(A/N): Introspective Kurgum Pt. 2.5/3.

Rating changed due to references of pederasty exclusive to Yevon Church-Era Bevelle and underage relationships (but it shall never be explicit, only implied). Got inspired by my rabbit hole of history research of the Roman Empire and ancient Greece, as well as ancient Japan and China. I ultimately wove it into the narrative after much deliberation, because I could imagine Spira exploring those kinds of esoteric, controversial practices.

Chapter 7

~Question of Faith~

Twilight casts the Moonflow in its splendorous, golden glow as people crowd the southern bank, clamoring to see the infamous spectral shoopuf.

They managed to arrive before nightfall after hitching a ride with a Hypello porter Lady Yuna recognized from Tobli's musical troupe. He had been in the middle of transporting delicate Macalanian instruments and Besaidian fabrics on behalf of his Peruperu employer who planned to relocate his company north for the Calm Lands when bandits ambushed him from behind the cover of grassy cliffs. After Sir Wakka and Chuami drove them off, they offered to escort the blubbering, grateful Hypello until they reached the grand river that divided the continents, earning their free ticket as his bodyguards.

However, Kurgum sensed something wrong before they approached the bankside, his ears prickling from the keen echo of whistling, woeful pyreflies flooding the air. He watches the others survey their surroundings now, wondering if the others would notice. Surely Lady Yuna would say something, being sensitive to their cloy wavelength just like him…

"Oh, yeah... There really are two shoopuf!" Sir Wakka gapes, impressed by the sight as they wade deeper into the shoals.

Kurgum recognizes the male shoopuf by the scar on his hind leg, watching it spray water at his semi-corporeal mate. Its pyrelit silhouette ripples in the lovely spring shower, blending into the orange, magenta, and violet backdrop of the setting sun as they come together to twine their long, curly trunks, butting heads, their dark eyes blinking slow. He sees how Chuami squints her eyes to try and distinguish the two; however, without skilled mana detection or items imbued with sensory magic, the deceased appear no less alive than their bereaved.

"But wow... there's so many spectators here, ya?" Sir Wakka takes stock of the growing crowd, the families, pilgrims, and tourists gaping and pointing in awe while the elderly look on from afar. The locals glance over in passing, accustomed to the sight.

"Not precisely, Wakka." Lady Yuna frowns, pensive.

"Huh?" He gawks, doing a double take. "What are they if they're not spectators?"

"Half the people here are illusions. The Moonflow energy is responding to the will of the living. It's as if… we're in the Farplane."

"...Yes." Kurgum purses his lips in a grim line.

There are more Beckoned than he expected, threatening to surpass the headcount of the living. It must be due to the high concentration of pyreflies that have roamed the region since the fall of an ancient machina city a millennia ago, proof of its ruin and devastation submerged deep within the depths. While Luca and Bevelle stand as the two most populated cities of Spira, the same could be said for the Moonflow, acting as the bridge that connected the two continents where people from countless walks of life cross paths by boat, shoopuf ferry, or fjord.

"What?" Chuami casts him a skeptical look. "You can sense it, too, Kurgum?"

"Yes, I can."

His eyes sweep across the bank, picking out the Beckoned among their living counterparts by their pyrefly signature. And then he sees them— a little girl clutching at the phantom hand of her mother while the father watches on, powerless to explain. His voice drops to a solemn whisper now, careful not to be overheard by the family in question. "For instance, that family there. The father and daughter are alive, but the mother… so sad…"

Although the young girl grins and reaches out for her, the phantom woman floats in place, mute and expressionless. He wonders what the girl must be seeing, if perhaps her deceased mother appears less ghastly in her rosy vision. Back in Bevelle temple, his supervisors cautioned him to approach the Beckoned as if they were illusions, similar to those conjured by the bereaved visiting the Farplane. Although he never had the chance to visit Guadosalam until now, the idea had always tempted him whenever Lady Ilyria spoke of her pilgrimage days, the few times she felt nostalgic. She would even reminisce about her cousin, Lady Ishtar, wife of Maester Jyscal Guado, the Queen Mother, and their "little Lord Seymour."

Even though their party shall be passing through towards Macalania, he wishes he could at least glimpse the faces of his old friends and family again. Would they still look the same as he remembers them despite his young, darkened memory? He wonders how the restoration effort goes, if the Guado would deem it safe for mortal passage within the next ten years…

"Come on, Maelu. We have to get home before night falls."

The reluctant father tries to lead her away by the shoulder, but she resists, pulling against his firm hand. "Okay. Um, Mommy...? You're coming with us, right?"

"She can't do that, sweetheart."

"But why? She's here! She came to see us!" The girl bounces in place, lunging forward only to be wrenched back.

"I've never been on a Farplane pilgrimage, but is it always this… vivid?" Chuami looks on, disturbed by the heart-wrenching sight.

"Not quite..." Yuna murmurs, uncertain. "It's true, this almost seems too…"

"Come on, Maelu. We can come visit her again another time." He tries to pick her up, to shield her behind his forceful embrace, but she jerks away every time.

"No! I want her to come home!" She exclaims, inconsolable to the point of tears.

"Ugh… nice work, 'Dad.'" Chuami rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. "Of course she's going to say that! It's hard enough to say goodbye once to a dead parent, but twice…?" She sighs and shakes her head in a rare moment of empathy, before averting her eyes, sensitive to the scene. "That's just cruel."

Kurgum remembers a sight more tragic and terrible than this on the night of the Monastery Isle Massacre. Chuami hysterical and screaming, clutching the bloody corpse of her impaled mother with the trident still lodged in her chest while Baralai embraced her, calming her to no avail. His first assignment as an authorized Sender, and his first test of faith. Unfortunately, Chuami had been present when the hunters sprung the ambush, and her mother had been among the hundreds of Yevoners and sympathizers murdered.

Kurgum prayed to the departed Fayth then, expressing sorrow, grief, and gratitude for the miracle that she lived, that Baralai and his Warrior Monks had arrived in time to contain the situation despite the harrowing head count. Images of Mi'ira's final moments, of everyone's final moments, were seared into his mind, haunting him to this day. He remembers how he forced himself to dance even long after their departure, guiding their wayward and anguished souls into the Farplane how he knew it best, a resplendent paradise, hopeless to contain his tears.

He couldn't bring himself to face Chuami for days. If he laid eyes on her for even a second, he would break down into a sobbing mess, blinded by their undeniable physical resemblance. Kurgum swore to himself that he will never succumb to grief again if it meant he could protect Chuami from experiencing that same pain. She thinks she hides it well, but he knows her better than anyone. She can be stubborn and mean, but also very sensitive and kind. Chuami always protected him, acting as his harbor and strength, and he vows to be the same for her someday.

The young girl's voice reels him back to the present, to the shore of a crowded Moonflow bank swarming with pyreflies.

"Hey, Mommy? You'll come with us, right? Come home...?"

"Yes, Maelu. Let's go home."

"Really?!"

"This can't be…" The father looks on in consternation, horrified by his wife's sanguine smile.

Phantom blood dribbles from her lips, disappearing into thin air as the pyreflies swarm around her, their luminescence intensifying, highlighting the manner of her death— a bedridden woman succumbed to illness, coughing out blood and gastric green liquid— shrouding the family inside the vortex of lightwaves, reanimating the insentient spirit from the shared memory.

Kurgum's eyes widen in shock. "Lady Yuna, could this be…"

"Unbelievable…"

"Kurgum, explain!"

"A Beckoned illusion doesn't speak. More accurately, only the 'Beckoner' can hear the voice."

The Beckoned do not feel or think, let alone speak for themselves, because they possess no sentience or will of their own, least of all knowledge of their exact death or conception. They are pyreform beings given a similar designation to an Unsent, and Kurgum grappled with that harsh reality for many sleepless nights in the probationary period of his training.

Senior officers would supervise Senders-in-training inside the temple compound as they banished fallen soldiers, priests, and past Maesters known to roam the corridors and underground before dispatching them into the field. Sending the Beckoned required severing the cord that bound them; although their names and faces belonged to people he would never know, the experience drained him every time. Once a month had passed, he finally started to reconcile with the cruel, sobering fact that the Beckoned do not exist like Fiend or Unsent, only as illusions born of grievous minds.

Kurgum endeavored to school his emotions even when he endured the phantom pain of despair from the living still clinging to their loved ones. However, to witness a Beckoned interact with their surroundings, becoming corporeal enough to be perceived by those outside of the Beckoner, defies all logic and common sense.

"So, what…? If it's not an illusion, we call that 'real,' right?"

"You should report this to the Council at once."

"Agreed." Chuami nods. "Let's go."

While Lady Yuna and Chuami were discussing their next course of action— to retreat now and confront the problem later— Kurgum knew in an instant what he must do. To deny the living and their Beckoned peace and closure means to delay the inevitable. He must perform a Sending now or else risk evoking insurmountable heartbreak.

At first, Kurgum faltered. Too many Beckoned on site, and only one Sender available. The task before him seems daunting, yet he must not lose heart, because how can he ever prove himself if he continues to doubt himself? So he shall start with this girl and her deceased mother. Children are too young to understand the sacred line between life and death, so it falls to him to teach her, to restore balance to the cycle of life and death.

Kurgum steps forward to begin the first rotation, unveiling his bamboo fan from its knotted red tassel at his belt with a flick of his wrist, transitioning from the archaic Yevonic prayer to twirl on the balls of his feet, weaving his arms in the brush strokes of rolling tidal waves. He remembers to entreat to the sky his absolute devotion before repeating the set, drawing strength from the muscle memory of morning practice. His Bevellian technique may not be as fluid and graceful as Lady Ilyria's elemental dance, or even as firm and powerful as Baralai's bōjutsu form, but this ought to suffice for now.

"...Kurgum? Hey! Kurgum!" Chuami stops to stare, baffled by the sight of him. "What are you doing?! You're gonna dance?"

"Souls must be Sent. Order must be maintained."

"Kurgum, not now." Yuna beseeches him. "It'll only cause sadness."

The High Summoner's voice proves the stronger deterrent, and Kurgum falters, shocked by her protest. "But, this— This is too unnatural. It's… wrong!"

His shrill voice lodges in his throat, scandalized by the thought— 'Lady Yuna's encouraging this. There's a girl who can't contain her grief, embracing the ghost of her deceased mother, and the father doesn't possess the strength to deny her— No! This can't be right—!' He finds the strength to push through the pressure in his throat. "Surely the Council must have known about this, and wanted you to see it, right? So you can do something about it?"

"Even if that were so, now is not the time." Lady Yuna reinforces her stance. "No one has the right to violate this reunion. Not me, not the Council."

"Forget about 'rights'! Look! Look how happy they are." Chuami gestures to the family that cling to each other in a huddled circle, the perfect picture of a heartwarming reunion. Yet he sees a weeping father collapsed on his knees while his daughter peers up at her hovering mother with teary, joyful eyes. 'I wouldn't call that happy,' he thinks, sickened by the woe-begotten, saccharine sight of their delusion and denial.

"You two start sending everyone here, there'll be a riot! I don't want to be collateral damage." Chuami crosses her arms, turning her body in the direction of the Northern Road.

"Well, a little Sending here and there won't take care of this, ya? Let's come back later."

"But…"

"Kurgum, please…"

Lady Yuna's pleading, desperate eyes convinces him to lower his hands, releasing his stance with a heavy heart.

He always admired the High Summoner for her strength and resolve in the face of hardship and adversity, but now... seeing her act so angry, sensitive at the merest sight of a grieving family, one of many torn apart by illness or tragedy, he never felt more conflicted. As they turn to leave, Kurgum looks back at them one last time, the young girl's innocent, joyous laughter ringing in the pyrefly-infested air.

Nightfall blanketed the indigo canopy of crystalline trees illuminated by hoarfrost catching moonlight. Fragrant smoke tickled his nose until he finally sneezed. Kurgum shivered, feeling famished and miserable. Across the crackling fire, he watched Baralai rotate the speared bass before changing hands to stir the iron pot of boiling fish heads, unveiling the lid off another pot to cool down the steamed rice.

Because Kurgum failed to catch his own game, having lacked the will to slay a living mammal or slumbering fiend, he at least managed to catch Macalania spring bluefish, something even Baralai couldn't do. It surprised him that he never learned how to swim, more so by the fact his blood father tried to teach him for a dozen summers before finally giving up. Baralai blamed it on his incompatibility with the element; Mori complained he sank faster than a rock. Kurgum sighed, gazing into the light of the campfire in spite of his sore, aching eyes, eager for some bluefish miso soup to warm his bones.

"I hate this…" He sniffled, clutching the robes Baralai had given him closer for warmth. They smelled spicy and sweet, like sun-dried tangerine peels and the mugwort sprigs he burned to smoke the salted pork meats for the upcoming new year. The memory of feasting on forest boar this past spring ignited his hunger aflame, and his stomach growled. He groaned, sulking in his cocoon. "I hate the cold… Why did I agree to come out here?"

Baralai chuckled, amused by his plight. "You swore you would become a Summoner. Camping outdoors in extreme conditions for days at a time— you ought to expect that much."

His frown deepened, sensitive to his affectionate teasing. "I bet if you said you wanted to be a Summoner, everyone would praise you, because you can do anything—." He sneezed again, sniffling louder, wracked by violent shivers. Too tired and hoarse for words, he quieted down, grumbling his deep-seated envy. "You'd be a lot better than me, that's for sure, and Chuami wouldn't complain..."

"Funny that you should say that." He smiled, and left it at that.

Now he stood with earthenware bowl and spoon in hand, making his way over to sit beside him on the upturned crystal trunk that he peeled off from an overgrown tree using fire magic. Kurgum stared, salivating, sensing his stomach grumbling louder, until Baralai held out the first spoonful to his chapped lips. Wriggling in glee and gratitude, he slurped up the hot, steaming liquid and fluffy rice, sighing in content. Yum. Baralai ate the next bite from the same spoon, and he sputtered, panicking.

"Don't— you might get sick!"

"I'm not worried. I have the immune system of a dragon."

"If you say so..." Kurgum grunted, unconvinced. "Don't blame me if you do, or I'll never hear the end of it from Chuami."

Baralai laughed, silencing him with a generous mouthful of scalding miso. Kurgum growled, glaring in contempt, the effect lost on puffy, pink cheeks while excess soup dribbled down his chin. Once Baralai scrubbed his chin clean with a silk handkerchief, he forgave him, soothed by the savory hot soup going down his throat.

Comfortable silence fell between them as they supped from the same bowl, basking in the peaceful night, the radiant fire that illuminated them. Kurgum watched as Baralai pulled away to scoop a second portion, feeling calm and content, sleepy, mesmerized by his slow movements, his body shifting in gentle light and warm shadow. Even dressed down to a casual tunic and pair of athletic pants, he looked no less noble and graceful…

All of a sudden, he felt the heat rise in his bloodstream, self-conscious of the intimate, small space between them, the echo of quiet wildlife. They are alone, far from the envious gazes of their leering elders and gossiping peers. He never felt more safe, more vulnerable, in his company. A part of him wondered whether he would grow to look as handsome, mature, and sculpted as him someday while another, deeper, part of him wondered what it would feel like to submit to his strong, passionate embrace. Baralai must expect it at some point… even though he claimed not to desire it, many times, reassuring him every time he caught his anxious glances. Should the temptation prove too strong for either of them to resist, he wondered if he would ever feel ready to receive him—

"The thought did cross my mind, becoming a Summoner…"

Baralai's voice anchored him back to the present, and he jolted, desperate to wipe the dopey-eyed expression from his crimson face. Kurgum sniffled, morose, turning away to watch him from his periphery now as he placed the dirty bowl and spoon aside near the bucket of discarded fish bones and guts. Baralai leaned back on his palms to gaze into the crackling, gentle flames, and Kurgum held his breath, waiting for him to speak.

"I've been told by many that I have the potential, just like my mother..." He trailed off, lifting his eyes to the starry sky, admiring the full moon shining overhead. "However, my parents vehemently opposed it."

"What? Even Lady Ilyria?"

He nodded, stretching his legs to cross his ankles, rolling his heel. "Especially mother. She forbade me, warning me that my faith would end up being misplaced." He dropped his gaze to peer into the darkness, lost in thought, startling him with the sudden projection of his voice. "'I did not become a Summoner so you could follow in my footsteps, you silly boy! My sins are my own, and you don't have my permission to carry them!'"

Baralai faltered, embarrassed, succumbing to laughter, and Kurgum giggled. He actually sounded a lot like her.

"She yelled at me. Can you believe that? Mother never yells at me."

Even though Baralai snuck in a little extra humor to lighten the mood, Kurgum swallowed, sobering up, coughing from the weight of a sore throat. Dread sank to the pit of his stomach as he fought to unstick his tongue. "...wh-what did she mean by that?"

"I asked her, but she refused to tell me. A part of me felt too afraid to push the issue…"

Kurgum never thought he would see the day where Baralai expressed doubt and uncertainty. So even he felt lost or anxious sometimes… What should he say to reassure him? Did he want him to say anything—?

"Well, whatever my parents faced in Zanarkand, I may never know. At any rate, I have already come to accept the fact that the answer to defeating Sin once and for all lies elsewhere. That is why… I have decided: I shall endeavor to earn the title of Maester, so that someday I may research the true nature of Sin's conception. My prospects are slim, though… Maester Wen Kinoc was recently promoted, and there are rumors Lord Seymour Guado seeks to pursue his father's seat..."

Baralai trailed off, thoughtful, and Kurgum peered up at him, impressed, if not overwhelmed by the scope of his ambition. He never would have been able to arrive at that kind of decision on his own, too scared to dream of a Calm that never ended. A world without Sin and suffering. Would he ever see it in his lifetime…?

And then Baralai smiled, humbled by his next admission. "However, Maester Kelk Ronso approached me with the proposition of grooming me for his seat."

Kurgum's eyes widened in awe. Elder Kelk Ronso, the most honorable demihuman in court, recognized Baralai as someone worthy of inheriting his title as Minister of Civil Affairs. Not only that… He fidgeted, wringing his hands, overcome with timidity and dread. "...um, does that mean... he wants to make you his bondservant? I thought the Ronso didn't believe in that custom..."

"Oh! Nothing like that." He laughed, his dark cheeks colored a wine red, sympathizing with his discomfort. "Maester Kelk Ronso intends to retire from the Church in the next ten years or so to focus on his duties as Elder of Mt. Gagazet, and he's been looking for a suitable replacement. It just so happened that I caught his eye during the martial arts tournament of my graduating year." Baralai paused to mull it over. "Well, he is a priest of Yevon. I suppose it's not outside the realm of possibility if he felt compelled to pursue it. However, I think I've matured past the point where such a relationship would be deemed appropriate, let alone desirable. So, I'm not too worried."

Baralai glanced his way after a long moment of silence, and Kurgum panicked, hastening to look away, afraid to be vindicated by his own anxious, relieved expression.

"What, were you worried about losing me?"

Sensing his smile in his teasing voice, he blanched, mortified. "I-I wasn't worried..."

"Really?" Baralai chuckled, rolling his heel again. "And here I thought you would miss me after I'm gone."

"W-What—?" He whipped his head, his heart plummeting in fear and dread by the implication in his words. "Where are you going?"

"I shall be leaving this week for a confidential assignment." He halted, as if reluctant to reveal more. "I... wanted to spend one more day with you like this, just the two of us... because I wasn't sure how long I would be gone. I worry about you when I'm not around, you know. I find you too trusting, too easily influenced by others..."

Kurgum grimaced, stung by his admission despite his well-meaning, soft-spoken tone, how they echo Chuami's earlier harsh blunt words from days before in the midst of their worst argument yet. 'Is that how they think of me? That I'm too powerless to protect myself? That I'm not smart enough to judge people for myself? I'm not a kid anymore.'

"...but you stood your ground against Chuami. Chuami, of all people! I couldn't quite believe it." Baralai laughed, anchoring him back from his embittered thoughts with an affectionate bump of his elbow. "Did you know Chuami came to me afterwards, begging me to change your mind? She's convinced that I am the only you'd listen to. 'If I can't do it, then you have to be the one to knock some sense into that chocobo-brain!' As if she could order me around."

Baralai laughed again, amused by the memory of her temper tantrum, swaying in place on the palms of his hands. Kurgum flushed, anger rising in his clenched jaw, and fixed his misty eyes downcast on the frosty, damp soil, hoping he failed to notice his pathetic tears. Why'd she have to go and say it like that? How embarrassing—

"I refused, of course. If you were willing to go that far in defying her, then that goes to show how determined you are. You have my full support."

He sucked in breath, feeling his chest swell. His anxiety thawed as well as his frozen heavy heart, warmed by the weight of his hand on his head ruffling his trimmed black hair. Daring to lift his timid gaze, he found Baralai smiling at him and blushed, unable to look away even as he felt his hand drop to stroke his cheek, spellbound by the affection glowing in his soft brown eyes. 'Is this it...? Should I... lean into it?' He held his breath, waiting for him, bewildered by the twin waves of relief and disappointment that crashed over him after Baralai eventually withdrew his hand. He fisted his clammy, cold palms into the warm folds of his bundled robes, hopeless to staunch the frenzied butterflies in his stomach.

"If you truly believe your calling lies in the Summoning Arts, then commit to your training, because if you succeed, a Summoner will always have a place in this world. It's as my parents always told me: so long as you continue to place your faith in yourself first, you shall never be led astray."

Sunlight breaks through the drooping canopy of moss-green trees, doing little to ease the chill burrowed deep within his bones.

Kurgum sighs, wiping his runny, wet nose in vain while biting back the burning urge to sneeze. Chuami tosses more wood into the crackling fire, and he sighs again in relief, basking in its radiant heat, hoping to warm his clammy palms and numb toes. His island-born constitution craved sunlight akin to a wilting flower; after a long and dreadful week trekking across constant rainstorm and violent winds, he soaks in the Macalania dawn like a wintry afternoon in Bevelle, grateful to feel any sort of warmth.

The toes in his worn, damp slippers were bruised purple by the time he wore them out, recalling how he lagged further and further behind with each grueling hour until his feet could no longer stand it. Sympathetic to his silent suffering, Sir Wakka decided to spare him, hoisting his shivering, weak body onto his broad muscled back, because carrying him proved much quicker than waiting for him to catch up on his own. Now he wiggles his toes, hovering as close to the campfire as his sore, blinded eyes would allow, waiting for his shoes to dry.

Seven days spent drenched to the bone, finding shelter in fiend-infested, dark caves and dilapidated, rusty structures exposed to the elements. Three days traversing the frigid, luminous woods while he nursed a vicious cold on the verge of pneumonia. He would sometimes heal or provide support for the party whenever Lady Yuna found herself indisposed, but his mana had been slow to regenerate the longer he fought this stubborn cold, so he felt grateful when Sir Wakka chose to exercise mercy in lieu of doling out his usual belly-aching.

They finally made camp within half a day's walk from the Highbridge, a stone's throw away from one of the few remaining mana springs that survived the void Shiva left behind. Lady Yuna and Sir Wakka claimed the first hour. However, they had yet to return by the second as time dragged on.

Chuami muttered a salacious remark at some point "Well, aren't they taking their sweet-ass time," much to his utter horror, quick to scold her. "Chuami! What if Lady Yuna's praying? She needs Sir Wakka to protect her! What's wrong with you?" too scandalized by her casual, flagrant words to let it slide. "What? I'm just saying…" She shrugged, sheepish, allowing tense silence to fall between them. Now he sighs, ready to collapse and coalesce into the soil. He daydreams about soaking in a hot bath at home, of Mt. Gagazet's natural hot springs.

He wants so desperately to bathe, to cleanse his miserable, feverish body free of sweat, dirt, illness, and misery that he begins to stare off into space, burrowing his face into the cushion of his skinny arms and bundled blanket, the latter of which he withdrew from his knapsack of minimized essentials. He never felt more grateful for acquiring the secret art of Guado magic from Scisero, adding "minimize" and "maximize" to his repertoire of White spells. Packing his own mini caravan inside a pocketful of space felt like such a lifesaver, yet that knowledge serves as a double-edged sword, because Chuami had been eager to utilize him as her pack mule the whole trip. Oh, well. At least she considered him useful.

From the corner of his rheumy eyes, he watches the way Chuami conducts herself around the campfire, stirring the pot of fish soup on her haunches, which reminds him of Baralai in a way, a testament of their shared time together foraging for herbs and camping out near the frozen lake for red gems and aqua scales. They even went skating out there several times even though Kurgum felt disinclined to join every time, always dragging him to make the trip on foot. He sighs, breath shuddering. He always hated the cold—

"Why do we have to keep tiptoeing around the High Summoner?" Chuami grumbles, dragging him back from his reminiscing. "If she really hated the idea of Bevelle that much, she shouldn't have come in the first place."

"Chuami… you're the one who tricked her into coming, remember?"

"Well, yeah… I wasn't lying. He did look sick." She pouts, grumbling in defense.

He hums, a warble of phlegmatic agreement, and coughs into his clammy palms, sucking in air and clutching the blanket tighter around his trembling body.

"Here. Hot and crispy~."

He grins, reaching for the speared fish she hands out to him, chest warmed by the gesture― until he stares in contempt. "You didn't debone the fish."

"What're you, a prince?" She snorts. "The bones aren't that bad."

"They hurt my teeth."

"Pick em out, then, you lazy butt."

"It's annoying— never mind." Kurgum refrains, because he would rather not argue or lose his temper over something as trivial as his dining preferences.

"You still haven't outgrown your baby teeth?"

Unfortunately, her usual teasing proves the last straw in breaking the shoopuf's back. His hand snaps the stick in half, and he proceeds to throw his breakfast into the fire, too angry to feel guilty over it, let alone look at its charred remains.

She stands at once, scowling. "Hey! I caught that, you know."

Kurgum shoots to his feet, causing the blanket to drop from his shoulders as he wobbles a little in place, too defiant to let it show. "Sometimes your jokes aren't that funny. I get it, I'm no good at fighting or camping or anything, but at least I'm trying. Have a little more sympathy. This is my first major assignment, and it's yours, too—"

"Okay. Geez, sorry. I'll work double to tiptoe around your fragile ego, too. You don't have to act like a spoil-sport."

Her dismissal only frustrates him even more, and he pivots on his heel before he winds up bursting into tears. 'I hate this! I hate this, I hate this, I hate this―! While I work so hard, she makes everything look so easy― like it's no big deal, and then proceeds to mock me every time I do anything right.'

Baralai would never treat him like this. He always appreciated when Kurgum fished for them, or set up their campsite first, or praised him for his healing magic. Of course, he could do all those things himself, but he had been willing and patient enough to trust his lead. He felt like the brother he always wanted, an amalgamation of his father and uncles and cousins who would pat his head, make him laugh every time he cried, hug him tight until his body burst, rewriting the faded memory.

His chest aches, and not from the need to cough.

He finds Sir Wakka first, leaning against the tree trunk with his burly arms folded across his chest. Kurgum wonders what he must be thinking about as he watches her pray, an expression akin to worry and resignation on his tanned face. Kurgum's seen that type of expression before on another island-born warrior, and wonders if parents will always be destined to suffer in silence while watching their adult children walk in full confidence on their wayward path.

"Good morning…"

Sir Wakka straightens on his feet, lowering his arms. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing really. It's just…" Kurgum pauses, glancing in the direction where Lady Yuna kneels in front of the lake. "It's been two hours now. We were starting to get worried."

"Sorry about that." He sighs, crossing his arms again, casting a solemn look in her direction. "C'mon, Yuna. It's time. The others gotta get ready for the day, too."

"...okay." She stands slow, taking a moment to pat her knees free of dust and crushed filaments before turning to walk towards them.

"S-Sorry for disturbing you…" He bows his head, floundering for the words to greet her, yet she passes by without so much as a nod or glance. His heart sinks in abject sorrow and disappointment. She must still be upset over the Moonflow incident, even though he did exactly as she asked despite it jeopardizing his position. No words of gratitude, either; only apathy and brisk acknowledgement.

Better not to dwell on it for too long… or else his mind will keep returning to that moment where he felt most ashamed, swayed by Lady Yuna's pained expression and her beseeching voice. Maybe when he returns to give his report, Baralai will know how to handle it. He doubts Chuami would understand, for she acted eager to dismiss the Beckoning as her problem, disregarding her sworn duty to support and protect him.

Kurgum waits for Sir Wakka and Lady Yuna to leave the vicinity until he feels comfortable enough to strip down to his undergarments. Careful in folding his hooded uniform on top of his embroidered slippers, turquoise hanfu and matching pastel pants, he jumps in before his thoughts can outspeed him, resurfacing with clattering teeth and harsh gasps for air. He heard rumors that Macalania mana springs possess magical healing properties, and his excursions with Baralai and his parents have proven as much, yet he always attributed that belief to the positive energy of pleasant company. Soaking in an ice-cold bath by himself somehow never yielded the same result.

Submerging his head below, he meditates to endure the ice cold water, straining to adjust his eyes in the crystal-clear water. A small, red light glistens at the deep end, close to the base of the crystal mana tree. Curious, he bobs back up to replenish the air in his lungs before diving back in, approaching the bottom with the agility of a dolphin, his hand outstretched. He breaks through the surface a moment later, coughing, waiting for his heart to calm before studying the stone in hand.

A lustrous ruby, polished and sharp. A high concentration of mana resonates from within, and he stares, entranced.

"A key stone…?"

He grins. What a rare find! If he consumed it, what power would awaken within him? Hopefully an advanced-tier curative spell… He still struggles with protection and resurrection magic, although he finally managed to master the Esuna spell. However, to handle such a precious stone makes him feel nervous. 'Should I submit this to Baralai or Scisero? They'd know what to do with it…'

Clambering out the lake, he pockets the ruby in his pouch, eager to towel himself dry before the cold renders him sick beyond quick recovery.

As they rode the water lifts across the Highbridge water canal, Kurgum felt his heart soar above the clouds. At long last. Home.

All the pain and exhaustion that piled up over the course of the trip vanished in the presence of Bevelle's crimson bulwark. He must report to Baralai at once. He can't wait to see him again. Once admitted through the main gate, Kurgum exhales in sweet relief, his feeble legs about ready to collapse like jelly. Grinning from ear to ear, he floats on lighter feet and an even lighter heart, happy to lead the way— until Chuami wrenches him back by his hood.

"Slow down. We're losing them."

"Huh?"

Lady Yuna broke off from the group at some point to stand in front of a shopping center, peering up at a large sphereboard advertising the anticipated blitzball teams. Tidus's face flashes on screen, and she stares, fixated on his photogenic smile. Kurgum frowns, concerned by the heaviness in her shoulders, her distant melancholic expression.

"Is she okay…?"

"What, don't tell me the High Summoner's getting cold feet now." Chuami fails to contain her sarcasm, and Kurgum casts a stern, admonishing glare her way, which she opts to ignore.

"Look, we're here now." Wakka shrugs, waving his hand. "There's no rush, ya? We've come a long way."

"Then rest at the temple. I'm sure the Council won't charge you hotel fees." Chuami grouses, crossing her arms with a jut of her hip.

"You know they won't leave her alone as soon as she gets there. Relax. Give her time. She'll come around."

"Tsk." She scowls, chewing the inside of her cheek.

"How about this," Kurgum pipes up through the rasp of his recovering throat, "Let's call it a day here. We can take the time to rest, and meet again tomorrow at the temple."

"Yeah, I'm beat." Sir Wakka agrees with a hearty sigh, rolling his shoulders. "It'll give me time to buy something for Lu. I haven't thought of an anniversary gift yet."

Chuami hums, thoughtful, twisting the tail end of her braid to hold it close to her nose. She twitches from the smell and drops it, acquiescing without a fuss. He knows how much she's been craving a nice, long hot bath ever since they departed Guadosalam, because she ran out of her favorite shampoo and body wash by the third day, stuck with a diminished soap bar for two weeks (he warned her about washing her hair every day). She probably wants to sleep in, too, especially in the warmth and comfort of her own futon.

"Okay. Sounds good." Sir Wakka grins with a thumb's up. "Why don't we meet up at noon? We'll wait for you guys inside the entrance of the temple." And then he turns to holler in Lady Yuna's direction. "You hear that, Yuna?"

Lady Yuna nods with a sanguine smile, and then turns to walk away without so much as a farewell. When Sir Wakka realizes his easy-going words fail to appease the sourpuss Chuami and monosyllabic High Summoner, he makes himself scarce, retreating into a jewelry store that Lady Yuna wanders into. Some overpriced souvenir shop by the looks of it, obviously meant to attract tourists.

"Well..." Chuami huffs, hands on her hips. "We did it. We actually brought Lady Yuna to Bevelle. Isn't that something?"

"Y-Yeah..." He sighs, sniffling, suspending his disbelief. It still feels surreal, their whole journey from the edge of the world and back.

"You planning to head straight for the temple? Or do you want to stay over at my place?"

He hums, thoughtful, tempted by the idea. She does live closer, and he did leave some spare clothes there... "Mm, actually, I just want to rest in my room. I might turn in early, too."

"No worries. I'll walk you halfway. I'm along the way anyway."

Comfortable silence falls between the two as they walk the thoroughfare, dragging their tired, blistered feet until they stop at a nearby chocobo signpost. While they wait for the next carriage, Kurgum hears a commotion echoing further down the street and glances over, curious of the large, growing crowd near the Wu Dai monument. Wait, is that...? His eyes bulge out of its sockets when he realizes— 'It is! It's a Sacred Beast! You'd only ever see those near Zanarkand at the summit of Mt. Gagazet! Never thought I'd see the day... And is that a Behemoth selling balloons?! Wow...'

As frightening and fearsome as they look, the Sacred Beast lounges like a lazy Macalania forest cat, unbothered by the myriad of children climbing on top of its broad back to swing from its unfurled, sinewy antennas while the Behemoth mans a small, handmade, wooden cart strung with dozens of colorful balloons, handing them out to any customer brave enough to match his toothy, snarling grin.

And in the midst of this spectacle stands a mysterious robed figure dressed in full black, his lustrous blue scarf fluttering around his wide, sweeping arms. He must be the Fiend tamer of the monstrous duo, for he waves his hands like a music conductor, casting an invisible net of gentle gravity magic to catch the fearless kids leaping in midair. Even from here, Kurgum can see his broad smile burst forth from behind the shadow of his hood, his joyous laughter bouncing along with the giggling, floating throng, and wonders if this man hails from a faraway land or indigenous island like Paine and Lady Lulu...

"You wanna check it out?" Chuami nudges him. Behind the teasing smile on her face, her eyes glow with curiosity and excitement. Chuami always loved street performances most between the three of them, and although the idea sounds tempting, his bruised, aching feet protests, crying for rest. He shakes his head, giving her a weak smile.

"...not this time. Hopefully he'll still be here in the next few days, if we can finish our Council duties by then."

She shrugs. "Fair enough."

Content to watch the scenery roll by as they sit inside the rocking carriage now, they nod off to the steady, monotonous trot of the chocobo pulling against the reins for at least an hour— until they are jolted awake by the sound of knuckles rapping against the lacquered rear window. Chuami clambers onto her street, groggy and half-asleep, waving goodbye as the coachman whips the reins.

"Don't tell Baralai without me! I want it to be a surprise!"

Kurgum smiles with a sigh, waving in farewell. Now he rests his head on the lacquered wood, unable to control his drooping eyelids, eager for sleep, sensing his stomach grumble from the sight and smell of street food sizzling outside. By twilight, he finally steps onto solid ground, handing the coach his fare before trudging towards the temple's double doors. He hangs his head, watching his scuffed shoes walk one foot in front of the other, counting the cracks on old painted stone while admiring the glitter that only shines under a sunny afternoon. Once officers start greeting him from the opposite direction of the temple pathway, paying respect to his navy uniform, he scavenges the energy to smile and return their pleasant greetings.

He wonders if he will cross Baralai's path this way, too, and his heart races from hope and anticipation, self-conscious of his exhausted, haggard state. By the time Kurgum walks the rock-cut corridor of the West Vihara, the bells toll at the sixth prayer cycle, and he sighs. Alas, no sign of him, but he feels no disappointment, only excitement for the next day.

The bells' heavy, solemn sound echoes throughout the white walls and vaulted ceiling, reverberating across the carved columns leading to his cell. It never ceases to amaze him how this entire structure had been sculpted out of the very limestone cliffs Bevelle stood on since its restoration after Sin's first assault centuries ago, a historic marvel proven older than Gandof's Scar. Once a monastery where priests of noble blood and higher years of service resided, now it functions as a residential palace for authorized Senders and licensed mages. He allows his weary feet to guide him to the Fayth shrine located in the very back, passing by his door, afraid to neglect his prayer even for a single day, knowing a restless night would await him otherwise.

Once he reaches the open doorway, he peers inside, finding it empty of worship. Not many people pray to the Fayth these days... Sighing, he sets himself to work, fetching water from the bamboo fountain located beside the side wall to start rinsing the statues. He stands in front of Bahamut's violet-red-gold visage at the center with bamboo ladle and bucket in hand, washing the moss, soot, and dust from the weathered stone and faded paint, before continuing on to the left-most edge with Valefor captured in mid-screech; then Ifrit roaring on his haunches; Ixion neighing on his hind legs; lastly Shiva frozen in a divine strike. They all surround him in proud ceremony, as if bowing to Bahamut's superior size and power.

Kurgum steps back, satisfied. He had expected them worse for wear after a month, but it seems like somebody continued the upkeep in his absence. Placing the bucket and ladle aside, he kneels before the altar in the seiza, bowing his head and clasping his hands in the shape of a sphere. Closing his eyes, he allows the twilit sun to warm him through the vine-riddled crevices and patched holes of the gabled rooftop.

'Bless the Fayth for my safe passage across Spira. I have returned home alive and unscathed due to your divine providence. Forgive me, for I have faltered in my faith. I allowed fear and doubt to impede my mission. However, I hope—.'

Footsteps echo in the background, indistinct voices disrupting his concentration.

'I vow never to falter again.'