Chapter 96

The Undying Fire

The unquenched flame burned within him, as it always did. Hearty, warm and yearning. No matter how hard he tried, he could not douse it. Once a gladiator, always a gladiator. There could be no rest for the weary. What burned within was an insatiable desire for action, for combat. For battle. He had once been a God of the Arena, among a list of immortalised men and women beginning with Zefer and ending with himself. He had once been the Knight of Hyne's Favourite Descendant. Until recently, he had been the chosen champion of Ifrit and Phoenix.

It was why Gerra could not stay here.

He had appeared in Mysidia some time ago, circling on Phoenix's wings, witnessing the aftermath of the devastation he and White SeeD had wrought. Without his trench coat, without Maralith, he was not recognised. His Centran accent had marked him a subject of the Kingdom, one of a few hundred left behind by the King to maintain order in the former Esthari colony, and he was duly directed towards pockets of the carnage as a day labourer.

He had given his name as Firion, and now responded naturally to it.

Gerra needed something, anything to take his mind of what transpired on the White SeeD Ship. Nothing worked, but the shifting of tons of brick and rubble and bodies did help. After his 'admission', he remained untroubled by the ghosts of Luneth and Refia.

The days had melded together as one, mundane, almost like a self-imposed prison sentence. It was somewhat fitting, he guessed, for a man of his sins. He knew it would come to an end, that there were not an infinite number of streets and squares that needed clearing. The reason it was taking so long was because so many young men and women had been killed during Gorgo's stubborn persistence of Article Fifteen, ill-trained conscripts mown down by GF fury and royal chocobo cavalry. There were not enough able bodies remaining in the town, and when all was said and done, many parts of Mysidia would be empty.

For day labourers, taverns and beer halls were wide open, and most mass-produced liquor was on the house. Again, there were not enough mouths for it, and a perfect rationalisation that it needed consuming before sell-by date. Gerra's previous abstinence, which had been for her, had at least allowed him to reassess his relationship with alcohol, and he now stuck to consuming a sensible amount. That fine line between suppressing anxiety and waking up with self-reproach.

He saw world news on the wall-mounted TVs in the aforementioned watering holes. FH was liberated, with George proclaimed Mayor. Then Timber was freed. Although the liberation of the western continent had not come without cost; Gerra heard of the death of Sorceress Selphie, that the Temple of Hyne had announced Tyris as her Successor. Ultimecia was still alive; a rebellion in Balamb had been brutally squashed by her personally, setting up the Meridian Ocean to be the next battle theatre in the Third Sorceress War.

A battle you could be a part of, Phoenix urged him, whenever he thought about it. Which was many times during the monotonous of the day.

No more killing, Gerra would think firmly, sending the firebird to the back of his mind.

Soon enough, Phoenix was back.

Where will you go from here, gladiator?

Gerra had avoided thinking about it. Somewhere far from the conflict zones, he knew. They could get as far as the Centran mainland by air, of which only Blauehaven and Lenown were populated, and it would be a long journey on foot or chocobo to either. The Kakashbald lay to the southeast, split by the River Elin – though Karnak was technically part of the Empire, and had never been apart of the Centran kingdom.

The Empty Kingdom, Gerra thought of it. Lenown was still mostly in ruins. While the pirate haven of Blauehaven would welcome a man of his history – a history that had not even happened yet – he was not ready to resign the rest of his life in a settlement like that. Moreover, the Centrans had suffered horrific losses at Redwood, about half their fighting force. Expecting to keep a firm grip on a largely lawless Nine Shires and continue fighting in a world war with just twenty-five thousand soldiers was ridiculous; it would be hard enough for Steiner to rule just Lenown City. The Restoration had been a faerie tale.

At present, Gerra was seated with around a dozen Centrans, swilling out the repetitiveness of their daily work and playing Triple Triad with a blend of those punishing Esthari and Centran rules. Dressed as they were in dusty shirts and breeches, they stuck out like tonberries in a playground among the sea of flamboyantly robed colonists, who still looked very much like Esthari. There had been a growing sentiment among the former colonists for full independence over the last few days. 'Firion' and his compatriots had received more than a few hard stares this evening, though they had been left alone for now.

Gerra nursed his old-fashioned tankard; it was wooden but with a metallic inside, helping to keep the drink cool. The open, inviting barrel of pale ale was at the end. Mysidia's finest; an ancient brewery. The hall was vast and only a quarter full, with huge, dark wooden beams supporting a white ceiling.

Tuning out a repetitive debate among his tablemates as to whether they would rather bed Princess Relm or Queen Beatrix, Gerra could hear an Esthari woman he had worked with during the clearances on a neighbouring table. She was giving her usual rhetoric, effing and blinding about how her three conscripted children had been killed while charging the nearby naval base.

'Agricola shot my youngest for fuckin' cowardice!' she cried. 'Fifteen. Fifteen, 'e was! So, my other two ran into the flames! They were burnt alive!'

The potty-mouthed woman was mildly attractive, Gerra supposed in his tipsy state, despite nearing fifty. Her hair a blend of blonde and grey. Blue eyes. Not even a hint of cosmetics on her face, which was reddened from the booze.

Gerra had gathered much about her from her many rants, and usually placed himself on the opposite corner of whatever bar they were in. A hardworking, fiercely independent mother of three from working-class Esthar City who had been widowed at the beginning of the long war, moving to the colony for greener pastures with the death grant. Now, she had lost all three of the children she had worked hard to independently raise.

Worse, it had been the flames of Ifrit and Phoenix who had killed them.

'Fuck the Centrans!' the woman screeched. 'Fuck White SeeD! Fuck that bitch captain of theirs!' she hiccupped. 'What's her name? Thalassa?'

Gerra's head snapped towards her. He had been on the way to top us his tankard, and his hand tightened around the handle so hard it ached his palm.

'Yeah,' someone slurred lazily. 'After the Sorceress.'

'The bitch daughter of Zell Dincht!' she went on. 'Admiral Ramius got 'er good and proper, 'e did! Blew up the White SeeD Ship! I fuckin' 'ope she went down with it!'

Gerra pivoted towards the woman. She and the occupants of her table caught his movements.

'What, Firion?' the woman demanded.

The White SeeD Ship had been sunk? Impossible! Even in a future where Ultimecia had conquered all, this had never happened! Somehow, Gerra had missed this detail. Maybe the scuttling of the Centran fleet had overshadowed it. If the ship was gone, what had happened to its crew? To Thalassa?

'What did you just say?' Gerra asked slowly. 'About the White SeeD Ship?'

'What's it to you, mate?' she asked hotly. 'Fuck off back down south! We don't want you unwashed royalist pigs up 'ere, and we never needed ya in the first place! Palamecia's gonna be a free country, soon!'

'The captain,' Gerra pressed, undeterred. 'Thalassa. What happened to her?'

'Drowned, 'opefully,' the woman spat. 'Which is as good as that sea-soaked slag deserves!'

Gerra had his dagger barred in a flash.

'Badmouth her again,' he warned, 'and I'll have your tongue.'

The woman hesitated for only a second. Then she said, 'Don't care if ya do. It's about all I 'ave left, thanks to you bastards! Just piss off 'ome!'

She really did have nothing to lose. Not mentioning Gerra himself was responsible for at least two of her children's deaths. Everyone in the beer hall was staring at their table, now, the Centrans looking very anxious. The whole time he had been here, Gerra had taken care not to draw attention to himself. The colonists, those still remaining, had built up a deep camaraderie that he had been sure not to integrate with. The woman was mouthy, but the occupants of the hall would be protective of her. All two hundred of them.

Gerra sheathed his dagger. 'Perhaps I will, then.' It was time to move on.

In the next instant, Phoenix warned him of malicious intent, and something heavy collided with the back of his head. He rocked forward, into the swivel-turned drinking buddies of the loud-mouthed woman, who shoved him away.

'It was him!' someone roared.

Gerra clattered to the floor next to the tankard that had been thrown at him.

'He was there!' the same person continued. 'With White SeeD! I saw him! He had crimson wings!'

He heard the woman cry with rage. 'Kill 'im! Fuckin' beat 'im to death!'

All the anger and fury the former colonists had been suppressing was unleashed in that moment. Benches screeched and everyone got to their feet, swarming around him. Gerra was kicked repeatedly, sending him into a foetal position he had never adopted since the cradle. Tankards were thrown at him. He was viciously punted and clubbed with drinking horns until he became a beer soaked, bloody heap. He felt another stiff kick break his ribs.

The Centrans tried to come to his aid but were cut off by the frenzied flock before they could even get close. He was alone, and he would unceremoniously die here. If Thalassa was alive, she may as well be a million miles away, and she may never find out what had happened to him.

He could condemn the whole of them to an inferno any time he willed it. But the Centrans would be consumed within it. And he could not bring himself take any more lives. This was exactly what he deserved, for every atrocity he had committed while in Ultimecia's service. was now numb to the pain. Both of his eyes were swollen shut. He Through distant flames, he could see Luneth and Refia now, waiting patiently to take him for his Judgement. They were standing either side of Firion.

Burn them! Phoenix urged. You are my chosen vessel! Arise!

Gerra body became engulfed in flames. He felt himself healing, becoming invigorated. He had forgotten about Phoenix's healing properties. The mob recoiled as one, giving him enough space to get to his feet. Seeing red, they only hesitated for a second, though.

Presumably, the man who had initiated the assault shouted, 'It is him!'

The crimson wings unfurled from Gerra's back, as though his dark shirt were not even there. Fireballs grew at his fingertips, though the vision of Luneth and Refia stayed his hand. Instead, he pivoted twice, the wings coming violently around in two wide berths, sending the inner circle of the mob flying. Then, he flew for the ceiling, sending two large fireballs to make an opening.

Gerra did not stop his ascent until he was well above the ancient town. He hoped his drinking buddies would have the sense to get out of the beer hall. While Gerra technically was Centran, he was not one of Steiner's subjects, and had been wary of befriending anyone during his time here. He cared little for the continued existence of the Kingdom, and the Centrans were as forgotten as the mob as he hovered now, beating his wings steadily.

Mount Ordeals stood some miles away, the old seat of Alexander. As did the dark and foreboding Tower of Mysidia. At the foot of the mountain were the ruins of the castle of House von Heilegeberg. But it was the docks Gerra sighted, its shape silhouetted against ocean winking in moonlight. He knew where he needed to go from here, that there was something he needed to reclaim. Gerra flew for the harbour, swiftly finding what he was looking for.

The smell of fish guided him to the trawlers from FH. He landed upon one that was just leaving the port, at starboard. The two crewmembers topside gave cries of alarm, and one unshouldered a pump-action shotgun, mistaking his winged form as a monster. Gerra retracted his wings, making sure Phoenix was shielding him from gunfire. He raised his arms slowly. 'Where's your captain?' he asked.

'I am the captain!' the one with the shotgun shouted.

'I'm a friend of your mayor,' Gerra said simply. 'And of White SeeD, I need to get to FH.'

'Fuck off, ya cunt!' the main spat. 'Get off me ship, or I'll blow y'away!'

Gerra could not always understand the FH dialect; most of the town's founders had come from Mordred, apparently, and neither place was populated in his time. But the captain's aggressive body language, and the chink-chink of his chambering a shell, were unmistakable.

'George knows me,' Gerra said carefully. 'I worked on the Torama when he smuggled me and Thalassa into Timber.'

The captain said nothing, but his fellow trawlerman piped up, 'Were you there when 'e got arrested, at Balamb? Did ya tell the Red Witch where 'e was, so 'e could fester in 'is own shit while waitin' for his execution?'

Gerra sighed. 'He was apprehended because he was helping us, yes. I thought he was dead until I saw the news!' He paused. 'I'll give you all the gil I have for the journey, captain. I can fillet, scrub the deck, wash up, whatever shit your crew don't want to do.' He nodded towards the shotgun. 'That gun won't do you any good, anyway. If I wanted to kill you both, you would both already be dead.' To emphasise the point, he grew his wings back, surrounding himself with a sphere of fire, making them recoil with horror.

'Just 'oo the 'ell are ya?' The captain demanded, hefting the shotgun so the barrel faced the night sky.

No more lies, Gerra thought. No more stretching the truth.

'My name is Gerra Almasy,' he answered. 'The bearer of Phoenix.'