Chapter 65

His Darkest Deed

The golden sun heralded another glorious spring day as the White SeeD Ship left the Humphrey Archipelago behind. There was now nothing but ocean in every direction, and that would not change until the crew sighed the mountain range to the west of Poccarachi Island and the incessant flashes from the Thunder Plains beyond. These were marginally safer waters now, free from imperial vessels in the north, but still containing pirates and smugglers to the south and east.

While Ultimecia had been looking west, northern Centra had been taken from her in a matter of days. Thalassa had led her previously unfathomable alliance of White SeeDs, Gilgamesh, cactuars, tonberries and undead wraiths. The Unlikely Army, it was, who had captured Mysidia's naval base and secured passage for the Centrans at Lenown. Then, they had held off a force twenty times their number, until the advent of the Uncrowned King. Steiner, Beatrix and the reformed Knights of Pluto rode all the way to the colonial capital of Palamecia and accepted the formal surrender of the Esthari-appointed Governor, Euthalia Chrysanthe.

Euthalia herself had defected. She had been Laguna Loire's third and final love, insensitively left behind before the Cowardly Lion's 'great escape' from Esthar, though their long overdue reunion at Wilburn had gone splendidly. Presently, they were both travelling with White SeeD. Euthalia was a lifelong politician; some would say she had governed Esthar for Laguna during her stint as his personal secretary. She had served with distinction as 'North Centra's' last Governor, her most notable policy replacing the controversially used child slaves with robust western POWs. The colonists had adored her, and Steiner had respected that.

Ultimately, Euthalia had defected out of necessity. If Ultimecia received a whispering as to her actual whereabouts, then her two sons in Esthar would be seized as collateral, and she would be forced to return to Esthar City on charges of high treason. Still, this defection had given the western leaders something of a solution to a post-Ultimecia Esthar, which, with the acquisition of Griever, had now become a hopeful scenario.

There was never any question of Laguna resuming his old seat in Esthar, and their citizens would never accept it. In a bizarre twist of fate, he was now Galbadia's Vice President, now formally sworn in by Martine following two decades of service to the old Caraway administration. With the arduous reconstruction process within Galbadia City, and with the imminent invasion of Timber, Martine had been all to happy to send his deputy to Steiner's coronation in his stead. With Leviathan and Pandemonium assisting White SeeD's sails, and effectively serving as their shield, Martine could think of no safer way for Laguna to travel there.

Fujin had finally returned to the fold at Mysidia, leading White SeeD's finest and a makeshift force of Galbadian and Timberian POWs. Their brief visit to the western continent had seen Fujin get a barbed, j-shaped hook grafted onto her right stump. Adding to the eyepatch and her atypical navigator attire, she could easily pass for one of those aforementioned Centran pirates.

There were still thousands of POWs recuperating at the colonial town of Cornelia, many having been gunned down in cold blood at the orders of Deputy Governor Gorgo, who was still awaiting her own execution at Lenown. Most of the Galbadians that Fujin recruited had returned home from Wilburn. Short of being able to join their compatriots in the reactivated Forest cells, some of the Timberians had remained with White SeeD, whereas most had offered their services to Galbadia's wanting army. Among those who had opted to stay was the shaven-headed Sophia, whose mother still led the Forest Fox. Remaining with Sophia was her Galbadian lover, Fynn.

In a dystopian future that had now been called into question, Gerra was proceeding down the charcoal flagstone path leading to Ultimecia's throne room.

He would have been limping, had Ujio not healed the deep cut one of the White SeeDs had inflicted upon him. They had fought bravely, as they always did, even though their ultimate mission of slaying Ultimecia was hopeless. For over two hundred years had they been unsuccessful in that goal, yet they would never admit defeat. Still, they had almost succeeded in one of their secondary goals, which was to free the Guardian Forces. They knew Gerra as the Dominant of Fire and as the Knight of the Empress, and his death would give White SeeD something to celebrate for decades.

As he walked, the eyes of the grotesque gargoyle statues watched him. The gargoyles themselves had last seen life some thirty years prior, when a short-lived alliance with the Red Reaver had seen White SeeD grow bold enough to assault the castle. They had cut swathes through the Twelve and almost made it to the throne room. As fine as their plan was, even the celestial weapons of Gilgamesh could do little against the gargoyles' stone hides, and the outworlder had been lucky to leave just Ragnarok behind. Gestahl had been one of the only Praetorians to survive, and had reclaimed the ancient House Christophe heirloom.

It was only in recent years White SeeD's numbers had increased enough to step up their harassment of the Empire. Gerra and Vargas had stumbled upon one such group during one of their training exercises, when investigating rumours of a sighting of those distinctive white uniforms within Lenown Forest. They encountered four adults significantly younger than Gerra – who had no doubt earned that dreaded beret long ago – along with two children of about twelve namedays.

After the elder White SeeDs lay dead, Gerra had almost barred Hyperion on Vargas, insisting on sparing the children and appealing to the Empress for mercy. The boy and girl were currently being led to the dungeons, though Gerra did not fancy their chances of survival. He knew Vargas only agreed because he was Zebalgan, and his loathsome clan thrived on prolonging suffering for as long as possible.

Ultimecia felt his approach, and the doors to her throne room swung inward. It led to a roofless, circular chamber, the dark grey flagstones being pounded with thick raindrops, darkened to a blacker shade with a watery film. The Empress herself was untouched, a canopy keeping her elevated gold and scarlet throne dry. Though even if it had not, the near permanent storm clouds over western Centra never seemed to perturb her, and she could break for the paradisiacal island of Elysium whenever she pleased.

Her eyes and skin gleamed in the darkness. She wore that claret gown. Gerra had never seen her in any other attire, though he never tired of it, even though he was long familiar with the pleasures beneath, the few areas the plunging neckline and those silk undergarments left to the imagination.

'We found them, Your Grace,' he tentatively told her.

Initially, Ultimecia did not move or speak. Yet she would know something was amiss. The slight breaking in his voice was enough of a tell, and she knew him better than he knew himself. She always had.

'What is the matter?' she demanded.

'There were two children among them,' Gerra admitted. 'By no means infants, but too young to have been awarded the beret; no more than twelve namedays. They did not fight, nor did they resist.' He sighed with resignation, knowing it was hopeless. 'I wish to ask you to spare them.'

Ultimecia leaned forward in her seat.

'Where are they?' she hissed.

'Vargas is leading them to the dungeons, Your Grace,' Gerra said. 'Ujio is also standing guard in the lobby. They pose no threat to you, nor anyone else in the castle.'

Ultimecia was silent for a few heartbeats, then said, 'You killed your only friend to become my Knight, Gerra.' Those words may as well have been a blade to his heart. 'Do you truly mean to convey that you are incapable of killing two of Edea's children?'

In a movement he was well familiar with, she spread those raven wings and lowered herself to the flagstones, landing softly on those feline feet and giving him a very hard stare.

'Please,' Gerra pleaded hoarsely. 'They are children, Ultimecia!'

'Those pale locusts practice the teachings of their Matron,' she said, 'firmly remembered more than two centuries since I slew her. They are taught their warped dogma from the cradle. At twelve namedays, they are but scant years behind the Children of Fate at the time of their greatest victory, or the Warriors of Light when they transcended Hyne Himself! That my fleet has never been able to locate Edea's wretched galleon after generations of her rats have harassed my realm makes my skin seethe! A baby rat is still a rat, Gerra!'

Gerra said nothing. After all, debate and diplomacy had never been his forte. He had been raised as a gladiator, and even years after freedom from the Sands he lived by his sword hand. Though after a moment, Ultimecia's gaze softened a fraction, and she turned her back on him.

'Your loyalty has never wavered, Gerra,' she said, with a gentler tone, 'and I could never deny my feelings for you.' After a pause, she said, 'Fine. As a concession, I shall allow you to make it quick. Eliminate them before Vargas can have his way with them; I can already feel his foul intentions in the Aether. I suggest you hurry!'

Gerra did not know how to feel about that. Regardless, he swivel-turned with a swish of his onyx trenchcoat and left the throne chamber. Back on the gargoyle-lined pathway, he grew Phoenix's wings, knowing the fastest route to the dungeon was to fly around the castle and re-enter via the lobby. When he got there, he saw Ujio Akechi impassively standing in front of the curving stairwell, the door to his right leading to the wine-cellar and stairway to the dungeons beyond.

The Pearl Osprey was a handsome but serious-looking man with long, greying black hair and a pointed beard. He was some years Gerra's senior. His left hand rested on the top of Murasame's handle, and he wore his clan armour albeit with ruby Praetorian plating, replete with the thin-horned helm. That thick, ridged gauntlet with the white magicite crystal was on his left arm. Ujio took one look at Gerra's anxious face and seemed to read his mind, gesturing to the right-hand door.

'Vargas is still with them,' Ujio warned.

His expression was enough to convey his disgust.

'I know,' Gerra breathed, darting through the doors.

Beyond was the open trap door in the centre of the wine cellar, leading to where Ultimecia housed Gargantua and the Red Giant. The Red Giant did not move its disproportionately small, diademed head as Gerra ran past it. In fact, it had not moved at all since Ultimecia had temporarily released it to raise the stakes in his coliseum tournament. Only the glow of its eyes signified there was still life within it.

When Gerra reached the smaller holding cells, the children were already in peril. Vargas was standing in the middle of the chamber with a bone-handled flaying knife, running his tongue over his filed teeth. The boy with white-blond hair was bleeding from a couple of superficial cuts to his cheek, and one of his eyes were swollen. Still, he was brave, standing in front of the red-haired girl with his feet planted in an orthodox fighting stance. The girl had a hand to a scuffed jaw, and was crying. Her courage had already failed her.

'Fine,' Vargas was saying. 'Boys. Girls. It makes no difference to a Zebalgan. The only difference for you, boy, is whether you want to be first or second!'

Gerra drew Hyperion and kicked open the door, causing Vargas to wheel around and sneer at him.

'Get out of here, Vargas!' Gerra demanded. 'I have new orders, straight from the Empress!'

Vargas grunted. 'You mean to deny me my reward, gladiator? We both know the rats would have killed you without my help, and your magicite would have been lost! And if I tell Her Grace you wished to let these two return to their people, without even consulting with her, you'll be stripped of your Knighthood and on the next slaver's ship from Vektor by sundown!' He spat on Gerra's boot. 'Once a slave, always a slave! Get out of my sight!'

Gerra looked between him and the children. There was something else in their eyes now. Hope. They thought Gerra had come to deliver him, and that realisation tore him up inside. It would make his task that much harder.

'Leave now, Zebalgan!' Gerra said, unwavering, ready to flood his gunblade with his GF fire.

With Tiamat's magicite, Vargas was the only Praetorian other than Ujio that could match his power. Vargas sheathed his knife with a deft movement, his dark hand going for the khopesh over his back. Though the boy was in motion, launching his weight forward, striking Vargas with a barefooted side kick that knocked the Praetorian off balance. Gerra admired his bravery, though the boy's head was soon on a collision course with Vargas' elbow, and he howled when it struck, his nose broken and blood pouring from both nostrils.

Still, the diversion was all Gerra needed. He moved forward and struck the back of Vargas' head with the flat of Hyperion, who hit the ground hard. Yet it was a crude way of rendering one unconscious, just as apt to kill from the blunt trauma, and Vargas was stunned rather than out cold. Gerra did not have much time.

The boy had fallen to his rear, and the girl was hugging him. 'Come on, Lune, get up!' she croaked. She looked at Gerra with mistaken happiness, blinking away the tears that were trailing down her freckled face. 'Thank you!'

Gerra remained rooted to the spot, Hyperion in hand. For the first time, he thought about treason. Ujio was the only one among the Twelve who remembered the concept of honour, and Gerra doubted he would try to stop him from leading the children out of the castle, even if the inaction cost Ujio his own execution. Though at least some of the other Praetorians were patrolling the castle grounds; Gerra was bound to stumble upon one in no time. And then what? Kill them, and lead the children down the Cape of Good Hope, or across the Lenown Plains? Ultimecia would note his absence, and would know his treachery as soon as Vargas alerted her. Killing Vargas and any others would only buy him marginally more time.

Besides, Gerra had no idea how to find the White SeeD Ship; it had remained undiscovered all these years for good reason. White SeeD would not be searching for the children, would not risk discovery in the vain hope of rescuing such a small group, and probably thought they were already doomed. The children were doomed, and had been as soon as Gerra and Vargas had found their party. He had no choice. Gerra looked between the children's hopeful eyes again as they both got to their feet.

'What are your names?' he asked quietly, for he had to know.

The boy tried to speak, but stopped on account of his bloody nose. Vargas was already stirring, looking around with his eyes unfocused.

'I'm Refia, he's Luneth,' the girl said.

Sweet Shiva, so they were named for two of the Warriors of Light? If Ultimecia had known that, she would have killed them herself. Gerra closed his eyes, and did not see their reaction as Hyperion became ablaze. He would make it as quick and painless as he could.

'Hyne, forgive me,' he whispered.

At noon in the present day, Gerra was on his usual perch, sitting at half mast in the centre of the glorious galleon. The taut silver sails were continuously strained as they were dragged by Pandemonium, spread like the wings of a glittering dragon, though Sorceress Edea had made their sturdy material untearable long ago. Additionally, they guaranteed shade up there, regardless of the hour.

Being from an alternative Centra where seeing the sun had been an infrequent privilege, Gerra had been struggling to acclimatise to the heat, and, although he had developed a base tan, he spent most of the day's afternoon hours sweating out sunblock. His trenchcoat remained hanging in the cabin he now shared with Thalassa, and he had not donned it for some time.

Gerra was reading, or trying to. Until he became Ultimecia's Knight, he had been as illiterate as a geezard, and, outside of battle, still had the attention span of a bitebug. Present day tutors would probably label him as dyslexic. The recurring nightmare of Luneth and Refia from the previous night shrouded his thoughts, further interfering with his focus. He had been reading the same chapter for the past hour. And so, he resignedly set down the tome about ancient Sasune, his eyes were drawn to the happenings of the vessel.

From up here, Gerra could see the whole ship, and was disturbed only by seabirds. By far his favourite place to observe was the stern. If the female White SeeDs had time for anything between their rigid training regimens, it was catching the sun's ever-present rays. At this hour, there was always a dozen of them lain out on foldable chairs, not one of them unshapely. Even if they weren't elite soldiers, White SeeDs always bordered on the rangy side with their high-protein diets. Living off the land was part of their way of life.

Scanning other sections of deck, Gerra thought about Ifrit. Seifer's boy, not the GF. Gerra had been introduced to Ifrit as Seifer's estranged brother, but the boy had since learned the truth. Ifrit had kept up the two-handed sword drills Rhodry had taught him, which would have been alien to Gerra, and far too prissy for the late Seifer. And for Gerra, it was unseemly that his forebear train with a broadsword. So, until the time came for Gerra to wield it again, he had allowed Ifrit to practice with Maralith. GF Ifrit had tested the boy's aptitude for summoning, too; he would be a good vessel, with a firmer mind than his father's. Gerra had even offered to revert Maralith to Hyperion, but Ifrit had said, 'No! Maralith kicks ass!'. Though the boy had not repeated the assertion since Fujin had boxed his ears for the profanity.

Right now, Fujin was with Ellone, Laguna and Euthalia at starboard. Gerra particular admired Fujin's emergence from her mire of grief. Most blademasters would be befuddled upon losing their dominant hand, like scorpions without stings, yet her unmatched mastery of wind meant that had mattered little. Her chakram could still slit the throats of multiple enemies in a single, lethal pass, moving in any direction she bade it too. And with Pandemonium at her disposal, she could displace the Sollet Mountains.

Gerra rolled his tenth cigarette of the day. Smoking was a vice Thalassa had allowed him to keep, for now, though alcohol had not passed his lips for a number of weeks, and he felt a lot better for it. He was going to find the coronation tough when the ale barrels started rolling in, though. Maybe Thalassa would allow him a respite, when the occasion called for it.

Even up here, he could not escape Luneth and Refia, ever-present reminders of the one secret he had never shared with Thalassa. He saw them every day now, intermingled with the junior cadets when they ran along the deck, but always looking at him. Even when not seen, any child on board was a reminder of what he had done. Gerra heard their voices in his head, repeating the lines they had spoken to him during his trial at the Fire Cavern. Whenever it happened, Gerra jammed his eyes closed until they were gone. But he would still hear their voices. It was only during these moments that he longed for the bottle, though he was not sure if any amount of alcohol could keep those phantoms away.

Maybe they had been reincarnations of the Warriors of Light, after all. Maybe that was why they were still able to reach out to him outside of Phoenix's trial.

Disregarding his guilt, Gerra found it very hard to feel at home among White SeeD after being their sworn enemies in the future, no matter how much they had voiced their respect for him. Even after fighting alongside them at Mysidia. Even after bleeding alongside them, feeling their anguish when Ptolemy and Viviana had been cut down, and sharing their delight when their ship had uncloaked in the harbour, when Fujin's force had come to their rescue.

With a heavy sigh, Gerra opted to confront his final demons. He would honour their wish and confess his darkest deed to Thalassa today. And if she could not find empathy, then he would grow Phoenix's wings and disappear from this ship – and her life – forever. The Allies had Griever now; Gerra had done everything he could to avert his timeline, and his participation in the war was no longer strictly necessary.

He had been sitting up there for hours now, and was starting to feel cramped. The ship had a rudimentary gym belowdecks, with a few exercise towers and plated cables. He would go pump some iron. Rather than climb down from the mast, he morphed his flame-wings and slowly lowered himself to portside, remaining out of Fujin and the others' sight.

Gerra hit the weights hard, his muscles beaten and quivering after the full body workout, only marginally eased after a full stretching circuit. The programmes were still hardwired into his psyche even years after his enforced training as a gladiator; once learned, never forgotten.

He had only resumed the training again recently, and remained very stiff and sore in general. It had been something around two months since he had arrived in this world, and his circulation had suffered for all his chain smoking and sudden lack of cardiovascular exercise. The gym had a single stationary bike and rowing machine, powered by its own motion, and the crew swam a lot when in shallow waters. Gerra admonished himself when he realised how unfit he had become, as he knew Leo would never cease training, regardless of the circumstances. He had also sparred whenever he got the opportunity, and there could be no better training partners than White SeeDs.

Later, Gerra was sitting on the edge of the bed he shared with Thalassa. The cabin had originally belonged to Celes, and Thalassa had opted to take it for her own with its feminine air, with Kurin and Minwu's cabins remaining vacant.

What few personal effects Thalassa had were spaced around. Two old T-boards that had belonged to her father, and a hanging punching bag in the centre of the cabin. A single painting of her great-grandfather, Bismarck Dincht, and his bolt-action rifle on hooks above it – though as Zell had been adopted into the Dincht clan, Bismarck looked nothing like Thalassa. Some of Zell's MMA and metal-plated gloves were on a shelf Celes had previously filled with ornaments. Thalassa had kept one of a large, golden buzzard.

Their nightstand contained a photograph of Thalassa hugging Carbuncle, taken a couple of years ago. Thalassa always woke on that side of the bed, staring at that picture, her way of punishing herself for allowing her previous GF to become entrapped, for failing to keep her promise to him. Next to this was a photograph of the three fallen White SeeD elders with Ellone and Sorceress Edea, taken some twenty years before.

Thalassa herself walked in, wrapped in a plain grey towel and wearing sandals. She beamed at him as she kicked off the sandals and hung the towel on the hook next to his trenchcoat, revealing the white bikini he had earlier admired from afar. She tended toward baggier attires even when out of uniform, leaving most men guessing as to how she looked beneath, though Gerra was free to take in her half-nakedness. Her skin had darkened since they first met, now contrasting with the fairness of her hair and those ocean-blue eyes.

Another shelf contained the rest of her framed photographs; some in monochrome, others in colour. Understandably, most of them were of Thalassa's parents. Her light-blonde hair had been inherited from Zell, who Gerra thought looked like a comic book hero with his ludicrous attires and hairstyles. His facial tattoo had been identical to his daughter's, and Thalassa also had a couple of Balambi glyphs tattooed onto the back of her left shoulder, which she said represented her mother's clan.

Her mother, Gerra knew, had been indigenous to the Albatross. Thalassa had inherited the slight stature, slanted eyes, modest chest and square hips. Right now, that skimpy bikini left little to the imagination. She had a fighter's body, rigid and toned and as lethal as her gunblade, bearing multiple old scars; she had told him how she had come by each one over a series of nights, and he had done the same about his own.

Stopping in front of Celes' mounted mirror, Thalassa busied herself with making pigtails out of her hair, which she always straightened before sunbathing. They were another tribute to her mother, who had pigtailed hair in every photograph. Though in some of the older photos, Thalassa had worn her hair shorter and spiked, in an attempt to emulate Zell that left her looking just as comical. There was one picture of her and Raine in their pre-teens, where Thalassa's hair was both spiky and in pigtails.

Gerra looked her up and down again, and she caught it in the mirror, giving him a knowing smile. His loin stirred. It would be great timing and the perfect outlet, after such an intensive workout. She was there for the taking. His heartbeat quickened, and his member started to swell. To remain sitting there went against every impulse.

No!

He had made a promise to himself today, and he intended to keep it. With a surge of willpower blanketing animal instinct, his eyes left her slight body, focusing on his hanging trenchcoat.

'What's up, Gerra?' Thalassa asked sardonically. 'Have those eyes been feasting on one of the other girls from that perch? It must be pretty tempting, I know. That's why Kurin banned anyone from going up there.'

He smiled faintly. Leviathan must have betrayed his location. He had not known there was a ban, though it explained why nobody ever disturbed him up there. Her smile became a grin.

'It's not you, Lassa,' Gerra said awkwardly.

Her hair in one half of a pigtail, Thalassa walked up to him, genuine concern in those azure eyes. His own eyes remained fixed on hers now, even as the apparitions of Luneth and Refia appeared behind her, to either side.

'There's something I've yet to tell you about me,' he confessed.

She sat down next to him, and he told her everything, missing nothing out even as the children disappeared. As the story had an air of inevitability to it, when he got to his fruitless pleas of mercy to Ultimecia, Thalassa slowly got up to retrieve her towel. She wrapped it tightly around herself, moving to the rosewood desk chair in the corner. As he continued, she looked from him to the single porthole, nodding occasionally. He took a deep breath, and detailed the children's deaths. It had been very quick; his GF power had made sure of it, and they had been lifeless on the cell's floor before Vargas had regained his feet.

'Vargas was General Zebalga's descendant,' he said. 'Sometime after the Third Sorceress War, Agamemnon sires an heir with the Praetorian called Lani, a loveless union solely to procure the continuation of the Zebalga clan. They were given the savannahs of Serengeti to rule as a Province. So, by my era, Vargas was the first heir to King Zebalga and Sorceress Zenobia. And as fate would have it, he was the only Praetorian to survive Omega.'

Gerra paused. 'I happened across Agamemnon at Galbadia City, when he was about to kill Tyris. That's why I charged him. I had no idea who Tyris was at the time, and my rationale was that, if I could just strike Agamemnon down, then Vargas would never exist. That Luneth and Refia may still be born, and can fulfil their destinies as reincarnations of the Warriors of Light. The fates I robbed them of.'

The two children reappeared, more clearly than ever before, standing either side of Thalassa. Gerra was almost certain that if he reached out to touch them, they would be corporeal, yet knew he had no right to do so. Thalassa followed his eyes, suddenly alarmed, but could see nothing. She ran a hand along the back of her neck, as though feeling goosebumps there. Luneth and Refia both smiled at him before they disappeared, and in that moment, Gerra knew they would never trouble him again.

Thalassa looked at Gerra for a long time before speaking. Gerra looked at the gentle waves through the porthole, awaiting the verdict that would dictate the state of his continued existence in this beautiful world of balance.

'Is there anything else I need to know?' she asked.

He shook his head.

'No,' he replied. 'You already know the truth about me and Ultimecia. Yes, we loved one another. Though if I still felt that way, I would not be here.' He met her eyes. 'I will wholly understand if you can't accept me for this, Lassa. I'll leave the ship today – right now. Phoenix can fly me as far as the colony, and I can make a home there. I fought for its liberation, after all. There's nothing more I can do for you and your friends, anyway. I've achieved what I came back to here to do, and I can leave Ifrit with White SeeD as recompense.'

Tears clouded Thalassa's sapphire eyes as she stood. She moved in front of the porthole, facing the empty ocean and blocking his line of sight.

'Leave my ship, Gerra,' she said. 'Now.'

Gerra exhaled slowly, with reluctant resignation. After all, he had been prepared for this. He had no right to complain. He stood and walked for the door, only stopping in the threshold, though Thalassa would not look at him, her hands now planted on the round frame. Gerra knew there was absolutely nothing he could say to lessen the situation. He had already professed his love for her, on more than one occasion, a love he was sure would not abate for the rest of his days.

He just said, 'Goodbye.', then closed the cabin door gently. Portside was still empty when he emerged back into the sunlight. Ifrit unjunctioned from him, appearing by his side, knowing his intention.

'Watch over your namesake,' Gerra told him. 'Watch over all the children.'

Ifrit extended one of his giant paws to him. Gerra grasped it.

'The courage of mortals never ceases to inspire me,' the GF said. 'Fare thee well, Undying Fire!'

With that, Gerra spread Phoenix's wings and flew eastward.