Author's Note: I cannot stress enough that I welcome questions and critique and comments about this fic, because I'm new to writing for this game and for these characters and I'm afraid of messing it up. o xo Help me not mess it up.

Adelphotes

By LeFox

Chapter Two: To Bevelle

For a boy with an injured ankle, Maroda moved with alacrity, searching the destroyed village with a gait that was half limp, half hop, and all determination. Isaaru watched in dazed awe, holding Pacce and doing his best to stay out of Maroda's way. The journey to Bevelle would take them through the Macalania Woods – a quick trip, usually; for a normal traveler, it could be only a matter of hours. A normal traveler, however, wouldn't have an infant and an injured child in tow. For this trip, Maroda had fervently insisted, they were going to need supplies.

Isaaru hadn't thought to find any supplies remaining among the wreckage, but here was Maroda, fishing out undamaged stock from the crumbling shop and finding food in houses that were little more than rubble. He was small enough to squeeze into collapsed doorways and holes in walls; if his ankle pained him at all, it didn't keep him from his search.

At last he emerged from beneath what had once been a healer's hut, proudly bearing three bottles. Isaaru took one, examining it. "Healing potions?"

"I didn't find any milk for Pacce." Maroda held up the other two potions. "If we dilute these with water, they'll be enough to keep him from starving until we get to Bevelle." He frowned. "He won't like it, but it's better than nothing."

"I see." Isaaru stared at the boy. "How in the world did you come up with that?"

Immediately he wished he hadn't asked; the boy's gaze dropped to the ground. "I had a baby sister," he said, quietly. "Before we came here. Sin attacked our old home, too, before we came here."

"I'm sorry."

Maroda continued on as if he hadn't heard the interruption. "Sin came twice, one right after the other. The first time, it nearly killed my mom, and my dad – a healer told him about the potions. Until my mother got better, the healer said the potions would be enough to keep my sister alive." He shrugged in an attempt to reduce the horror of the story, but instead the gesture looked as if he were trying unsuccessfully to remove a heavy burden from his shoulders. "The next time Sin came, it killed my sister. We left."

And Sin came again, and now you're all that remains, Isaaru thought, his heart aching. It was hardly a unique story; Spira was full of such tales, and until a summoner brought the Calm, there would only be more – many more.

Clearing his throat, Maroda tucked the supplies he'd gathered into a weather-beaten satchel he'd scavenged from the shop. "We should get going. The bodies are already starting to give off pyreflies." He slung the satchel over one shoulder, nearly toppling himself off balance.

"I could carry that," Isaaru offered, but the boy was already limp-hopping away, toward the path that would lead them to the woods.

"You carry Pacce," Maroda replied, as the older boy hurried to catch up. "It's not as heavy as it looks."

No, it was probably a good deal heavier than it looked. Isaaru shook his head, marveling at the child's stubbornness – surely it wouldn't be any trouble to carry the pack and Pacce? The baby had drifted back to sleep, nestled against Isaaru's heart. He was small; he scarcely weighed anything at all. Isaaru was struck suddenly by how fragile the infant was – and for that matter, for all his ferocious determination, so was Maroda. The Macalania Woods could be dangerous, thick with fiends and twisting paths known to confuse travelers.

I can protect them, he thought, holding Pacce even closer. I must.

They walked in silence for a time, wrapped up in their own thoughts. Isaaru couldn't even begin to speculate about what might be going through Maroda's mind – for all he knew, the boy was focusing entirely on the effort of taking each step, carefully putting as little weight as possible on his injured ankle before shifting almost immediately back to his uninjured leg, and sometimes traveling with short hops on the good leg to rest the injured one. Neither of them looked back at the destroyed village they were leaving behind; clinging to the past would do no good.

Instead, Isaaru turned his mind toward Bevelle. He'd visited the grand temple there once a year, paying respect to the Maesters who ruled over all those who followed Yevon's teachings, but of the city itself, he knew very little. Still, he knew the temple would be willing to train a new summoner. His own fate was secure.

What of Maroda and Pacce?

Children orphaned by Sin were a common tragedy in Spira, and in Bevelle, it was more than acceptable for them to be taken in by new families. He supposed that was what would become of his young traveling companions: they would reach Bevelle, and he would ensure that they were both introduced to new families before beginning his apprenticeship. Isaaru felt his gaze shift toward Maroda. At least Bevelle was only very rarely attacked by Sin; clearly the boy had suffered from it more than enough in his short lifetime. In Bevelle, at least, he was more likely to be left in peace.

"Have you ever been to Bevelle?"

Maroda nearly tripped over his own feet at the question; he had been too focused on trying to walk. Isaaru reached out a hand to steady him. Once he'd regained his balance, Maroda continued limping forward. "No," he finally replied, gritting his teeth through the throbbing in his ankle. He tried speaking only when he was balanced on his good leg. "I went… to the temple at Lake… Macalania, once. That's… the closest… I ever went."

"You know, I've never been to Macalania Temple," Isaaru said, but rather than focusing on the conversation, he was watching Maroda's face carefully: oh yes, he was in pain, and badly. If his injury hadn't been severe to begin with, it would almost definitely be so by the time they reached Bevelle… no, perhaps even by the time they reached the woods. The long hike through the winding branches was only going to aggravate it further. And if they ran into fiends…

Perhaps he'd been watching a bit too closely; Maroda's expression soured into a scowl. "I told you… I'd only… slow you down."

I couldn't leave you behind. I can't. "Hm? No, I was only wondering if I could convince you to stop for a second," he lied, shifting Pacce's weight to his other arm. "I think Pacce's probably still hungry, after all, and I'm exhausted."

"We've only been walking for maybe half an hour." Now that they'd come to a stop, Maroda stood balanced on his good leg, lifting the wounded ankle a short distance off of the ground. "You can't be tired already."

No, but he could: the effort of walking even this short distance had left Maroda obviously drained. Isaaru shrugged, sitting down beside the dusty path. "I don't travel much. Have a little pity for me?"

The boy's eyes narrowed, but he hopped to Isaaru's side, taking a seat and half-stifling a relieved sigh as he got off of his feet. He reached into the traveling satchel and found one of the potions. After a moment's consideration, he drank half of the potion himself – it would do little to mend his ankle, Isaaru knew, but at least it might restore a touch of stamina. To the half-empty potion bottle, Maroda added some water from a canteen. Once the mixture had been thoroughly shaken, he once again reached into the satchel and withdrew a scrap of cloth. When Isaaru stared at the cloth in confusion, Maroda sighed.

"Pacce's a baby. He isn't going to gulp it down right out of the bottle, is he?" Maroda soaked the cloth in the diluted potion, then leaned over and touched a corner of the cloth to Pacce's mouth. The baby stirred, whining quietly for a second before sucking hungrily at the fabric. "Give it a minute," Maroda warned, sitting back. "He won't like the taste."

Evidently, though, either the potion was diluted enough that the flavor wasn't strong, or Pacce was hungry enough not to care – the baby greedily devoured the potion; the cloth had to be soaked twice more before he settled back into satisfied slumber.

"Clever." Isaaru handed the cloth back to Maroda, who tucked both it and what remained of the potion with the rest of their supplies. "I wouldn't have thought of it."

"It's survival." Maroda rubbed at his sore ankle, which had only turned more dramatic shades of purple since their walk began. He watched Isaaru, eyes narrowing again. "Are you still tired?"

Isaaru glanced at the boy's ankle. "I might be."

"You want to be a summoner, right?"

The question caught him by surprise; he blinked. "I… yes, I do. Why?"

Maroda sighed heavily, flopping onto his back in exasperation. "What about the pilgrimage? If you get tired from this little walk, how are you supposed to walk all the way across Spira?"

Oh. Perhaps being tired wasn't the best excuse he could have come up with, then. Isaaru fought the urge to smile, forcing himself to wear a look of stern consideration. "I do have a great deal of training left to endure."

"You'll have to climb Mount Gagazet." Maroda groaned. "You won't even get past the gates."

"I'm sure they cover mountain climbing during the apprenticeship."

"And what about the Thunder Plains? You can't just take a break every few minutes. You'll get struck."

"Of course I can. Just collapse somewhere near the lightning rod towers. How hard could it be?"

"And the stairs to Kilika Temple."

"Stairs aren't that bad."

"What'll the priests think when they see you dragging yourself up the first few steps because you're already out of breath?"

"I'll just have my guardians carry me," Isaaru replied, grinning. "I'm sure that's part of the guardian's code, isn't it?

Maroda's scowl only darkened. "This isn't something to joke about."

No, in truth, it certainly wasn't. "Fine." Rising to his feet, Isaaru offered Maroda his free hand. "Let's hurry on to Bevelle so they can train me not to be a failure at taking long walks, hm?"

"Long walks, he says," Maroda muttered, accepting the offered help to his feet. He regained his balance, and they set off.

. . .

They took another break at the edge of the Macalania Woods, just before the crystalline trees swallowed the path they'd been walking. Maroda's nerves were raw – between the growing pain in his ankle, these unnecessary stops, and Pacce's renewed screaming, he was at his wits' end. He wasn't going to survive to Bevelle, he knew that. Not when the woods were teeming with fiends that even experienced soldiers struggled against. Not when he couldn't even run away. Maybe he should've just stayed behind in the village; when the dead became fiends, they would have found him and finished him off, anyway.

Isaaru was watching the sky, obviously taking note of how late in the afternoon it had already gotten. I told you I'd just slow you down, Maroda thought bitterly. He did warn Isaaru. And just who did the older boy think he was fooling, anyway? These breaks weren't for his benefit, and Maroda knew it. Isaaru didn't even look the slightest bit tired. Or upset, come to think of it.

Hadn't Isaaru lost his family, too?

How could he manage to smile like that?

Was that part of being a summoner?

Maybe it was all just part of becoming a summoner, Maroda reflected: saving Pacce, saving him. Maybe Isaaru was just getting ready to become an apprentice summoner; they were supposed to consider the safety of the people of Spira before all else, weren't they? What a way to live.

"We should go," Isaaru said, once Pacce had quieted down. "We can still reach Bevelle before the sun sets."

"Not with me, you won't." Maroda's eyes stung, but he refused to cry. If the pain in his ankle hadn't brought him to tears yet, this wasn't going to, either. "You need to go on without me."

Isaaru shook his head. "I can't leave you here."

"You can't be stuck out in the woods at night," Maroda insisted. Why was it so hard to make him see the truth?

"Neither can you. If I leave you here –"

"The fiends'll get me." I'm not crying. I'm not scared. I'm not. "But they'll get me in there, too."

"You stand a better chance if you aren't alone."

"And you stand a better chance if you're not with me!"

"Maroda." Isaaru caught him up in a one-armed embrace, burying Maroda's face against his shoulder. "I'm not leaving you behind."

The tears came then, and Maroda clung to Isaaru while he sobbed; in between tear-choked gasps he tried to point out the facts – that they'd never reach Bevelle safely, that the fiends in the woods were vicious and he couldn't run from them, that there was nowhere for him to go in Bevelle even if they did make it there, that it was too hard to walk, that it was too painful, that it was too far. Somewhere in the middle of it all, his own crying woke Pacce, who also began wailing in confused fear, which only made Maroda feel worse; his own misery was contagious.

Isaaru held him until the last of his shuddering sobs came to an end, and for a few moments after. Then, when it was clear that both Maroda and Pacce had calmed somewhat, Isaaru released him. "Let's go."

Maroda felt drained; crying was exhausting. "I can't."

"You can." Isaaru smiled encouragingly, gesturing toward the darkening sky. "We'll camp in the woods if we have to. If it takes us an entire week to reach Bevelle, that's fine, but I won't leave you behind."

"But the fiends –"

"Let me worry about the fiends." Isaaru took a few steps toward the trees. "Now come along, either we all go, or we all stay."

Slowly, with halting, agonizing steps, Maroda followed him into the woods. There was no path, necessarily – traversing Macalania meant walking along the raised roots and branches of the trees themselves. It was a grueling hike, and staying balanced on the thin branches was key to survival; falling from this height would almost definitely mean death. Maroda struggled not to look down; even though Isaaru kept a steadying hand on his shoulder while they walked, he was sure that any minute now, his uneven steps were going to send him tumbling to the ground.

The woods were beautiful: the air was cool and crisp; the trees stretched their blue-tinted branches toward the sky; and here and there, nestled where a branch met a trunk, there was a large crystalline flower. "Summoners pass through here on their pilgrimages," Isaaru informed him quietly, looking around. "To the temple at Lake Macalania, where Shiva's Fayth rests. This isn't the route a summoner would follow, though, of course; there's a shorter path between Macalania Temple, Bevelle, and the Thunder Plains."

"And the Calm Lands?"

Isaaru smiled, nodding. "And the Calm Lands. Very good."

And from there, on a summoner's pilgrimage, it was on to Mount Gagazet, and then… Zanarkand. Maroda shivered. Only summoners and the Maesters of Yevon had seen Zanarkand for nearly a thousand years. Summoners went to the ruined ancient city and came back bearing the Final Aeon, the only way to defeat Sin. It was a place of magic and mystery – and secrets. Thousand-year-old secrets. Entrance to the city itself was forbidden to non-summoners without Yevon's blessing, and the dangerous climb up Mount Gagazet deterred those who would enter the city regardless; no one knew what lay hidden in those ruins. Maroda thought he was content not knowing.

Isaaru, though…

"You'll go to Zanarkand one day?" Maroda hopped along the branches, too afraid of falling to be tired. "You'll get the Final Aeon and fight Sin?"

Before Isaaru could reply, though, a shadow passed overhead, moving quickly through the treetops. Isaaru froze, pulling Maroda to an unsteady stop. Maroda's heart pounded in his ears. "What was-"

"Shh." Isaaru drew closer to him, watching the high branches intently. The shadow was back, leaping from branch to branch, skittering along the trunks. Fiends, Maroda thought, despairing. It was a wonder it'd taken this long for the fiends to find them, but sooner or later, their luck had to run out. He realized he was gripping Isaaru's free arm tight enough to leave a bruise, but if the older boy noticed, he wasn't saying anything – his eyes were trained on the moving shadow, which was coming closer, closer –

Far above, there was the sound of something launching itself through the branches, breaking through the brittle wood. In an explosion of splinters, the creature landed on the branch just a few steps from where they were standing. The thing seemed to be made entirely of blades – it was all spindly legs and sharp edges, and the slightest brush of one of those blades was likely enough to severely injure a grown man. What chance did three children have?

No, no, no, Maroda thought, willing himself to release Isaaru's arm so the other boy could run away – there was no way they stood a chance against something like this, unarmed and alone. If he let Isaaru go, at least he and Pacce might stand a chance of reaching Bevelle… but he couldn't bring himself to let go. I don't want to die, he realized, and the fear was sharper than any of the fiend's blades. I don't want to die.

"Isaaru…" He heard the whimper in his own voice, and hated it.

"I'm thinking."

How can you sound so calm? Maroda hadn't been impressed thus far with what he'd seen of Isaaru's 'thinking,' and right now his own mind was completely blank with white-hot terror. The fiend watched them through deep-seated eyes, shifting back and forth on its bladed feet, preparing to pounce. One slice, that was all it would take. Maroda started shaking, wondering if it would at least be a quick death –

"Let go of my arm," Isaaru said quietly, never looking away from the fiend.

So he was going to run for it. Maroda felt his stomach twist into a knot, and his eyes burned with renewed tears – but he'd known this was going to happen, right? What else could Isaaru do? They didn't have weapons; they didn't know any magic; they didn't stand a chance against a fiend. And there was Pacce to consider, too. Maroda closed his eyes and tried not to cry. If he had to die here, he wasn't going to do it sobbing like a child.

Slowly, as if the effort of doing so hurt more than walking had, he released his grip on Isaaru's arm.

Rather than running away, though, Isaaru thrust Pacce into Maroda's arms. The baby began wailing again, and Maroda stared at Isaaru in confusion – was he going to leave them both behind? – but the fiend chose that moment to pounce, whipping its blades forward for a killing strike; Isaaru shoved Maroda behind him and threw his arms up over his face in futile self-defense.

There was a sound – a snap, sharp and echoing, ringing through the trees like thunder.

Maroda realized he was lying on his back on the ground; he hadn't managed to maintain his balance when Isaaru had pushed him, but Pacce was nestled safely against his chest. The baby screamed and cried, but the woods felt strangely silent in the wake of that loud, sudden noise. And on the ground… on the ground, there was blood, fresh blood.

"Isaaru?" Maroda looked up; the other boy was still standing, evidently unharmed, if a little shaken.

Isaaru shook his head, looking back at him. "Are you alright?"

"What was that?" He sat up, holding Pacce close. He was still shaking; if his nerves had been raw before, now they were utterly frayed. "The fiend…"

The fiend was sprawled on the branch, slowly dissolving into pyreflies: dead. But how?

"Cornered by a Xiphos, were you? You're lucky we found you, boys. Praise be to Yevon!" From further up the branch, two strangely-armored men appeared. Their faces were hard to see beneath their domed helmets, and their weapons…

Isaaru frowned. "That weapon – it's a machina."

One of the men hefted the weapon, nodding. "A rifle. Yevon approves of the use of these machina for Bevelle's protection, don't worry."

"Besides," the other man cut in, grinning beneath his helmet. "You'd be dead right now if we didn't have 'em. Why didn't you run, boy?"

Isaaru helped Maroda to his feet and retrieved Pacce, settling the fussing infant back into his own arms. "He's injured. He can't walk quickly, let alone run."

"Yeah, but why didn't you run?"

The look Isaaru gave the man was icy.

The other guard spoke up. "Never mind all that, what're you lot doing here, anyway? These woods are dangerous."

"Our village was destroyed by Sin." Isaaru wrapped a steadying arm around Maroda's shoulders; Maroda leaned against him, welcoming the slight rest, but he suspected the gesture had more to do with Isaaru's mistrust of these strangers. "We're trying to reach Bevelle."

"Bevelle, is it?" The grinning man's smile widened. "We'll get you there. We're warrior monks; we're trained to aid travelers through Macalania. You'll be in Bevelle before the sun goes down."

. . .

As it happened, they reached Bevelle just after the sun had gone down. The monks carried Maroda up the daunting stretch of Bevelle's famous Highbridge, which was just as well: the boy wasn't certain he could survive another step. Even Isaaru was finally starting to look genuinely exhausted. Still, exhausted or not, Maroda's pulse sped up when he got his first glimpse of the city of Bevelle itself – it was enormous. There were terraces with houses built in the middle of flowing canals, more bridges spanning from one terrace to another, and right in front of them…

"Bevelle Temple," the monk carrying him said, gazing proudly upon the soaring structure before them. "The heart of Yevon itself. No one enters Bevelle without first passing through the temple and gaining the priests' approval. No infidels are welcome in this, the most sacred of cities."

And then they were through the gates, and standing within the temple itself: a strange, darkened structure, with quiet priests moving through the shadows. Maroda wondered if he was supposed to be slightly terrified; it seemed like being in the heart of Yevon should be less frightening than this.

"What's this?" A priest stepped forward, folding his hands in the sleeves of his robe. He glanced at Maroda, in the arms of the monk; then his gaze rested on Maroda's bruised ankle. "This child is wounded. What happened here?"

The other monk stepped forward, swiftly bowing in Yevon's prayer. "We found 'em wandering in the woods. This one says their village was wiped out by Sin." He gestured toward Isaaru. "They're seeking sanctuary in Bevelle."

"Is that so." The priest studied Isaaru for a moment, then motioned him forward. "All the faithful are welcome in Bevelle. Is sanctuary all you seek, lad?"

"No," Isaaru bowed respectfully, unable to perform the prayer properly with Pacce in his arms. "It is also my wish to train as a summoner."

The priest simply nodded, as if the reply had been completely expected. Then he looked from Maroda to Pacce, then back to Isaaru. "And what of the children?"

Silence, for only a moment. Then: "I would like to find a home within the city," Isaaru replied, "for my brothers and myself."

Brothers. Maroda's gasp was so sharp he saw stars.

The priest lifted an eyebrow, glancing between them again, taking in the obvious disparity in their appearances – not to mention Maroda's open stare. "Brothers, is it?"

Isaaru nodded, his expression betraying nothing. "It is."

"As you say." The priest turned, calling into the shadows. "Zuke, to me." A young acolyte hurried toward them, bowing to the priest before turning his attention toward the rest of them. The priest nodded. "Zuke, you have room available at your home, do you not? Until other arrangements can be made, these children will be in your care."

If the news alarmed the young man, Zuke didn't show it. He offered Isaaru a mild smile, nodding in acknowledgment. "You're to be a summoner, I hear? I, too, will begin my apprenticeship soon. We have much to talk about, I think."

But Maroda didn't care about summoners or apprenticeships or even having a roof over his head.

As Zuke led the way out of the temple and the rest of them followed, Maroda still cradled in the monk's arms, all he could think was: Brothers, brothers, he called us brothers.

Author's Note: Wow that got long I'm sorry