(A/N): Introspective Kurgum, Pt. 1/2.

More info dump on Bevellian High Society rarely explored and lots of Eastern influences like reflexology, polyandrous unions, etc.

I pretty much pushed through six hours of a grueling stream of exposition-inspired consciousness. I'm just baffled by how much of a sad boi Kurgum turned out to be, he's such a painfully introspective character. I don't even know if I like this chapter, because I ended up splitting it in two, but here it is, released into the world. I apologize for my deadbeat ass self. XD

Chapter 6

~The Noble Apprentice~

Kurgum watches Chuami sling an arrow straight through a basilisk's purple eye, rendering its bloody gaze incapable of petrifying anyone within its line of sight. He cringes from the fiend's shriek of pain despite himself, and sighs in relief when Sir Wakka deals the final blow, bludgeoning its skull in with a vicious kick of his serrated blitzball.

Chuami had initiated each preemptive strike ever since they passed the South West Djose–Rock Road blockade, demonstrating such frightening precision and focused ferocity that Kurgum perceived her unspoken desire for space. Lady Yuna and Sir Wakka kept their distance, wary of the young woman raging loose on the warpath. He only felt brave enough to approach her whenever a deep cut worried him, but even then she would brush him aside as her way of brisk acknowledgement.

Kurgum sighs, and not for the first time, forging ahead while struggling to keep up. Although he feels grateful that everyone compromised on his behalf, his guilt compounds the painful throbbing in his soles. His leaden feet burn after trekking the Rock Road for merely half a day, suffering from the numerous blisters that have burrowed into his Bevellian-embroidered shoes. He suppresses his complaint, however, wishing nothing more than to collapse and rest.

Seven days. Seven days it took them to reach this point.

Three days leading up to their departure from the Travel Agency, because Sir Wakka refused to let Lady Yuna walk after Chuami refused to force Kurgum on a machina. Despite her feeble protests and his awkward reassurances, everyone agreed to rent chocobos, unaware of the fact they would be forced to follow new Highroad travel regulations by first acquiring a rider's license.

He still suffers from the red-hot, bitter memory of constant road burn and humiliation as a result of his own ineptitude. The fact his white tunic continues to chafe his slow-healing wounds and black bruises serves as an unpleasant reminder of the grueling experience. He grows weary of suppressing his pained wince every time Chuami glances his way, blaming those wily, overgrown birds for their disobedient, stubborn nature.

Each chocobo he attempted to mount for longer than a minute kept ignoring his soft, bumbling, high-pitched commands no matter how many times he cracked the reins. He ended up sulking behind the inn more often than not, messaging his sore, aching legs in Lady Yuna's silent company. Sometimes he would hear Chuami and Sir Wakka race each other from atop the grassy cliff face as their voices echoed down below, looking on with envy as they crossed the Oldroad, hollering at each other to keep score. Not even Lady Yuna's healing magic could mend his wounded pride, so he stood once more, braving his explosive muscle cramps.

Although he felt blessed for the rare opportunity to spend time with the High Summoner— alone! the two of them! he almost fainted— he hated himself for slowing everybody down. His spiraling anxiety refused to cease even after he finally acquired his license. Three days they waited on him, two days they traversed the remaining stretch of Mi'ihen Highroad by chocoback despite the fact they could've cut that time down by half via machine rover— 'if only I was strong enough,' outspeeding ravenous Blood Fangs, Dual Horns, rogue machina, and even his own thoughts—

By the morning of the sixth day, which bled into a long, sweltering, and cloudless afternoon, the Mushroom Rock Road entrance finally came into view, shadowed by the ruins of an alabaster, broken structure that might have acted as a portcullis once, breached by war, Sin or the sedimentary abuse of time. Normally, Kurgum would take a moment to stop and stare in awe, perhaps even capture the dilapidated rock archway and rusted lattice on sphere if not for the wide breadth of Warrior Monks stationed at the border.

"What's this…?"

Lady Yuna stared at the considerable long line of people pouring out the beaten path, reluctant to dismount even as a stable hand hovered near.

Forcing his chocobo to a skidded halt, his panic rose at the sight of their yellow uniform, because how could he forget—? "It's the Djose–Rock Road blockade."

He had been so distracted while addressing the High Summoner that he felt rude in hindsight, rummaging in his messenger bag, praying that he hadn't misplaced their travel documents. While one Warrior Monk conducted a thorough search of the cargo wagon and chocobo-drawn carriage, another stood aside with the Lucan merchant and the bored bodyguard for questioning. There were at least two more officers guarding the gate with standard issue steel strapped to their sides, machine rifles at the ready, watching the dull proceedings through their dark, crimson visors. Kurgum felt his anxiety skyrocket when one of them glanced their way—

"Calm down." Chuami slid off her saddle to toss the reins at an awaiting stable hand, stomping to his side. "You had the papers in Luca when we checked in at the hotel, remember? Unless some vine monkeys made off with them—"

"False alarm!" Relief washed over him in an instant once he brandished the bound parchment, overcome with flushed excitement as sunlight glinted off the metal wings of the phoenix brooch. He hugged it to his chest, hoping to staunch the fluttering of his racing heartbeat. "Oh man, I was worried for a second…"

"To be honest, even if we lost them, Lady Yuna's with us. She's better proof than any." Chuami scoffed.

He deflated, feeling foolish, masking his embarrassment with a sheepish smile as he pocketed the scroll away, afraid that his sweaty fingertips would stain the crisp parchment. "Oh, yeah… Heh, heh. You're right."

She crossed her arms with a quirk of her mouth. "Hmph. Aren't I always?"

"What's going on here? Why're they taking so long? The line's barely moving, ya."

Sir Wakka never missed an opportunity to gripe, and whatever slight improvement to Chuami's sour mood had evaporated in an instant. She scowled, exhaling through her nose, and his panic spiked several octaves.

"The Council deemed the Djose peninsula and its mountain ranges dangerous for travel since the Beckoning outbreak that occurred nearly six months ago." Kurgum rushed to exclaim, clearing his throat before she could utter a scathing remark. "The site of Operation Mi'ihen was the first place recorded on the pyre scale to reach S alert, and right before the fourth-year anniversary of the tragedy, too…"

He trailed off, shaken by the memory of the aftermath, the cautionary tales sworn by the priests who abhorred the Al Bhed, undermining their bravery and sacrifice. "That's what you get for defiling the teachings, fighting Sin with sin only breeds more sin—."

"...um, anyway, the Bevellian Army and Machine Faction have joined hands to escort civilians across the roads in rovers, although they're limited in availability and supply, so we'll have to wait awhile. Sorry about that… Oh, and nobody's permitted to remain within the region even if they claim to live there. The Spiran Council's in the middle of drafting a continental-wide evacuation, but we— as in the officers— have been informed that they're prioritizing the Moonflow first."

"What about the people who live here, ya? Where're they supposed to go?" Wakka said, frustrated.

"Don't worry. Chancellor Baralai and Vice-Chancellor Scisero Guado accounted for everything. They renovated the slums in Luca ahead of time in order to shelter all the refugees and migrants who fled south. As for those who chose to move north, the Spiran Council allowed the passing of a temporary bill to admit people through Bevelle Customs under a travel visa for victims affected by global crisis."

Sir Wakka hummed, skeptical, crossing his arms. "For a Sender, you're pretty knowledgeable."

"W-Well… you know, with all that's going on, it's nice to be informed about stuff." Kurgum rubbed the back of his head, bashful at the receiving end of his backhanded compliment. He felt a little embarrassed to admit that he had been studying politics and current affairs in his free time. If he outperformed on the field, he might rise in seniority in leaps and bounds. Perhaps in five years time, or ten… He could stand by Baralai's side, and nobody would be able to question it.

"Times have proven that anything can change at a moment's notice, so it's best to be prepared. Right, Chuami?" She opted not to comment, offering to turn in everybody's chocobos with a vicious snap of her wrists, stomping away before Sir Wakka could breathe a word in edgewise. He sighed, praying to the departed Fayth for patience to endure the coming days.

He sighs again, his feet growing heavier and numb by the second. Chuami refuses to dismiss such obstinacy in his silent suffering, however, and casts a concerned look his way, her foul mood forgotten.

"Want a break?" She falls into step beside him, matching his staggering, slow pace. "I could use one myself. It's getting dark, almost twilight."

"It's okay. We can, um…" Kurgum gulps, losing his thought process in the presence of his dry throat, and accepts the waterskin she offers without fuss, eager to deplete it. Guilt prickles the back of his mind at the thought he emptied his own long ago. "W-We're almost at the Djose Shore checkpoint. Maybe an Al Bhed driver will be kind enough to give us a ride to the east end."

Chuami smiles, amused by his suggestion, an ironic echo of their current predicament. He appreciates the fact that she held back from saying 'I told you so,' even though he hates the smug look dancing in her eyes. "Sure. Sounds like a plan."

"Are you sure it doesn't hurt?" He pauses to check her right arm, no longer raw and flushed from the fresh wound he recently stitched. "I can apply another poultice if the effect's worn off―."

"For the last time, I'm fine. Geez, lighten up." She rips her arm away, annoyed by his fussing. "I'll let you know as soon as the pain gets worse."

"You better."

"Bossy."

They exchange knowing smiles, amused by the other's gripe.

"Let's stop and take a break here." Sir Wakka calls out to them, slowing his pace to a complete stop. "I'm starting to lose feelin' in my feet. Hah…" He shuffles in place, haggard and out of breath, if not out of shape going by the sight of his soft, round stomach post-fatherhood. Although the man cracked a joke at his own expense followed by Chuami's dry 'old man' remark, Kurgum suspects their constant breaks were for Lady Yuna's benefit.

Her gaze tends to stray often, her stride slow and weary, suffering from shorter breath compared to her retired Guardian. He wonders how Lady Yuna— the High Summoner who once braved the pilgrimage three months on foot, exploring countless, uncharted dungeons as a sphere hunter— lost her stamina in only one year after retirement. Perhaps the answer could be found in the same reason Warrior Monks and Crusaders persisted with their daily drills, maintaining their muscles in fear of losing their edge. Baralai had proven as much in his tireless dedication to his Bevellian training.

Kurgum sighs, wistful. He wishes Baralai were here to liven their tedious journey. He never failed at being pleasant company, knowing when best to strike conversation or maintain silence. Even the silence would not feel this awkward or tense, finding ways to encourage them along with subtle, thoughtful gestures. He risks a glance in Lady Yuna's direction now, losing the nerve as soon as it came. She feels so distant… He still wishes to ask her things, so many things, but every time he worked up the courage, she always acted so aloof and detached. Her desire for solitude wears on his desire for conversation. What would Baralai do if he were here…?

A whistle startles him out of his thoughts, surprised to see not Sir Wakka, but Lady Yuna hailing an Al Bhed porter, waving her hand to grab his attention. Kurgum exhales. Sweet mercy, they don't have to tread the entire Rock Road on foot. His aching blisters are singing in divine relief. He will never complain about motion sickness and machine rovers ever again.

Kurgum watches the rolling scenery on the back of the hovercraft now, clinging to dear life as he struggles to suppress the nausea and queasiness in his stomach. He admires the roaring oceanside colliding against the rocky cliff-face as the sharp tang of the seasalt breeze whips his face fierce, the memory of Bevelle calling him homeward. Sweet nostalgia burns in his chest, causing him to yearn for the familiar warmth of his futon, to doze off to the savory aroma of roasted vegetables and anko rice cakes. He would often spend the coldest autumn days and bitterest winter nights inside, lulled by the echo of his humming voice.

He swallows, squelching the incoming sting of tears. He honestly believed, fooled himself into believing that he had been ready to embark on this month-long assignment, eager to prove himself to the man who paved his own path since his early ascension into priesthood, yet the roundtrip back from the edge of the world through aero travel and open sea diminished his strength and spirit, carving him hollow from the inside out. Without Chuami as his steadfast companion and anchor, he doubts he would have been able to do it.

They arrive at Djose Temple by nightfall, the headquarters of the Machine Faction led by the Chancellor's esteemed confidant, Gippal of the Al Bhed; a brilliant young engineer who frequents Bevelle's entertainment district as one of its most popular patrons. He met him several times in passing at Bevelle Temple, but mostly at Baralai's condo, envious of their affectionate rapport, how easily he makes him laugh and smile despite how often he pushes his buttons. Gippal may surpass him by two years, but Kurgum shrinks in his shadow, pale in comparison to his bold confidence.

Electric lights had been installed along the bridgeside, guiding their listless feet as they trudge across. Fireflies glow in the chill air despite the thick blanket of sea fog creeping in from the shore, dancing close above the calm waters of the canal, their lights gentle in comparison to the buzzing lamplights and whistling pyreflies. He peers up into the shifting skyline of floating rock, squinting against the blinding, staccato streaks of lightning that illuminate the ink black.

It brings to mind the chapter Baralai had read aloud from the geomancy text Scisero assigned him. "The earth acts as a natural conductor of electricity," which would explain how Djose Temple traps the electric currents within its elaborate, painted walls even long after Ixion's departure from Spira. Its stone-hewn architecture may as well have been sculpted out of the very cliff that surrounds it.

Two Al Bhed workers standing guard at the barricaded doors relax their grip on their firearms when noticing the High Summoner approach, proceeding to converse with her in their native tongue. Kurgum hangs back, both mesmerized and intimidated by their thick accents and wild hand gestures compared to Lady Yuna's quiet, serene voice. She finally turns around to face them, relaying the gist of their conversation in monotone translation, the most he ever heard her speak.

"Gippal's indisposed at the moment. They tell me he's currently in Bevelle on business with the Council, but we can rest here for the night before heading out again in the morning. The fiends have been increasing in droves lately, and that's why there's more security than normal."

"Probably because of the Moonflow." Chuami chimes in, crossing her arms, shivering in the creeping cold despite wearing her red frock coat and black leggings. "Fiends congregate most where pyrefly activity is highest. They're no doubt connected."

"We can check it out tomorrow." Kurgum suggests, delighted by the prospect to investigate. Maybe they can find something worthwhile in its possible development since the time stamp on the sphere recording.

"Yeah. I'm curious to see if it's really true." Wakka abstains from his usual surly complaint, crossing his arms. "If there are really two shoopufs."

"If its deceased mate actually returned." Chuami corrects him, leaning her weight on one foot and tilting her head in deep thought. "I wonder if animals and fiends are actually capable of Beckoning, or even the Unsent. It makes sense for people, but…"

Kurgum nods. There lies so much beyond their understanding of The Beckoning, the exact cause of its conception, what hidden complexities may actually still be lurking beneath its ghastly surface. The Moonflow seems like the safest bet to stumble upon new findings— outside of the Guado's private records, of course, but one can only hope.

"Hey, are you done with your foot magic, yet?"

"It's not foot magic, it's reflexology. And no, I'm not done, I still have the pressure points in my toes to do…" Kurgum grumbles, annoyed by her teasing as he massages the top center part of his foot with a rosewood stick. He never hears Chuami make fun of Baralai or his blood father whenever they do the same thing. It's so unfair… He deepens his frown, frustrated by the injustice of it all.

And why do they have to share a room?! The memory of that Al Bhed woman hand-waving his scandalized reaction still stings. Sure, they may have shared a room back in Luca, because Chuami errs on the side of frugality, but the airborne migraine he endured for two days overpowered all logic, even his adolescent thoughts. What's worse, her shameless traipsing in his presence— in her underclothes — endangers his delicate, male heart. He wishes she possessed more self-awareness of the obvious fact that they're not children anymore.

'Maybe she doesn't see me as a man…' He sighs, lamenting his modest growth spurts. Not only that, their arduous trip whittled down whatever progress he managed to work towards maintaining the gentleman's posture. All that practice in the past year, his goal to reach Scisero's standards, back to square one in only two weeks. Feeling discouraged, he chose to prioritize the lateral and medial sides of his left foot first, eager for relief in the familiar. 'I need to exercise more. Practicing magic isn't enough…'

He expected Chuami to tease him more, always impatient of his nightly self-care rituals, but as the minutes drag on and her soft snores eventually echo in the crackling light, he realizes: 'It's gotten that late, huh…' He withdraws his hands to wipe his stick dry, considering this a good stopping point. Stowing his tools and ointments away in his wooden grooming box, he places it on the nightstand and climbs back into bed, pulling the coarse wool blanket over his body.

While waiting for exhaustion to claim him, Kurgum stares up at the ceiling, feeling wide awake, if not distracted by the electric lights crackling across the gray stone walls. The noise and brightness keeps him from slumber despite Chuami's eager descent to sleep. He always preferred darkness and silence in contrast to her insistence on candlelight and the heavy echo of a mantle clock. He sighs, restless, wishing there existed a way to turn off the circuit pathway or control the flow of electricity somehow, like the myriad of recent machine appliances installed in Bevellian homes.

The natural wellspring of Ixion's electricity possesses no harmless outlet to disperse. Something to do with the high concentration of gravitons, electrons, neutrons in the air; Al Bhed jargon that he couldn't make sense of at the time of inquiry. He only asked, because he wanted to compare common knowledge between their differing cultures, yet discovering the vast scope of a layman's freedom weighed against a nobleman's privilege twists the knife deeper in his gut. He rises in bed and rubs his face, disturbed by the bitterness of his own thoughts. Slipping on his shoes, he exits the room, careful not to wake her.

He reaches the bridge of the canal within minutes, surprised by the amount of people still milling about, most of them night shift workers on break from the echoes of their clanking metal tools and squeaky leather overalls. Even though he knows he shouldn't fear them, he can't forget about how the Church used to ostracize and execute their brethren in the name of Yevon. 'Don't you despise us? We feared your independence and bravery, your intelligence most of all— and we punished you for it to maintain the status quo. Don't you want retribution for your fallen kin?'

He keeps to himself, avoiding eye contact, willing such thoughts to cease. Think about something else, think about… Bevelle, his next day off, the location of his next assignment. How far they have come, even though they are still so far away. Would the Council station him in the Moonflow or Djose? Or something less intensive, like surveying Macalania for crystal lakes… Give or take another week, maybe a fortnight… maybe he'll know.

Kurgum folds his arms over the stone edge of the bridge and leans forward, peering out into the light-speckled darkness.

They still have to cross the Moonflow banks and its treacherous Ochu-infested, bandit-ridden roads before they must brave the eternal rainstorm of the Thunder Plains, and he exhales, dreading the inevitable ordeal. What possessed his ancestors to choose Bevelle as their main capital of human civilization, the northernmost territory, so far removed from the rest of the known world? Beyond the vast Macalania Woods, beyond the sequestered Guadosalam, rebuilt by the sea where Sin could attack at any time. He always wondered why…

"To prove their superiority in their egotism," Scisero said during one of his geography lessons. Kurgum and Chuami had already graduated from primary school by that point, making themselves welcome visitors to Baralai's household. Sometimes they would even walk into one of his many long-winded lectures and proceed to plop down on the carpet floor of his study, lounging in boredom and drowsiness while Baralai took furious notes.

"They wanted to prove that they were above the rest of the known world. Zanarkand may have been our enemy once, feared for their technological advancement and overzealous worship, but now it lies in ash and ruin to the far north. Far beyond the barren Calm Lands, once revered as the Golden Steppe before becoming the burial grounds for a Summoner's final juncture with Sin. Far beyond Mt. Gagazet, where the venerable Ronso live as guardians of lands deemed sacrosanct.

"Think. When Sin decimated Bevelle at the peak of the Machina War, the surviving citizens, your ancestors, chose to rebuild Bevelle in this exact location, open towards the sea, to prove their valor and fearlessness. Peacocks, the lot of them, obstinate in their pride."

They may have been prideful then, consumed by their own hubris, their past sins present even in their bloodline one thousand years later, but Bevelle still survived to this day in no short effort spared. Fortune favors the bold, and Lady Yuna, who happens to be Bevellian born herself, had proven that proverb best, inverting an entire society and false religion on its viperous head. Corrupt Maesters cease to rule with their poisoned honey now, making way for Baralai and his most trusted allies to govern Bevelle, determined to forge a brighter future freed from its generational trauma.

Kurgum wishes to possess an ounce of their strength, if only to inspire that same feeling in others—

"Lookin' a little green around the gils there, ya? You okay?"

He snaps to attention, startled by Sir Wakka's exuberant voice echoing from close behind.

"Erm, yeah. It's my first time traveling, so…" Kurgum chuckles, recomposing himself behind the motion of lowering his hood. He watches Sir Wakka stop by his side to peer out into the direction where his thoughts escaped, self-conscious of the immediate implication that it's his first time traveling without adults, let alone adult escorts. He accepted this job in order to grow stronger and more independent, not to pine for his hometown like a child.

"That is, it's my first time leading an assignment."

"Oh yeah? You homesick, then?"

'Am I that transparent?' Kurgum tries to laugh it off, hoping to mask his embarrassment. "Mm, kinda."

"Same." Sir Wakka chuckles, leaning forward to fold his arms on the rail. "Besaid born and raised, ya. I've been all over Spira twice now, going on three, but it's still the only place that feels like home."

"Were you scared? On your first pilgrimage with Sir Zuke?"

"Sure was." He shrugs. "But I would've done it all over again, no questions asked, if it meant I could've protected Yuna from doing the same thing. I held onto hope. But, ya know how that ended. She still went on to walk her own pilgrimage."

"And you defeated Sin without the Final Aeon. How did you do it?"

"Ah, well… Yuna had to make a terrible sacrifice."

Kurgum stares, confused. Didn't that go without saying? Everybody knew of the cost. Even an orphan from the distant lagoons south of Bevelle had been raised by the holy scriptures praising the High Summoners' heroic deeds, including all the nameless who have fallen throughout the centuries, ever since he could remember bobbing in the crystal-clear, teal waters for seaweed and oysters. Every day, at the break of dawn, mothers, sisters, and widows would sing the Hymn while cooking breakfast, expressing their gratitude for Yevon's blessing— until Sin demolished their small, peaceful settlement one day.

He awoke days later within unfamiliar coquina walls, sharing a stained cot alongside another half-dead child trapped in the throes of a seizure while the clinic echoed with countless, shrieking voices gripped by Sin's Toxin. It may be a distant memory now, ten years since he survived the tragedy, but it still haunts him to this day, even in his waking hours, of amnesiac children wailing inside the arms of their surviving family or caring, crying clerics, begging to go home. Kurgum respected Summoners more than anyone, because they alone held the power to grant peace from Sin, if only fleeting.

"High Summoners were supposed to sacrifice their lives in order to defeat Sin. What sacrifice could be greater than your own life?"

"C'mon, kid. Do I have to say it out loud?" Wakka huffs, frustrated. "What's worse is the death of someone you love. You're too young to understand now, but someday… actually, I hope you never do. I hope you never have to experience losing someone you love. Even when it's for the greater good, it's still terrible…"

"...but… isn't that eventuality something you're supposed to be prepared for? Living under the tyranny of Sin, it was a dangerous world. There isn't a single person who hasn't lost someone. For Guardians, it was their job to protect Summoners. They were prepared for the risks more than anyone, I'd think…" 'Or am I missing something?' He opts not to voice that thought out loud, afraid of sounding stupid.

"I know that, but…" Wakka falters, caught off guard by the blunt truth in his statement. "You were an apprentice once, right? Would you be able to choose someone you loved and cared about to become the Final Aeon? Because that's what Lady Yunalesca asked of every Summoner who reached Zanarkand. The Final Aeon required a Fayth created by a Summoner's bond with their chosen Guardian—"

Kurgum stares, horrorstruck. He imagines Chuami and her open smile, and grief squeezes his heart. He could never ask for such a thing, she'd be so livid and disgusted— 'but if we perished together, we'd reunite in the Farplane. Death isn't the end. It's the beginning of an eternal life freed from sin and earthly attachments.'

And yet, that kind of esoteric thinking would only cause Chuami to curse him out. It would never cross her mind, because she'd rather fight to the bitter end— but if such a moment ever came where he would feel compelled to make the choice, could he do it? Sacrifice Chuami? Or Baralai? Lady Ilyria? Or Lady Yuna? The people he loved and admired most for the people of Spira? He can't bear to think about it. To die with honor or live in shame, it sickens him to his stomach—

"Lady Ilyria, you received the Final Aeon, so why— why didn't you face Sin?"

Yet his teacher managed to endure it all. The shame and the humiliation, enduring rejection from an entire society hellbent on slandering her.

"If you fought Sin and won, you would've been seen as a hero. Nobody would say a single mean thing about you…"

"My dear sweet Kurgum. You don't understand. A mother's love for her child… there's nothing else in the world that could compare. I couldn't face Sin. It was never an option. Once I knew I was with child, my life was no longer my own. Nothing else mattered."

He had been an innocent and insensitive child then, cruel in his ignorance as he questioned her in the echo of disparaging, adult voices. Calling her a coward, a scarlet woman despite braving the rite to acquire the Final Aeon. Born from the womb of the most powerful woman in Bevelle, Baralai lived by the mercy and grace of his mother's love, raised by the men who were her living Guardians, the brawn and brain behind her enchanting beauty.

"I once traveled with three Guardians, you know. Before I met Scisero in Guadosalam, before I met Mori in Kilika… My first Guardian had been a Crusader stationed in Besaid. All the children in the village loved her. She was a peerless warrior and a healer of the tantric arts. She agreed to be my Guardian shortly after I finished my training, and… she was also my dearest companion. My lover."

Ilyria had whispered those two words with a coy smile, revealing her promiscuous love for a woman whose name became lost to the anals of history. It didn't occur to him until now that maybe her Guardian died because Lady Ilyria chose her. He remembers how her smiling, teasing expression changed into one of solemn reminiscence as she averted her bright amber eyes to gaze out into the distance.

"I grieved for her, but she alone gave me strength."

He never knew. In all his years training to become a Summoner, visiting his teacher's homestead where an orphan like him always felt blessed and welcomed, Lady Ilyria never told him. She only smiled and kissed the colossal hand held out to her every time she summoned her; Asura, the Saint of Swords. Such a powerful and imposing Aeon five times the size of a Ronso, with three heads to chant every manner of White magic— from healing to protection and even resurrection— and half a dozen arms with which to wield her titanic, crimson blades.

Yet despite her power and renown as a Summoner twenty-some years ago, salacious rumors hounded her days since her return to Bevelle, alive and swollen with child. Word on the grapevine claimed she groomed a Kilikan orphan not yet fourteen to be her husband in order to legitimize him as the seed-bearer of her child, that she seduced a Guado vizier as her secret lover until the Grand Maester's Sub-Races Appeasement Policy came into effect, allowing her the opportunity to petition for a polyandrous marriage. She succeeded by the blessings of Yo Mika himself, because he favored her above all other noblewomen and courtesans.

The power of her influence somehow eclipsed all reason, including her duty and sense of shame and infamous promiscuity. Lady Ilyria possessed a will stronger than steel, yet veiled in silk, and to this day, she still does— as the Head Coordinator of the Senders.

"What I'm trying to say is that everyone handles grief differently. And Yuna? I was worried about her, because she lost too much already after she finally found happiness…" Sir Wakka's somber voice anchors him back to the present, of Lady Yuna's harrowing story of tragic loss and self-sacrifice. "It was snatched right out of her fingers! Dammit… Ya know, it took her a long time to figure out how she wanted to live her life. Sometimes it made me feel guilty to even think about my own…"

"Grief is personal to everyone, and it takes on many shapes and forms…" Kurgum murmurs, echoing Baralai's words at the seaside vigil three months ago, the morning after the Monastery Isle Massacre. He spoke with such an open expression of grief and sorrow on behalf of everyone who lost their loved ones to the anti-Yevoners that even his harshest critics held their tongues. Kurgum could not deny the strength he saw in his bloodshot eyes, even now. "...Yet no matter our differences, grief unites us all."

He completes his thought, shaken by Wakka's hearty handclap on his shoulder.

"Exactly." He smiles in grim acknowledgement, straightening on his heels. "That's something that goes without saying, ya? Anyway, it's pretty late. I only came out here to walk off the jitters. Djose Temple still kinda freaks me out with all its machina and loud noises."

"Yeah." Kurgum chuckles, straightening as well. "I hope you have a good night's sleep."

"You, too. You'll need it!"

He doubts he will, but for the first time since he left Bevelle, he believes he might. As Kurgum slips back into their room, eyes worn from rumination, his thoughts finally cease into a quiet hum the moment he collapses in bed. Calmed by the silhouette of Chuami's body, of her gaping face caught in peaceful repose, he smiles and closes his eyes.