than up to par against an abomination like what they had been facing. His fist had stricken true, hard and relentless.
The martial artist stranger, a tall boy with black hair held back in a low ponytail, whose appearance had not seemed the most intimidating, until Scar had met and almost shied away from the intensity of his gaze, had nodded in acknowledgement of his support. Scar had found himself reluctantly impressed with his remarkable agility and reflexes and deceptive speed. But he, too, was no slouch and he could boast significant strength and stamina.
It had taken the two a while to coordinate their attack styles, though the boy's professionalism and experience in that were such that had put him to shame; plus Scar had been disconcerted by the random interventions of the staff-wielding boy, who'd remained on the sidelines but was apparently a skilled healer – Scar's rib had been broken by a vicious lash of the creature's tail and the pain had completely disappeared in a haze of whitish light, courtesy of the boy and a rhyme of his about a 'fountain of health' or something.
Once they'd got a rhythm settled, it had become clear that the inhuman beast was taking quite the beating and its increasingly frantic trashing bore testimony to their approaching victory. When they'd managed to shatter its left front paws and it had fallen with a terrible cry, it had been over: they'd had the monster down in a matter of seconds, Scar's own vicious combo – a flurry of kicks counterpointed by quick stabs of his arms aiming at pushing aside any blow directed at him and open up the target's vital points – perfectly integrated by the boy's volleys of sharp knife-like throwing weapons and perfectly timed bursts of fires – so controlled the Flame Alchemist himself would have been proud.
When their attack combo had come to a close, the chimera had been thoroughly trashed: broken, bruised and singed, with blood and bile splattering the floor around it, it had looked so pitifully pathetic that all Scar could think of was to put the thing out of its misery.
The staff-wielding boy, however, had stayed his hand, already raised to strike: "Heal all wounds and cure all illnesses, and only let dead spirits go – that is the lore of all white mages," he'd said softly. "Let me try and help it."
Scar had blinked, perplexed, but stepped back.
He'd felt... disconcerted. The words of the green-eyed boy had resonated within him, familiar, yet all but forgotten. They were a reflection of what Ishvalian values had always been... he could almost hear his mother's voice echo softly in his mind – Witchcraft insults Ishvala by implying that we humans can better upon His creations... but contempt and disregard for His creation is just as insulting... that is why we do not seek to destroy that which lives... there is no greater way to honour Ishvala than to offer healing or protection to His creations...
Gently, carefully, the teen had knelt by the aberrant creature, that'd whimpered and trembled in an effort to scoot out of his reach. Scar had felt his stomach turn at how human those eyes still were. They had no business shining out of such a monstrous muzzle.
Moving deliberately slowly, the boy had put his hand on the deformed face, meeting those too human eyes without fear. Scar had admired his inner strength. He was never able to overcome the utter disgust he felt for those abominations.
Closing his eyes, pained, he'd admitted to himself that he'd long lost his right to call himself Ishvalan. This strange boy, even with his earlier use of what had to be Alchemy, had been closer to the grace of his God than he.
A quiet murmur had come from the kneeling boy – and invocation to 'Healing Light' – and a soothing glow had followed the trail of his hand as he stroked the uneven patches of fur and scales lightly.
Then the white healing glow of the magic he was offering had coaxed a sickly green in answer from the horrid creature.
The boy had started, clearly surprised and just as clearly disturbed by the smoky green oozing out of the chimera. His voice had faltered and the strange liquid fume, almost as if sentient, had seized the weakness and risen viciously against the white, healing light, fighting it back; rallying, the teen had thrust his hand out, pushing back at the immaterial ooze, and it had become a battle.
Scar could only watch in wariness and awe as Power – alchemy? magic? willforce? - battled against the greenish heinous disease rising from the chimera, struggling to purify it.
The monstrous creature had contorted and whimpered in pain as it had been enveloped in the battling lights, green evil spikes striking more and more feebly at the warm white slowly but surely overcoming them. The kneeling teen had been panting by then, his frame trembling with exhaustion and Scar had watched with growing admiration as he kept concentrating every last particle of his mind upon forcing the green back, strengthening the white; heedless of the fatigue and pain the effort was exacting from his body.
And then, with the suddenness of a taut rope snapping, the white healing glow had won and engulfed the monster in a glare too bright for human eyes to stand. Peering through his hand, that had instinctively shot up to shield his eyes from the explosion of light, Scar had seen the outline of the chimera rise in mid-air and change, evolve, mutate into something that despite retaining its mixed features, carried none of the conflict and unnaturalness of the abomination it had been.
To this day, the Ishvalan counted as the most disturbing and at the same time the most deeply rewarding experience of his life, the witnessing of that monster transcending to Aeon status.
Rewarding... and redeeming.
Harry had been sick for days afterwards. Pale and clammy, he'd slept a lot, only slowly recuperating. His silent companion had been outwardly impassive, but Scar could divine the terror and worry that lurked in his fathomless eyes as they nursed the Summoner back to health and had done his best to be discreet and supportive at once. It had been the first step towards the harmony and trust they shared today.
By contrast, the chimera – no, the Aeon – had been simply majestic.
It no longer had a vaguely human shape, though the front legs were still too much like arms for Scar's comfort: arms that ended in sharp, gleaming claws. It now had the head of a giant eagle, with a cruel, bronze-coloured beak, and the body of a lion, covered in golden fur, with only a pattern of scales trailing its spine on its back.
Its colours full, its health strong and its spirit indomitable, it stroke a proud, impressive figure as it hovered protectively over the three of them.
To Scar's surprise, it showed no sign of wanting to leave, or attack them.
On the contrary, the one time they'd been threatened, by a group of military sent by Colonel Archer, they hadn't even had the time to do anything: the arresting Aeon's growl had reverberated through the very stones and the ground under them, while the entity towered over the terrified soldiers and charged a large black liquid orb that had somehow formed between its claws, before slamming it powerfully onto the battlefield. It had had a variety of effects: the frightened men had started screaming their lungs out, some clawing at their eyes, others coughing up blood mixed with a greenish-black poison; still others seemed to fall prey to devastating emotions, of desperation, of paralysing fear or of fury so blind it thrust them at their own comrades' throats with ferocious yells...
Once the military squad had been sufficiently devastated, the Aeon had loftily settled beside them once more, appearing content to lazy away.
Odd as it may seem, Scar had felt like it was giving him the good example.
The Summoner had given of himself, selflessly, to save it, to give it a future. It seemed determined to repay the generous gift with companionship and service.
Similarly, the strange boy had given him a much needed, if incredibly gentle, wake up call.
He owed him, if nothing else, for that.
In a way... he owed him as much as the chimera did. For was not his spiritual health as important as the chimera's physical one?
He would repay him the same way.
And so Scar had stayed, becoming the Lord Summoner's Second Guardian.
He'd followed Harry into everything ever since – through more adventures and through more worlds than he had suspected could exist; to this bright green lawn at the feet of a fairy-tale castle, where a crowd of ghosts and living was listening to the broken story of a thousand-years-dead bitter lady...
Most children had sat down in the grass, listening fascinated to the narration; and when Lady Helena was done, sobbing the last of her tale, other ghosts timidly came up: a group of gloomy women wearing tunics and long wide pieces of woollen cloth over their shoulders and heads, encircling their face; a ragged knight in a heavy-looking suit of armour, with an arrow sticking out of his forehead; a squat girl with lank hair, pimples and thick glasses; an unbelievably old thin man clutching a spectral tome to his narrow chest...
All asking for the same thing – to be listened to, to be remembered, and only then, to be freed.
And Harry just listened patiently, serenely, without judging nor commiserating. Simply listening.
By the time everything was said and settled, sunset was close. The lake was a still, dark teal green expanse; the black outline of the forest circling it motionless and soundless.
Everything was quiet.
No-one dared break the solemnity of the atmosphere. It was as if the world itself held its breath as the Lord Summoner Harry took a deep breath and slowly walked out on the water.
One step, two, three… his bare feet barely disrupted the water, sending small ripples out in gentle circles.
A moment of suspended awaiting.
Then, the Summoner swung his Rod, tracing a wide arc and accompanying the movement with a turn of his own body. An otherworldly tune emanated from all around it, hieratic and harrowing, growing in strength and power with every move of his waving body, with every step of the enchanting dance.
The Sending had begun.
The music rose and fell with the Summoner's movements, the same eerie hummed tune that Scar had had occasion to hear a few times, whenever Harry used his Rod to the fullest: it always gave him the creeps, resonating in places inside him where music had no business reaching.
The Rod traced circles and arcs around Harry's turning body as he gathered and called to him the Unsent spirits.
Flames of blue fire sprung into existence, scattered among the awed crowd, and from the gathered ghosts quiet cries of relief and desperate longing arose, while their appearances melted slowly into shining pyreflies.
On and on Harry danced, around and around where he stood on the lake, every movement more decided, more compelling, a call no spirit could go unmoved by. Scar's own soul vibrated with longing, yet he knew he was only feeling a faint echo of the Summoner's ritualistic dance.
Every step had a meaning, every gesture called and gathered, dissolved illusions and opened truths, as the ancient pattern of the dance continued, Harry's movement smooth and fluid as they morphed into the next turn, the next wave or bow, the next skipping step, until with a sudden outburst of energy, the quiet lake's water shot up, raising the Summoner above reality, sparks of foam scintillating in the red and purple sunlight, matched by the pyreflies that flocked to the Rod and trailed its path through the air, weaving coloured magic – blue, green, indigo, white, grey – around the everdancing Summoner.
The water flared and fell like an impromptu fountain under his bare feet while he danced on, eyes lost into the depths of Death and Magic… his movements grew stronger and surer, faster and more energetic…
Scar's eyes – everybody's eyes - were riveted on the Summoner, entranced by the unbelievable spectacle.
His hair flared around his graceful movements, and more and more pyreflies rose to his call, from the waters, from the banks, and the setting sun tinted them and the water with reds and purples, orange flames and white reflexes, until Harry stood in a cocoon of water and magic like a stem in a fiery flower, and with a last, powerful stroke of his Rod, quieted.
All movement stopped abruptly, the compelling dance drawn to a sudden, mystical close.
For a long instant, only silence reigned, the world stilled at the peak of the amazing ritual, suspended. Scar knew he wasn't even breathing.
And then a soft sigh escaped the Summoner, all tension flowing from his body, and with the small gust of breath, all pyreflies flew away, dispersed, Sent at last, to where they would find peace.
The sun gently continued his descent and a barely there breeze stroked the tree tops. The water gently settled, without splashes, quietly, and gently, even light seemed to dim after the powerful flare, becoming restful, peaceful.
Slowly, the Summoner made his way back to the ground, on step at a time, his feet provoking faint ripples as silently as at the start of the ritual.
Everyone stood there, watching him. Scar knew well the feeling everybody was sharing right now, the feeling that the Summoner's magic always arose in whoever witnessed his feats: it was strange, and somehow sad, and elating at the same time. Unsettling, and awing.
Everybody was filled with deep emotions, even the most boisterous teenagers intimidated and hushed after feeling the compelling power of the Sending brush over them, raising goosebumps with the sheer strength of the magic invoked. Perhaps a little fearful, even. There was awe and wonder in their eyes as they looked at the Summoner, and very little understanding, but deference and reverence. Many bowed, clumsily, as if compelled to show their respect.
Harry was still filled with the moving power of the Sending, Scar could see it. Tears glistened in his emerald eyes. As always, concerned for the lives lost, for the spirits' sufferings. His compassion never ceased to amaze and shock the cynical, bitter Ishvalan.
Maybe that was why he stayed with Harry, why he was so determined to protect him at all costs?
But truthfully, it didn't matter. This was his place; Guarding his Lord Summoner was his meaning; and his fellow Guardians his family.
And that was that.