Tales of Zestiria belongs to Bandai-Namco, not me. I'm just having fun as a fan.
She is alone in the world with an empty existence.
Robbed of her Lord and her purpose, Symonne's left with a hole in her chest, burning and aching down into her very core, nauseatingly familiar to the pain that stole her hope away years ago. Another Forton Village, screams her memory, but there is a balm for this agony, however mild: she's free from fault this time.
How long has it been? A year? Somehow the world's surviving, clawing itself back from the brink she so readily helped guide it towards. She's witnessed the realization of the peace treaty between Rolance and Hyland, memories of her past deceptions and sabotage resurfacing. Humans are selfish creatures, hypocritical, greedy, Malevolent. It was all too easy to breed distrust, misunderstanding, hatred between them. Such recollection would leave most distraught and consumed by the hollowness of all the senseless strife. Instead Symonne finds herself wistful by memories of better days. She had spread disaster and ruin at her Lord's bidding, pain and sorrow truly her only purpose, but it was a purpose, and she reveled in it for that reason.
Now she's lost, manic. Some days, she's composed. Others, the confusion creeps through the cracks in her stability like running water and she wants to scream. Mostly she settles on ennui, her heart as still as her Lord's; feeling nothing is the most manageable of all feelings. This isn't a new discovery.
She can't feel him anymore, his ocean of Malevolence evaporated into the air. There is no more night to grant reprieve from the condemning heat of the sun. No impregnable fortress promising the only hope she could possess.
She could interfere, continue to trick and distort and tear the world down to destruction. Keep the Shepherd and her fellow do-gooders distracted from quelling the rest of the world's calamities. But there is no point anymore; Symonne has exhausted her schemes and options, lost her willingness to interfere. Even her hatred for the previous Shepherd has long since dulled.
Maybe it is Forton again. Almost. Symonne's grown since then, but to what degree, she isn't sure. Perhaps there's something more to find, perhaps a place for something evil like herself. Someone to serve, something to commit herself towards. There are no guarantees. No given answers. Her path is unset, the future wide open, and it both stunts and tantalizes her. But there's no denying the emergence of peace and tranquility in the world, a world with no place for a harbinger of misfortune. No role to play. No reason to be wanted or valued, no matter how great the power.
The last Shepherd dared say otherwise. She'd thought him a hypocrite hoisting lofty but shallow ideals all for his ego. But everyone deserves happiness, he'd said, even Symonne. The mere idea sends a quivering fear through her and she wishes she could squash that rising, long-forgotten lightness in her chest, exhilarating and absolutely terrifying. She wishes the sensations burning the corners of her eyes were from glee and laughter at his self-righteous justifications.
Even that wretched wind seraph found contentment. Symonne thought him merely a mirror reflecting her past self: fragile and waiting to be crushed under the heel of this world's unforgiving truths. A miserable evil wandering until death. But when death claimed him, it was with a smile, and it shattered the mirror in her mind. Now she's left with pieces of broken glass reflecting back a part of herself she doesn't want to see; a part that is all too similar, all too different, and yet less than him.
She looks away, choosing to leave the shrapnel where they lay. Picking the pieces up will only cut her hands.
And that Squire, Maltran's old student. She'd found something good in Symonne's deceptions, daring to tempt her to look back and rearrange those fragments of glass. Symonne's still uncertain what to make of the encounter, although she recalls it more often than she'd care to admit. She still feels the mark it left, although the feeling isn't as terrifying as she expected.
Deep down, she wonders: will she see something different if she looks in that mirror again? Does someone like her truly deserve happiness?
They triumph over hardship and ask her to do the same. But she can't. Not anymore. She can't take any more disappointment, any more unfulfilled hope. So she keeps watching, waiting for the day she finally finds her answer. Her gift of an analytical mind hasn't yet availed her much, she hates to admit. But surely, if she keeps watching...
And somehow, it always comes back to that Shepherd girl and her group. It's not deliberate; the girl's done a good job of taking after her predecessor and they show up everywhere, in the flesh or in the news. She's an interesting subject to be sure; an anomaly among humans and prone to exceeding expectation.
Symonne had first seen the girl long before she became a Squire, although she didn't appear to be much; just a helpless doll toyed with by a wretch of a guardian seraph, her free will as much of a delusion as her puppetmaster's vengeance. It was a pitiful dance destined for tragedy, and Symonne kept a watchful eye on it for years, withholding her breath for its inevitable climax and conclusion. All the more perfect when the two became Squire and Sub-Lord to the Shepherd, although she never believed that girl so bent on seeing-is-believing would ever go so far as to reawaken her Resonance, let alone become a future Shepherd. Never believed she would hurt but never crumble under the truth of her guardian-turned-manipulator.
Turns out this doll is made of more than porcelain.
Symonne takes what she can from their encounters, although all results have gone static lately. She watches when she can, listens to every detail spoken, but begins to wonder why she bothers; she knows what to expect at this point.
Or so she'd thought. Her mind has now been cast into the abyss, all by the sight of him.
The mystery, ever stabbing, draws her back, her psyche caught in a mad dance between anxiety and forensics. She tracks them to Marlind and covers herself with an illusion, something discreet enough to be overlooked by even the Shepherd and her seraphim. Despite all that has transpired, Symonne views them as neither enemies nor a threat, but she is a Watcher and subtlety is too much a part of her. She stands on an elevated porch overlooking grass painted by dappled sunlight and shadows, her back stiff and shoulders taut, fingers tense on the railing. She spots the Shepherd girl down below, her back to her secret watcher and seemingly alone. But she isn't. Symonne can feel him close, her chest clenching at the sensation. It's against her will that her eyes seek hungrily, desperately for the source of her suffering.
Her insides constricting, she forgets to breathe as the Shepherd moves around a vacant bench and bends down. When the girl lifts the boy–a babe–into her arms, his hair a green-hued silver, eyes as verdant as the surrounding foliage, Symonne's heart stops.
Why?, she shuffles a step forward, the sight of him twisting her stomach, hitching her breath. There is no sound, the town's gone silent, and the Shepherd's words fail to reach her. Through the white noise, Symonne processes only one word.
"Dezel," the Shepherd says, bouncing him up on her.
Will not even death spare us our suffering? The first time Symonne saw him, she'd nearly broken out in laughter.
Are all Angels of Death forsaken to an eternity, longer than even a seraph's lifespan, of death and rebirth? She's never thought death an attractive solution, but this mockery by even the afterlife leaves a new feeling of unrest flowing through her chest. And her Lord's goals, the only hope to end the non-stop suffering of this world, are gone forever with him. It truly is a miserable world, isn't it?
But something deep down tells her there's something more. Could there be another meaning here? Something else at play? Both Shepherds have brought about surprises, are more than they appear to be. That's why she continues to watch them. She wants to understand them.
And if there isn't more? It's just another facet of his curse. Of her curse. To bring misfortune to not only those they love, but themselves as well. A never-ending punishment. For all eternity.
But she wonders, and she wants to know.
The Shepherd twitches, turning in her direction. That's the last bit of prompting she needs. Symonne drops down from her ledge, her cover dissipating just as fast. The Shepherd's already adjusted her posture, keeping Symonne at her side, and carefully handling the babe in her arms.
"Symonne." There's an edge of displeasure in her voice, but she doesn't even begin to reach for the daggers on her back. "Why are you here?" Her shoulders stiffen and she flashes the boy a look, arms tightening around him. "Don't tell me..."
"Why is he here?" She almost demands it, her composure fragmenting. She doesn't gesture to the boy, but her words are pointed enough at him. "How is this possible?"
The Shepherd's eyes cut through the distance between them. There's no aggression, no intention to attack, but there's something else. A defensiveness, an uncertainty, and Symonne notices the way the girl's fingers twitch. Perhaps she realizes the weakness has been caught, because her expression softens and her stance slackens and she pulls back from her hold on the boy in her arms, eyes studying him before meeting Symonne's again. Her voice is unusually sober when she finally speaks. "...I wonder that myself." She adjusts her hold again. "We only found him recently."
"Curious," is all she mutters, teeth barely managing to unclench. The cause of death couldn't have had a hand in it, and an oath is unlikely. Perhaps intervention by one of the Five Lords? Somehow she's leaning towards it's just Fate having its fun with sinners like them.
The Shepherd's hand pulls the boy close again, likely out of reflex more than anything, and he stares at Symonne, his face a blend of discomfort and meaning he can't convey or understand. It's not until a breeze blows that he stirs, leaning up on the Shepherd's shoulder and reaching for it, mumbling a corruption of the word wind.
"Yeah," the girl starts, but her smile isn't deep as she rubs his back, staring at nothing. "It's kinda like your friend, isn't it?"
It's uncanny, this anachronism. To think this babe was once the man she'd manipulated into death a little over a year ago; the seraph she'd watched burn with rage as he blazed a path of bodies and manipulation in misguided vengeance. But he looks the same. He feels the same, on a level only seraphim can sense. What unnerves her more than anything, though, is how cruel this world is in restoring his innocence and blissful ignorance only to take it away again. Ever a plaything and a glutton for punishment. It's more pitiable than anything, and to a degree Symonne would have found deliciously tragic before. Is his rebirth punishment for finding contentment he doesn't deserve?
"I don't know why Dezel came back." The Shepherd's voice calls her attention back to reality, although Symonne centers herself quick enough to notice the wary look the girl flashes her before softening ever so slightly. "But I think, maybe, it's a second chance."
"For him?"
"For me." It's odd, how uncharacteristically pensive the Shepherd's smile is. "Dezel's always watched over me, and I never even knew it. Not until it was too late. I felt like such a jerk." There's both a renewed light and deep melancholia in her eyes as she looks down at the boy tugging at the frills on her jacket. "This is my chance to pay him back for everything, and I'll start by making sure he knows he's never alone."
"And when his blessings bring ruin? Will you still say those words then?" Hesitation is all it will take to betray her bravado and reveal it as a falsity. It's the first thing Symonne looks for.
"That doesn't matter." The eye contact is immediate and unflinching. "Dezel shouldn't have to suffer through that alone." She pauses just long enough for her next words to feel simple and matter-of-fact, her smile airy. "And neither should you."
It's a prick into Symonne's chest, but she tries to hide the breath she almost loses, tries to blink away the irritation in her eyes. It affects her more than she expected; how do they always say it so sincerely? The pieces are still there, fragments of that forsaken mirror calling her back again. It's unwillingly that she looks and sees her past self in the boy, sees an innocence long dead. She lets it out as a scoff through her teeth, body clenching.
Blessings can incur the impossible, warping reality's accepted logic. Perhaps that wind seraph's blessing for the Shepherd girl transcended even his death, and that was what brought him back. The average seraph couldn't possibly possess such power, but then again, there is no bottom to the depth of despair they are capable of. It's with great intimacy that Symonne understands the weight of an Angel of Death's blessing, but for the first time, she sees something beyond despair. Relaxing her nerves, she settles on this, satisfied enough with a possible, if unlikely, hypothesis.
"I'll be watching, Shepherd, both you and the boy." She gets one last look at the babe huddled close in his protector's arms, eyes clear and youthful, before making her exit.
"Symonne." The edge in the Shepherd's voice is sharper this time. It's enough to make Symonne halt, but not turn around.
"I have no intention of harming the boy, if that is your concern." Palms raised, she watches her fingers clutch at something unseen. "Quite the contrary. I, too, wish to see him grow." Voice rising, her lips twitch into a smile as the hard knot in her chest loosens, making room for an ever-increasing heartbeat. "Will he succumb to the weight of his sins, or will he challenge the very nature of his existence?"
When his malison brings disaster, she will be the one to tell him, once again, what he is. Who he is. Knowing his wretched, sinful existence bleeds into every life he lives, will he still dare to resist? To find contentment once more?
When he finds his answer, maybe she'll find hers.
I tried to play Symonne like the game version, although I think I blurred the lines with her manga counterpart a little. I have a hard time wrapping my head around her (and the other Zestiria villains, tbh), so I'm glad this fic helped me get a more solid interpretation of Symonne.