A Shot At Life

“Tré”

Three Travellers

Spring had arrived in Bevelle. The city was as busy as ever: priests and traders thronged the streets, gossiping and debating; young monks and nuns hurried to their lessons; warrior monks strode from one temple to another, preening under the respectful gaze of the citizenry. Apart from the sudden improvement in the weather, it was much the same as any other afternoon.

In a square near the city centre, two men met, just as they had planned. Each wore an elaborate, formal robe, although that would never have turned heads in Bevelle. Auron, the younger, was still getting used to his: he had obtained it just recently, finding himself able to choose his own attire for the first time after years spent wearing the various uniforms of the warrior monk corps.

Auron’s hair was gathered in its usual ponytail, neatly scraped back to keep it from getting in his way. His robe was a deep red, and he wore it over just one shoulder: that, he had heard, had been the custom of the warrior monks of ancient Zanarkand. It had seemed appropriate to adopt the same dress for his task. Secured at the waist with an elaborate belt, the robe went all the way to his ankles. The sleeve on the right side was tucked into a bulky gauntlet that covered his hand and forearm; his left arm was entirely bare. It had felt peculiar, to begin with, but he was beginning to get used to it.

Auron’s companion, Braska, also wore a red robe; it completely covered his arms and legs, dragging on the ground and totally obscuring his feet. It was seen as right that a priest should cover himself up, and although Braska had not taken an active role in temple service for a number of years, he still felt more comfortable when he wore clothing that kept his form obscured. His hair, too, was entirely hidden under a large ceremonial headdress; some might have thought it too much, but Braska was used to having his head covered. Not only was it common in his profession, but it was also the usual practice among men of his ethnicity to wear at least a turban of some kind. In his hand, he held a long staff, at least a foot taller than he was: it was the tool he needed for his new duties.

Two months earlier, Braska had entered the temple of Bahamut in Bevelle’s holy citadel and formally announced his intention to become a summoner. It was the culmination of a training schedule that had lasted the best part of a year; he had struggled, initially, to find someone willing to teach him, but he had eventually learnt the summoner’s arts, gaining new skills to complement the magical abilities he had already acquired years before. In the temple, he had prayed to the fayth, as all would-be summoners must; the fayth had seen fit to receive him, and so he had officially been admitted as a summoner, and deemed ready to begin his journey through the land of Spira, visiting additional temples and communing with more fayth until he was ready to travel to the holy city, Zanarkand.

Auron was to be Braska’s guardian on the journey. Due to past events, Braska had never had many friends in Bevelle; Auron was one of the handful of people who had ever made time for him, and Braska had never doubted that Auron would make an excellent guardian. The journey to Zanarkand would be long and arduous; that was why summoners needed guardians to accompany them, and Auron was more skilled than most, having spent many years training as a warrior monk, where he had risen through the ranks of the corps at an exceptional pace.

Braska’s original plan had been to finish his initiation as a summoner and then wait until later in the year, taking his few precious opportunities to spend time with his young daughter before beginning the journey. But events had taken a turn: Auron had recently run into some trouble of his own, and things would be much less unpleasant for him if they left Bevelle as soon as possible. What was more, Braska was unable to deny that he himself was desperate to make a start on the summoner’s pilgrimage. He had known for some time that this was his only path forward. The thought that he might complete the pilgrimage and do something good for the Spiran people was comforting to him; he was determined to set that process in motion as soon as possible. Every day that he delayed was a burden, and every step he took that brought him closer to his goal brought him some much-needed solace.

That was why the two of them had met on this spring afternoon: to make the final preparations before they departed. They were due to set off shortly before dawn the next morning, following the custom. Auron had thought everything was ready – he had busied himself in the last few days by triple-checking the plan, making sure the temples they were to visit were those that best suited Braska’s lineage – but Braska had called him here for a final meeting before their departure.

The sun really was unusually bright. Auron shielded his eyes with his bare hand and squinted in Braska’s direction. “You said you wanted to visit the jail, my lord?” he enquired.

The respectful form of address was something Braska was still getting used to; it was particularly strange coming from Auron, of all people, but he knew his friend valued tradition, and everyone was supposed to address summoners in that way. He nodded. “I’ve heard rumours. They say a man was taken in yesterday – he claims to be from Zanarkand. I thought it might be useful to visit, before we set off. We might even think about taking him with us.”

“You think he’s telling the truth?” said Auron, frowning. Not much was known about the city of Zanarkand; only summoners ever visited, and very few of them were able to make it that far in their pilgrimage. Zanarkand had suffered badly in a war against Bevelle a thousand years ago; ever since, the city had been quiet.

“I don’t know,” Braska admitted. “I just wonder – the timing is remarkable, isn’t it? Two days before we begin our journey, a man from Zanarkand appears in Bevelle.”

“Supposedly from Zanarkand,” Auron couldn’t help saying.

Braska nodded slowly. “Supposedly. But worth investigating, I think. Shall we?”

Guardians were supposed to obey their summoners; Auron inclined his head in assent, and the two of them turned to make their way towards the jail, falling into step beside each other. Auron found himself having to slow his own walking to match Braska’s pace. It wasn’t the case that Braska was physically unfit: Auron had succeeded in persuading him to undergo some training in combat and endurance over the last few months, knowing their journey would be arduous. But Braska had come to tire easily in recent years, and his level of fitness was nothing compared to his guardian’s: Auron had been involved in intense military exercises since he was very young.

They arrived at the jail, submitting themselves for inspection by the guard on duty, a warrior monk whom Auron vaguely recognised: probably one of the many members of the corps to whom he had recently been used to giving orders on the battlefield. The guard tensed at the sight of Braska – who had spent nearly eight years in Bevelle, and yet still elicited this reaction from devout Yevonites – and then he spoke. Braska was a summoner now, after all: it was important to show him some respect, even if that didn’t come easily.

“Lord Braska,” said the guard through gritted teeth. His gaze drifted towards Auron; their eyes met. Auron watched, trying to remain outwardly calm as a small but unmistakable grin formed on the guard’s lips.

“We’re here to visit one of the prisoners,” said Braska, who hadn’t noticed. “The man who claims to be from Zanarkand. In fact, as a summoner, I believe I have the privilege of being permitted to take him off your hands, don’t I?”

“That’s right,” the guard confirmed. “Our men down in the cells can let him out, if you really think you want to take him. Have fun down there.”

Auron responded to the remark with a scowl, and followed Braska down the stairs, whereupon another guard greeted them with a surprisingly polite bow of prayer, a gesture typical of the Yevonite faith. Neither of them returned it; Braska had given up on such traditions years ago, and Auron had recently seen fit to do the same.

He hung back as Braska approached the prisoner; he was starting to feel uncomfortable. Being in the depths of the jail was bringing back unpleasant memories, and the sound of water flowing through the channels dug into the floor made him particularly tense. He stood at a careful distance, watching as Braska walked forward.

The man’s name was Jecht, Braska had heard. That was all that had made it out of the jail and into the formidable Bevelle gossip machine. He had heard the name spoken by traders at the morning market, often accompanied by contemptuous laughter: nobody believed the man could really be from Zanarkand. But when he heard such reactions, Braska had wondered whether the man being discussed was a kindred spirit. He knew well what it was like to be cast aside and spoken about so derisively.

“Who’re you?” Jecht groaned as Braska approached. He had been in the cell for a full day, and by this point was thoroughly fed up with the interactions he had had so far. The prison guards had taken issue with his repeated insistence that he knew nothing about this place, they had asked him about things that made no sense to him, and worst of all, they had declared they didn’t have a clue who Jecht was. Everyone in Zanarkand knew his name; the idea that some people might not was one he found terribly insulting.

“You are the one they call Jecht,” said Braska carefully, “the man from Zanarkand, are you not?”

“What of it?” Jecht replied.

Auron had continued to hang back, but he couldn’t help hurrying towards the cell when he heard Jecht’s words. He was used to people being disrespectful towards Braska, but now that Braska was a summoner, such open contempt was a step too far. “Watch your tongue, knave,” he snapped, shooting Jecht his most disdainful look.

Braska gave Auron a warning glance; he was used to much worse, and it wouldn’t do for Auron to lose his temper before they even got out of the jail – not in front of the other warrior monks. “My apologies,” he said to Jecht. “I am Braska, a summoner. I’ve come to take you from this place.”

Auron cringed internally at his words: Braska had already decided that Jecht would accompany them, it appeared. It was typical of him to make such decisions on the spot. It seemed Braska was determined to believe that Jecht really was from Zanarkand, the implausibility of that notion and the man’s odious attitude notwithstanding. As Auron watched the stranger while he scrambled to his feet and continued talking to Braska, there was nothing he saw that failed to displease him. Jecht’s unkempt hair and beard; his improper dress; the hideous scars that crisscrossed his skin, as if he had never heard of a white mage; the huge, gaudy tattoo covering his chest. Worst of all, the man stank of ale. He would be a detriment to their pilgrimage: Auron was certain of it. It was the last thing they needed, when they were already so low in everyone’s estimation.

“But I must protest,” he said, when it seemed that Jecht was willing to accompany them. “This drunkard, a guardian?” He hoped Braska would see sense. Jecht couldn’t possibly be from Zanarkand, and Auron was already sure of it: quite apart from the improbability of anyone coming from the city at all, it was the holiest place in Spira, and it certainly couldn’t harbour anyone as unruly as this man.

Jecht’s angry reply fell on deaf ears; Braska had turned to face Auron again. “What does it matter?” he said. “No-one truly believes that I, a fallen summoner wed to an Al Bhed, could possibly defeat Sin. This is what they say. No-one expects us to succeed.”

“Braska, sir –” Auron began. That was exactly his point, he thought.

“Let’s show them they’re wrong,” Braska insisted. “A fallen summoner, a man from Zanarkand, and a warrior monk doomed to obscurity for refusing the hand of the priest’s daughter” – Auron grimaced in discomfort – “what delightful irony it would be if we defeated Sin.”

Thrown off by the reference to his own troubles, as euphemistic as it had been, Auron found himself unable to formulate a response. Instead, Jecht spoke again: now that his liberation seemed imminent, he was keener than ever to leave the cell. “Stop gabbin’ and get me out of here!” he demanded.

“Certainly,” said Braska; he turned towards the closer of the two guards standing nearby. “I think the sphere has a clear record of his consent. Might you be able to release him?”

The man moved forward to unlock Jecht’s cell, with a smirk in Auron’s direction; Jecht emerged without a second glance at those who had come to free him. “Ah, free at last,” he said contentedly, massaging his shoulders. Auron felt even more uncomfortable: up close, Jecht looked and smelt even worse.

“Now, Jecht,” said Braska. “I am in your hands until we reach Zanarkand.”

“Right, right,” said Jecht dismissively; he wasn’t bothered about the long journey he had apparently been recruited for. All that interested him was getting home as soon as possible. “So,” he added, “what’s a summer-ner, anyway?”

“A summoner,” said Auron sharply, and regretted it as soon as he’d said it. Jecht was clearly playing stupid to wind them both up; another joke at Auron’s expense, of the kind he’d seen a good few times recently. There was no way any grown man in Spira could be unaware of the role of a summoner.

“I send the deceased, and I seek to defeat Sin,” Braska explained, as they headed up the stairs.

“Sin, huh?” said Jecht.

Braska inclined his head. “It’s the manifestation of all our wrongdoings. A huge monster that terrorises Spira, causing death and destruction – if I can make it to Zanarkand, I may be able to defeat it.”

His voice wobbled a little as he spoke the last few words; Jecht chose to ignore it. “Sounds like a tough gig,” he said lightly. Nothing in what Braska had said made sense to him, but there was one thing he was sure of: he would not be getting emotionally involved. That wasn’t his style.

“You could say that,” Braska murmured. “But it is the path I have chosen.”

They had reached the vestibule at the top of the stairs; the guard who had bowed to them earlier had followed them up, and now held out half a small sphere. This was the record of their conversation below – the other half of the sphere now held an identical recording, which would be filed in the jail’s archive. “Your copy of the sphere, sir,” she said to Braska.

Auron took it; Braska watched as she walked off. Like nearly every woman of a certain age, she reminded him of his late wife. “I should go,” he said suddenly. “They’ve let me have Yuna tonight.” As a concession to his beginning the pilgrimage, the convent where his daughter now resided had let her out to visit him; it was to be their last night together before the pilgrimage began, and he owed her his company.

“Go ahead, sir,” said Auron. “I’ll take care of the paperwork.”

Braska nodded, relieved. “Would you explain to Jecht, as well, what all this is about?” he asked. “I don’t think he quite understood just now. And stop by the armoury tonight – I told them to expect you.”

“Of course,” said Auron. “We’ll need to get him a sword anyway. I’ll see you in the morning – you spend the time with your daughter.”

Braska hurried away; Auron turned his attention to the guard on duty, the same one who had greeted them when they entered the jail earlier. He returned Auron’s gaze smugly, no longer concerned about being polite now that the summoner had departed.

“You’re taking him, then,” he said, looking between Auron and Jecht with amusement.

“Looks like it,” said Auron.

“Some pilgrimage that’ll be,” the guard said. He had already located the form that Auron and Jecht were required to sign, and laid it on the table between them. “Now, if you could sign here, Auron – oh, excuse me, Sir Auron –”

Suddenly, Auron found that he had had enough of his insolence. “There’s no need for that,” he snarled, trying to ignore Jecht’s expression of mild curiosity. “Will you just stop all this fooling around –”

“Not trying to give me orders, are you?” said the guard. “What, did you forget you don’t have the authority anymore?”

Auron just about managed not to punch him right in the face. “Just get on with it,” he muttered instead.

It took some time to sort everything out: there was a bail to pay, and Auron was sure Jecht would have nothing resembling money, so he found his own reserve of gil substantially depleted as a result. He signed his name to the paper, so irritated that he nearly scored through it with the pen. Jecht signed too, with the quick scribble he was used to providing as an autograph. “Look after that,” he told the guard after he handed it over. “Gonna be worth tons.”

Once they were finally outside, he stretched out contentedly, enjoying his freedom. “Man, I’m hungry,” he remarked. “Is there somewhere we can get dinner around here?”

Auron had become well acquainted with a number of street food traders recently; in the past, he’d taken his meals in the barracks with the other warrior monks, but he’d been avoiding them of late, and tended to eat alone in his quarters these days. He led the way to a stall he imagined would suit Jecht: it sold big, heavy, meaty snacks. Jecht placed his order, slipping in a request for a few bottles of beer when Auron seemed not to be paying attention, and sat down on a nearby bench, contentedly listening to the early evening birdsong while Auron paid for their meals and then struggled over with the food and drink.

They both ate in silence for a while; Auron spared a few sidelong glances at Jecht, watching him gulp everything down at a speed he had previously thought impossible. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.

Jecht wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then said, “So, why are you guys going to Zanarkand anyway?”

“Lord Braska told you earlier,” said Auron, with what he considered unwarranted patience. “He’s a summoner.”

“Uh huh,” Jecht replied. After a few seconds, he realised no further explanation was forthcoming. “And,” he said, “that means …”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Auron bluntly. “I refuse to believe that anyone could be unaware of the duties of a summoner. Unless you’re that drunk –”

Jecht scoffed. “Hardly. Look, I don’t know how I’m supposed to convince you that none of this stuff means anything to me, but if you keep refusin’ to explain it, we ain’t gonna get nowhere. That fancy guy said he was in my hands, right? So I guess I’m supposed to be some kinda tour guide for you guys?”

“His name is Lord Braska,” Auron reminded him through gritted teeth. “And you’re his guardian – we both are.” He would have found the absurdity of the situation almost comical if it wasn’t so disheartening to think that the two of them now shared the same duty.

“Right, and what does that mean?” said Jecht.

“Everyone knows what the pilgrimage involves,” Auron protested. “Even the Al Bhed –”

“The what now?”

Auron sighed. “Fine. I’ll humour you. What am I supposed to be pretending you don’t know?”

“Everything,” said Jecht, beaming. “Go right back to the start. Where are we?”

“Bevelle,” said Auron. “Supposedly, the holiest populated city in Spira – and definitely the largest. Most summoners start out here, then –” He broke off. “No, this is ridiculous. There’s no way you don’t know any of this. Unless Sin’s toxin – but Braska said you spent last night in the cells, it would have worn off by now. You’re trying to humiliate me,” he concluded.

“No, no, I’m not!” said Jecht. “I just wanna find out what I signed myself up for, you know? Tell me about it – I won’t forget this time, I promise. So Braska’s a summoner, right, and he wants to go to Zanarkand. Awesome – nowhere better. And we’re his guardians. Wait, what’s your name?”

“Auron,” Auron muttered.

“Auron,” Jecht repeated, drawing the first syllable out at great length. “Cool. And you know who I am.”

“Yes,” said Auron, “unfortunately.” He stood up. “Come on. We have to get you a weapon before we set off tomorrow.”

“A weapon, huh?” said Jecht as they began to make their way to the armoury. “So what, we gotta fight people?”

Auron gave him such a withering look that he fell silent; they continued without exchanging much more conversation. There were a few places where one could obtain weapons in Bevelle – including, of course, the warrior monks’ own private stores – but Auron had been laughed at enough times over the course of the day that he didn’t fancy experiencing it on yet another occasion. Braska had mentioned an armoury earlier, and it was obvious which of them he had meant, now that there was only one where Auron knew the proprietor would still be civil to him.

Coultan, the armourer, gave a polite bow when the two men walked in; it went unacknowledged by both. Unfazed, he addressed Auron with a smile. “I was expecting you, Auron,” he said. “Sir Auron, I should say. You’re setting off tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” said Auron.

“And who is this,” said Coultan, looking at Jecht; “this, er, rather striking fellow?” He passed his eyes over Jecht’s tattooed chest with great interest.

“Lord Braska has seen fit to take a second guardian,” said Auron, resisting the urge to add that Braska had evidently been suffering from a severe lapse in judgement at the time. “This is Sir Jecht.”

“Sir, huh?” said Jecht, grinning. “Nice.”

“It’s only because you’re Lord Braska’s guardian now,” Auron told him. “That’s the convention.” He couldn’t deny it had felt wrong to say, though; he felt fairly certain that he would never find himself using the phrase Sir Jecht again.

“Cool,” said Jecht. “I mean, it’s about time someone recognised how great I am. They threw me in jail when I got here,” he added for Coultan’s benefit. “Unbelievable, right? The great Jecht in jail? If they found out about this back home in Zan—”

“Jecht isn’t from around here,” Auron interrupted. He was determined not to get Coultan caught up in what he perceived as Jecht’s lies: the armourer was one of his increasingly few allies. If Jecht really wanted to keep insisting he was from Zanarkand, Auron hoped that as few people as possible would find out about it. “We won’t keep you,” he added, eager to change the topic. “Just need to get Jecht a sword. We could do with your expertise in finding him the right sort of weapon.”

“Oh, you’re the expert, Sir Auron,” said Coultan, while Auron inclined his head graciously. “But I’ll do my best to help, of course.” He stepped out from behind the counter, approached Jecht, and said, “May I?”

Jecht shrugged, having no idea what he was requesting, and said, “Sure.”

Coultan reached out towards Jecht’s mostly bare right arm, took hold, and gave his muscles a careful squeeze. “Oh, yes,” he said enthusiastically. “Very good indeed. And this, of course –” He gestured towards Jecht’s left arm, which was clothed entirely in plate armour. “You’re experienced in combat, I take it, Sir Jecht? Forgive the assumption, but you have the body of a fighting man; not to mention your attire. You’re in wonderful shape, I must say.”

“Nah, it’s all from blitz,” said Jecht. “Gets kinda serious when you play pro, you know.” He wondered briefly whether the others would claim not to know what he was talking about: nobody in Bevelle seemed to have recognised him, after all. But both seemed to understand the reference to blitzball. It wasn’t that surprising, Jecht reflected: even someone like Auron ought to be familiar with the best sport ever invented.

“And the scars?” said Auron. He’d been disgusted by the state of Jecht’s flesh ever since he first set eyes on it – now that Jecht’s appearance was coming under scrutiny, he could no longer keep himself from passing comment.

Jecht snorted. “Same thing. Been with the Abes fifteen years now – some of those guys play dirty.”

Blitzball injuries were nothing that a white mage wouldn’t be able to heal, Auron thought. There was certainly no need to leave them to scar. Unless Jecht had refused intervention deliberately – although that would seem extreme, even by the standards of a man who appeared to be a pathological liar.

“Jealous?” said Jecht with a smirk.

“Of your scars?” said Auron, confused. “Why should I be?”

“Well, kinda sexy, ain’t they?”

“Absolutely not,” said Auron. “They’re disgraceful.” No Yevonite would be so careless as to let themselves get injured as much as that without making sure there was a healer on hand, or at least a potion supply. According to the religious teachings that Auron had been accustomed to following all his life, such disfigurement was something to be ashamed of. Of course, there were certain parts of the teachings that he had always disobeyed – but that was unavoidable. Scars, on the other hand, were signs of recklessness and hubris, two qualities that he could already tell Jecht was likely to have in abundance.

Wielding a tape measure, Coultan approached Jecht again. “What position do you play?” he asked.

“Ain’t it obvious?” said Jecht. “I’m a forward. Star of the show.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Coultan, while Auron frowned. “You must be fast, then. That works perfectly: Sir Auron’s more about power and precision, so you can supply the speed.” He stepped away briefly to retrieve one of the swords from a nearby rack, and handed it to Jecht. “Have a go.”

“At what?” Jecht asked.

“Try it for size.”

Jecht held the hilt of the sword with both hands, then with just one, and swung it about experimentally. Auron braced himself for disaster, but Jecht managed not to knock anything off the shelves. Coultan had been right, he thought: Jecht was nimble, if unpractised.

“Nice,” said Jecht. “Feels good.” He turned to Auron with a grin; Auron nodded back, unsmiling, as he appraised the weapon from a distance. It wasn’t much to speak of: a fairly standard sword, the blade tinted red and cast in an unusual shape that left empty space in the middle, no doubt to follow the latest fashion trends in weaponry, which he had never thought worth keeping up with. It would make it lighter to carry, Auron supposed, which would be suited to Jecht as an unskilled swordsman. Auron’s own weapon, sheathed on his back, was at least twice the length, and probably several times as heavy. It had been given to him a few years back, the result of some promotion or another; he had a vague suspicion that he would be required to return it to the corps when he left Bevelle, and had already planned to conveniently forget to do so.

He negotiated a price for Jecht’s sword, unashamedly taking advantage of Coultan’s respect for him to score a substantial discount. Coultan was about to take the money, but then paused. “I almost forgot,” he said. “Lord Braska stopped in here earlier; he said he wanted to reserve an armguard for you.” His gaze drifted towards Auron’s exposed left forearm.

Auron grimaced. “I don’t have the gil to spare at the moment. It’s been a rather expensive day.” It would be good to have some kind of protection, without a doubt – it would help him defend Braska better – but that would have to wait until he had recuperated some of his savings dispatching fiends on the road.

“Ah, no,” said Coultan. “You misunderstand me. He paid for it himself – a gift, he said.” Before Auron could protest, he lifted the armguard from under the counter, and fastened it straight onto Auron’s arm.

He looked down at it. It fitted perfectly, and he could tell that there was some kind of magical protection in there: he could feel it tingling pleasantly against his skin. It was an unexpectedly thoughtful gift from Braska, who cared deeply for others but tended to prioritise the spiritual over the material in expressing that care, and who was often too wrapped up in his own worries to express it at all.

Still holding onto Auron’s arm, Coultan tugged it upwards so they could both admire the armguard more closely. “No expense spared,” he said proudly.

Auron somehow managed to subtly remove his arm from Coultan’s grip, and nodded. “Yes. Lord Braska’s very kind. This was … unexpected.”

“Well,” Coultan remarked, “this is the most important journey you’ll ever make, isn’t it?” He took Auron’s money and handed over his change in return, suddenly sombre. “You don’t need me to tell you to be careful out there – but I hope it goes well for you all.”

“Thank you,” said Auron.

“Don’t forget about me when you get back,” said Coultan. “I’ll be here; drop in any time. And Sir Jecht’s welcome too – I’d love to get to know him better –”

“We should be going,” Auron said quickly. “Thank you for your assistance.” He headed off to locate Jecht, who had taken to inspecting a shelf that held restorative items, and let him know it was time to leave.

“Should we get some of these?” Jecht asked. He tapped a finger against a bottle of ether; it made a satisfyingly reverberant sound. “Dunno what this does, but it looks useful, you know?”

“We have enough of those for now,” said Auron. “Come on.” He was keen to get back to his quarters, and to get a chance to think through the plans for the pilgrimage one more time: there was some recalculation to be done now that Jecht had joined them. He would have to ensure they had enough rations for three, and determine how much the extra cost for bed and board was likely to be when such facilities were available. There was a lot to consider.

Jecht followed Auron out of the shop, nodding goodbye to Coultan, whom he had found surprisingly effeminate for a weapons dealer. The sun had begun to set while they were in the armoury; it was the same insipid sort of sunset Bevelle usually experienced, where the clouds just took on a slight tinge of pink for a few minutes before the sky darkened without ceremony.

“So, where to next?” Jecht enquired.

“I’m going back to the barracks,” said Auron. “There are more preparations I need to make before we set off tomorrow, and we’ll be leaving before dawn – we all need to get an early night –” He stopped, suddenly making a horrified realisation. “You – you don’t have anywhere to spend the night, do you?”

“Nope,” said Jecht, with a grin.

Auron briefly wondered whether he could convince the prison guards to take Jecht back until the morning, and then sighed. “Right, well, follow me,” he said, defeated.

They made the short walk to the barracks and headed towards Auron’s quarters. Fortunately for him, the corps was engaged in evening prayer, so there were no unpleasant encounters on the way. Auron still prayed in private – his recent ordeal had made his relationship with faith more complex, but he did still follow the teachings, in essence. Braska’s case was similar, if more extreme: he had ceased to be outwardly religious some seven or eight years ago, after the way he had been treated by the priests, but he still strongly believed in the power of the summoner’s pilgrimage, the most integral part of the Yevonite doctrine.

When Auron arrived at his door, he discovered a couple of items in the small cavity that held his post: an official-looking letter, and a video sphere wrapped in paper. He examined the sphere first, as it looked more appealing. The paper bore a message in his friend Wen Kinoc’s complex, looped handwriting. A sphere of our meeting earlier, it read. For you to remember me by on the road.

Auron shoved the sphere into his robe with a mixture of exasperation and fondness: it was just like Kinoc to show undue sentiment.

“Remember me by on the road?” said Jecht with a smirk. “Who’s that from, some girl you stood up?”

“What?” said Auron sharply; Jecht had hardly expected him to react positively to the jab, but his angry expression seemed a disproportionate response. He stood there frowning for a while, and then said tensely, “No, of course not. It’s from Wen Kinoc. A friend.”

“OK, dude, calm down,” Jecht replied.

Auron shook his head, searching for an excuse for his discomfort, and then said truthfully, “I’m surprised you can read.”

Jecht let out an incredulous laugh. “Seriously? What, you think I’m some kind of bum or somethin’?”

“Some kind of –” Auron shook his head again, thinking it best not to ask. He didn’t know why Jecht seemed so offended: illiteracy was fairly common among Yevonites. Those of more noble birth, such as Kinoc and Braska, were normally proficient readers; Auron, who lacked any especially privileged background, had received basic instruction as a boy, but he had never had many chances to hone his still fairly undeveloped skills. Jecht’s own interpretation of the note had seemed unusually effortless for someone that Auron assumed to be of a background no higher in class than his own. He resolved not to waste any more time asking him about it, and turned his attention to the other letter, trying unsuccessfully to angle it so Jecht couldn’t get a look.

“Eviction notice?” Jecht said, raising an eyebrow.

Auron shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m leaving anyway.”

“You in trouble with someone?”

“It’s just because I resigned from the corps,” said Auron evasively, and he tore the paper into little pieces in a very poor attempt to appear nonchalant.

Jecht watched his handiwork sceptically, noting how his brow furrowed in determination, but didn’t press him further. When they entered the room, though, he couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the austerity of the surroundings. He’d only known Auron a few hours, and yet his living quarters were almost exactly as Jecht would have imagined them.

“What?” Auron snapped.

“You really ain’t got much stuff,” said Jecht.

“I sold what I had,” said Auron. “Won’t be needing it on the pilgrimage.”

“So you ain’t plannin’ to come back?”

“Of course I am,” said Auron. “But things will be different then. Until then, I need to give up everything I have. A guardian must dedicate their entire life to protecting the summoner – that goes for you too. We have to be prepared to die for him, if necessary. It’s what they call the Code of the Guardian.” He couldn’t deny that he was saying such things in an attempt to shock Jecht, and to convince him of the strength of his own loyalty – anything to make the other man realise how serious this all was. He didn’t expect to have to give his own life, of course, but if Jecht was struck down by fiends, it was a price they would have to pay.

“Yeah, well, rather you than me,” said Jecht dismissively.

It was as Auron had suspected – Jecht could hardly be an effective guardian if he took that kind of attitude. When it came to it, Auron knew that Jecht would betray and abandon them over protecting the summoner. Braska had been naïve to think bringing a second guardian would be of any use.

He changed the subject. “You take the futon. I can sleep on the mat.”

He’d expected Jecht to complain about that, too, correctly assuming that he was used to sleeping in a proper bed. There wasn’t much point arguing from Jecht’s perspective, though; he could tell that the futon was the best he was going to get under the circumstances.

Auron began to get ready for bed. He would go through the plans for the journey in his mind once he was already lying down, he had decided: there would surely be less chance of interruption from Jecht if he thought Auron was sleeping. He took off his robe, unbuckled his cuirass, and shook his long, dark hair out of its ponytail, putting it into a loose bun to avoid its getting too tangled overnight. Then, as he turned his attention to his trousers, he noticed that Jecht had made no start on his own preparations, but appeared to be paying great attention to Auron’s bare chest.

“What?” he hissed.

Reluctantly, Jecht tore his eyes away from Auron’s chest and looked at his face instead. “You’re ripped,” he said.

Auron frowned. “Well … so are you,” he countered lamely.

“Yeah, but everyone knows that,” said Jecht, without a hint of modesty. “Didn’t expect it from you.”

“I’m a warrior monk,” said Auron. “Was, I mean. There’s a strict training regime.”

“Gotcha,” said Jecht. “But why d’you keep all those muscles hidden away, huh? You’d have all the ladies after you if they knew –”

“Goodnight, Jecht,” Auron interrupted. Abandoning the thought of undressing any further, he lay down on the mat and turned to face the wall.

Braska had gone to fetch his daughter from the convent, and spent the evening with her as intended. As ever when he was granted time to spend with Yuna, he was determined that she should enjoy the occasion, and so, at her request, he had cooked them both a nice, nutritious meal, full of the spices that were traditional in his family’s cuisine, and tried his hardest to finish his own portion. After that, Yuna had wanted to see some of the old spheres of her parents, so Braska gathered a few and they watched them together. Watching the images of his own wedding, of his wife’s belly growing round as Yuna took shape inside her, of carefree moments spent at home – seeing all that, and knowing that his pilgrimage was about to start the very next day, was almost enough to bring him to tears. He managed to stave them off, for Yuna’s sake, and sat there stroking her hair, hoping that she wouldn’t turn around and notice his sorrowful expression. It was the sort of thing he had become used to hiding during her visits.

When they had seen all the spheres, he hoarsely bade her goodnight and headed to bed. Unusually, he found it difficult to get to sleep. It felt like the night before a big festival, as he remembered from his childhood: everyone was supposed to go to bed and pretend that things were the same as usual, but they all knew the next day would be different. In this case, he thought, it would be more than one day; if the fayth willed it, it would be the rest of his life.

There was a letter by his bed from his parents: it was one of the few attempts at contacting him they had made in the last eight years. He had been careful not to let Yuna see it; this situation was already distressing enough for her, even though she was putting on a remarkably brave face. Please reconsider, it said, his mother’s usually neat handwriting cascading haphazardly across the page. People normally spoke about the summoner’s journey being the noblest task one could possibly take on, and yet as soon as they personally knew someone who intended to do it, they all changed their minds at once.

You cannot truly believe Yevon has driven you to this, his father had written. There are better ways for you to serve. You may have been expelled from the clergy, but taking the pilgrimage is hardly an appropriate substitute. It will achieve nothing.

Talk to us, please, the postscript read. He had not done so.

The Journey Begins

Auron awoke with an aching back – it had been a while since he had slept on the mat. But despite having had the comparative luxury of the futon, Jecht was the one who felt worse: lacking the opportunity for a quick morning drink, he had a foul headache, and his memories of the previous evening’s events didn’t seem especially coherent.

“Aw, man,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Where am I?”

Auron reached for his cuirass before turning to him and answering – he didn’t want Jecht making remarks about his chest again. “Bevelle,” he said, while strapping on the armour. “In my room, which I’m about to be evicted from. Ring any bells?”

“What?” said Jecht blearily.

“I explained this all to you last night,” said Auron. “You said you wouldn’t forget. You promised.”

“Did I?”

“Great,” Auron muttered. “So you’ve not only forgotten, but you’ve even forgotten you said you wouldn’t. Fantastic.”

Jecht groaned. “Run it by me again. What’s going on? And where can I get a drink in this place?”

Ignoring the second question, Auron gave him a curt summary of the situation, reiterating that they intended to travel across Spira so that Braska could defeat Sin. It was clear that Jecht had no recollection of much of what had happened the previous day, but Auron’s terse explanation seemed nonetheless to be jogging his memory. By the time Auron got to the end of the story, Jecht was even starting to grin a little despite his compromised physical state. He’d begun to figure Auron out: his fellow guardian was stubborn, naïve, and entirely too serious for his own good. Jecht was going to have plenty of fun winding him up over the course of the journey, he decided.

They headed out for breakfast; it was still dark. Auron gave a final glance towards the door to his quarters as he walked away. In the past, he might have felt some sentimental attachment to the barracks; he’d lived there since he was a child, after all, starting off in the boys’ dormitories and transitioning to gradually lower-occupancy rooms as he ascended through the ranks. With the way things had gone, though, he was glad to see the back of the place.

They stopped off for a quick breakfast, paid for with the dregs of Auron’s gil, and then Auron led the way to where he had agreed to meet Braska, at the junction of two of the city’s bridges. The more major of the two led to a bigger one still, the Highbridge, which formed the southward route out of Bevelle: they would need to head that way in order to make for Macalania, where Braska would be required to commune with the fayth once again. After that, the remaining temples would be still further away. It was to be a long trip; Auron told Jecht as much, while Jecht was munching on the sweet pastry he had selected for breakfast. He seemed underwhelmed by the information.

“We wait here,” Auron announced, once they reached the appointed place. Jecht immediately sat down on the ground, turning away so Auron wouldn’t see his grimace; his headache was worsening. It had been a very long time since he had gone without a drink in the morning. Even in the jail the day before, he had slipped the guards a small bribe in exchange for some bottles of beer, finding them surprisingly corruptible.

Auron tried to put Jecht out of his mind, but he was fidgeting too much to ignore. Barely a minute after he had sat down, he sprang up again, scowling.

“How long is this gonna take?” he complained.

Auron returned the scowl in kind. “It’s Lord Braska’s last morning with his daughter. I’d expect him to be taking some time.”

“Man,” said Jecht, “I can’t take this. I need a drink – I’m gettin’ the shakes, look.” He thrust a trembling hand towards Auron’s face; Auron shoved it away, repulsed.

“I’m not buying you alcohol,” he said.

Jecht shrugged. “I got cash somewhere – wait –” He fiddled around in his clothing for a while, and eventually fished out a not insubstantial amount of gil, dropping a number of coins on the ground as he did so, and bending haphazardly to pick them up. Auron watched with mounting suspicion.

“Hold on,” he said slowly. “I bought you that sword last night – you mean you had money all along? You could have paid for that yourself?”

Despite his condition, Jecht smirked. “Should’ve asked at the time, shouldn’t you?”

Auron let out a long sigh of frustration. Less than a day in Jecht’s company, and he was already certain that nobody else had ever infuriated him quite as much. What he really needed, he decided, was a moment’s peace: a final chance to breathe freely before he had to spend several weeks with the man.

“There won’t be many shops that sell it at this hour,” he said through gritted teeth, “but you might have some luck with the Al Bhed places. They’re mostly on the north side of the city. Be back here as soon as you can.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” said Jecht, and he hurried off, leaving Auron to kick at the ground moodily.

Auron was right: Jecht soon found a shop that bore a poster in the window proudly proclaiming that it sold alcohol twenty-four hours a day, and was in fact run by an Al Bhed family, not that he knew yet how to tell them apart from Yevonites. Soon enough, he was a few gil down and felt much better, having knocked back some of the local ale and prudently grabbed some more for the road.

He strolled through the city, doing a bit of sightseeing: it was strange when the sun hadn’t properly risen yet, but there were enough lights on for him to get a good view of the unfamiliar buildings. After a while, he realised it was probably a good idea to make his way back to Auron; by this point, though, he had wandered far enough from his original route to be fairly unsure about how he might do so. He walked in a direction that seemed reasonable, but in the end it was Braska, not Auron, that he came across.

Braska’s protracted goodbye to his daughter was taking place outside the convent where Yuna was now living. It had been agreed that in a few years she would enter Yevon’s service, not as a nun – her mixed heritage had barred her from that pathway – but she was to train as a healer. She would be respected, at least, as the daughter of a summoner – still more so if the pilgrimage went as Braska intended.

“Hey, Braska!” Jecht crowed, striding forward. “Fancy seeing ya – oh, hi there!”

He looked down at Yuna. On this occasion, she was more timid than usual: she was normally quite a friendly child, and had shown remarkable strength in the build-up to her father’s departure, although when it came to the point of saying goodbye she had become a bit more upset. She looked up at Jecht, slightly tearful, and said nothing.

“Oh, Jecht,” said Braska, frowning; he too looked sombre. “I thought you’d be waiting with Auron.”

“Had to go grab a drink,” Jecht explained. “Always need a drop in the morning, you know. Is this your kid? She’s cute! What’s your name, sweetie?”

Yuna looked at Braska, and he attempted to give her an encouraging smile. “Yuna,” she mumbled.

“Nice to meet you, Yuna!” said Jecht. “Don’t need to introduce myself, I’m sure you know who I am.”

“This is Sir Jecht,” Braska supplied, caressing Yuna’s hair to comfort her. “He’s my new guardian.”

“That’s right,” said Jecht. “Gonna keep your daddy nice and safe.”

Yuna bowed neatly. “May Yevon be with you, Sir Jecht.” Then she frowned. “What’s that?”

She was pointing at Jecht’s tattoo. “That’s my team’s logo,” he explained. “I’m a blitzer. You guys have blitzball here, right?”

“We do,” said Yuna, less shyly. “Not many people play it in Bevelle; Dad says they’re too –” She screwed up her face in concentration, trying to recall the word she had heard her father use. “Pious –”

“Now, Yuna,” Braska admonished her gently. “Blitzball never really caught on here,” he explained. “But it’s very popular in the other regions of Spira.”

“Wow, am I glad to hear that,” said Jecht. “I was beginnin’ to think you guys didn’t know what fun was.” He looked back at Yuna. “You wanna see some of my special moves?”

Yuna looked at Braska, unsure again. The distraction would be good for her, he decided. “Do you want to go and fetch a ball for Sir Jecht, sweetheart?” he murmured.

She hesitated, then nodded, and trotted inside. Braska wondered whether he might be able to encourage Jecht to allow them a moment to themselves once he had demonstrated his moves, although Jecht had already launched into an enthusiastic spiel about his profession.

“Man, I bet you’re excited to be seeing the Jecht Shot up close,” he said. “It’s only the best blitz tech ever. Got me my place in the Abes, back when I was still a kid.”

Too preoccupied to pay much attention, Braska merely hummed in response. “I don’t really keep up with it myself,” he admitted eventually.

Jecht made a noise of disdain, but then smiled as Yuna emerged from the convent, clutching a ball in both hands as if it were a sacred object. “Awesome,” he said, grabbing it from her. “OK, you guys ready? Be prepared to have your minds blown.”

He tossed the ball from one hand to the other; it was hardly championship standard, probably not even approved for local tournament use, but there wasn’t a ball Jecht couldn’t turn his hand to. He looped it into the air and launched himself after it, connecting first with his head, then with a fist, and then performing a full somersault with such ease that Braska, distracted though he was, found himself gasping with amazement. As strange as Jecht might be, Braska reflected, he was clearly an expert blitzball player. Jecht launched a final kick towards the ball, sending it spinning into the air at high speed, and then landed on both feet with a smirk.

“That was remarkable,” said Braska sincerely.

“The sublimely magnificent Jecht Shot, Mark Three,” Jecht declaimed.

“Can you do it again?” Yuna pleaded.

“Sure,” said Jecht. “Just for you, kiddo. But after this time, I’ll start chargin’.”

He scooped the ball up from where it had landed, and performed the move a second time – it was no less spectacular. Braska looked down at Yuna. She seemed mesmerised by the ball: her earlier sadness appeared to be somewhat alleviated. This might be the time to say his final goodbye, he decided, if he could get rid of Jecht for a moment.

“We’ll be setting off soon, Jecht,” he said. “Why don’t you go and let Auron know?”

Jecht scratched the back of his head. “Uh, I was meant to be goin’ back to Auron in the first place, but I kinda got lost. That’s why I ended up here.”

“He shouldn’t be far away,” said Braska, gesturing. “We said we’d meet at the other end of this bridge.”

“Oh, cool,” said Jecht. “Sure, see you when you’re done. See ya around, Yuna!” He gave her a little wave, and she returned the gesture, wide-eyed.

“He’ll be a good guardian,” she said decisively, once Jecht was almost out of sight.

“Yes, I hope so,” said Braska. “Now, Yuna – I really do need to go.”

She buried her face in his robe, suddenly upset again, and he patted her head and murmured, “I know, darling.”

Jecht sauntered along the bridge until he came upon Auron; Auron’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’re late,” he said peevishly, “and why did you come from that direction? You weren’t disturbing Lord Braska, were you?”

“Relax, he was happy to see me,” Jecht replied.

Auron opened his mouth to argue, caught a whiff of the strong scent of beer on Jecht’s breath, and stepped back. “How much did you have? You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“So what if I am?”

“There’s no point reasoning with you,” Auron muttered. “Absolutely none.” He turned away so he wouldn’t have to look at Jecht: the sight of him was too enraging.

Braska appeared not long afterwards, gave Auron an unconvincing smile, and said, a little hoarsely, “Well. That’s all our business in Bevelle taken care of, I suppose. Shall we go?”

“You’re all right?” said Auron.

Braska’s mouth tightened; he closed his eyes, took a sharp breath, and then opened them again. “We should get started,” he said, not acknowledging it. “Not long until daybreak – we said we’d be out of the city before the sun finished rising.”

“If you’re sure you’re ready, sir,” said Auron.

“Hey, quit the love-in,” Jecht rasped. “Are we gonna get goin’ or what? I’m fed up with standin’ around. This place is boring. I wanna see some action! Get a chance to use this!” He waved his sword around a little; Auron stepped back, grimacing.

“Indeed, indeed,” said Braska, mustering another weak smile. “We’ll make for the Highbridge. Lead the way, Jecht: it’s the main road out of the city, you can’t miss it.”

As Jecht strode forward, Auron fell into step beside Braska. “I should thank you, sir,” he said, raising his left arm to indicate the new armguard. “You’re very kind.”

“Hm?” said Braska. “Oh – not at all. Better for all our protection.” He proffered a small device he had been carrying. “Would you put this with the rest of our belongings?”

“What’s that?” said Jecht, who had turned around to observe them. “Didn’t think you guys had, like, digital stuff here.”

“Digital?” said Braska blankly. “You mean machines? Machina?” The first term was the official one, and preferred among the Al Bhed, but the second, somewhat derogatory, was more widely used and understood by Yevonites. “Yevon outlaws a lot of them,” he explained. “Except those that can be used in service of the teachings – I suppose they consider this an example. It records moving images onto spheres, to keep records.”

“Oh, like a camera?” said Jecht, who hadn’t understood anything to do with Yevon or the teachings, but thought this part at least was obvious.

There was a silence, and then Auron said, “There’s no need to talk nonsense, Jecht. You’re not going to convince me you’re from Zanarkand.”

“I’ll be recording spheres to send to Yuna on the journey,” said Braska, deciding it best to ignore Auron’s remark. “You can take some too, if you like.” He handed the device to Jecht, and then walked on, hoping not to have to preside over an argument between his guardians.

Jecht looked down at the sphere recorder, turning it over in his hands; it resembled nothing he had ever seen before, but after a few experimental button presses, he was confident that he had got the hang of it. He dashed in front of Braska, flicked the switch, and pointed the device towards the impressive building behind them.

“What are you taking?” Auron asked suspiciously, walking towards Jecht as Braska headed out of frame.

“Well, you said it was gonna be a long trip,” said Jecht. “We’ll be seein’ a lot of neat things, right? So I thought I’d record it all in this – to show to my wife and kid, you know.”

Auron frowned. He could picture it: a fiend ambushing the three of them, Jecht whipping out the sphere recorder as if it was just a bit of fun. “This is no pleasure cruise,” he said crossly.

Jecht rolled his eyes – the more time he spent with Auron, the more convinced he was that he had no concept of having a good time. He turned instead towards Braska, who had come to a stop and was staring into the distance. “Hey, Braska,” he said. “Ain’t this supposed to be a grand occasion? Where are the cheering fans? The crying women?” Braska wasn’t bad-looking, after all, he thought; Auron had the edge over him, and neither was a patch on Jecht himself, in his opinion, but all three of them were surely capable of turning more than a few heads.

“This is it,” said Braska. It was better this way, given Auron’s dishonour; but he decided it was best not to mention that to Jecht, certainly not yet, while the two of them still seemed at loggerheads. “Too many goodbyes,” he said instead: it was true in many summoners’ cases. “People think twice about leaving.”

“If you say so,” said Jecht doubtfully; it seemed a poor excuse for making such an inauspicious start to a journey that Auron had repeatedly assured him was of the utmost importance for Spira’s safety. “Well, it’d better be a lot more colourful when we come back,” he suggested. “A parade for Braska, vanquisher of Sin!”

Braska managed to disguise his unease with a halfhearted chuckle. “We should go,” he said, wondering if Jecht really knew as little about the pilgrimage as it seemed. “Day will break soon.”

Jecht nodded, and lowered the sphere recorder, pressing the button to eject the sphere; it emerged in the customary two halves. He looked down at them, puzzled, and said, “Uh, did it break?”

Having attempted to turn away and catch up with Auron, who had overtaken them both in his haste to get away from Jecht’s experimentation, Braska found himself staying with his new guardian so he could explain. “They produce two copies,” he said. “If you keep both, it’ll let you add some more footage later.” He paused, looking Jecht over. “You really are from somewhere quite different, aren’t you?”

“At least one of you believes me,” Jecht grumbled.

“Give him time,” said Braska, looking at where Auron walked ahead of them. “Auron is the most open-minded warrior monk I have ever met.”

“So I’m guessin’ you ain’t met many warrior monks,” Jecht hazarded.

Braska frowned. “No – quite the opposite, alas. You should give Auron more credit.”

“Right,” said Jecht, confused by the fact that Braska seemed to have taken offence at his words. He felt as if he was being scolded; it wasn’t a pleasant sensation. He strode forward to catch up with Auron, brandishing the sphere recorder as he did so.

“Hey, Braska said he wanted you to carry this, right?” he asked.

“You can carry it,” said Auron, “if you’re going to be the one using it. Seeing as you haven’t volunteered to take any of the other equipment –”

“Yeah, why buck the trend, huh?” said Jecht hastily, thrusting the device into Auron’s hands and retreating to a safe distance; Auron suppressed a groan.

They reached the gatehouse that marked the southern limit of the city, and presented themselves for inspection; Auron pointedly looked away as the warrior monk on duty opened the gate for them. Summoners’ parties were normally sent off much more obsequiously, he knew; it wasn’t uncommon to receive some gifts on behalf of the city, a few healing items to get them to Macalania, where the fayth would turn a good number of them back anyway. In his younger years, he had been the one making a few of those presentations himself. Now, they just had to be content with not being openly mocked as they passed through. He wondered what the three of them must have looked like: Jecht, drunk and blasphemous in his very appearance; Braska, who had been despised by most of the citizens of Bevelle for almost a decade; and Auron himself, somebody most of the warrior monks now couldn’t look at without laughing. It wasn’t an especially promising start to their journey.

They walked down the long, quiet Highbridge, and eventually found themselves in Macalania Woods.

Auron had travelled there fairly recently, on some kind of military exercise; Braska hadn’t visited for some time. Jecht, of course, had never seen the place before. He stared around in amazement: it was almost unbelievable to think that such a place existed so close to the urban precincts of Bevelle, and it was unlike anywhere he had ever seen. Having spent all his life in Zanarkand, he’d come across a few public parks, dotted with some mediocre flowers; but this put that kind of thing to shame several times over. Here, there were enormous trees, so tall that Jecht couldn’t see the tops of them; they twisted up to block out the sky, casting an eerie, green-tinged darkness over everything that he could tell would remain in place even after the sun had finished rising. Despite the shade, though, it remained easy enough to see due to strange sparkles and glows that suffused the whole forest. Some of them came from the plants themselves, bathing parts of the foliage in a strangely soothing warm red light; others simply shone in the air, twinkling for a moment and then disappearing as soon as Jecht thought he might get a chance to look at them more closely. It was so strange, he thought, that he ought to have been disturbed by it, but that was impossible: the sight was somehow innately calming. He found himself experiencing a deep desire to lie on his back among the leaves and merely enjoy the feeling of being in nature; but instead, he maintained a carefully neutral expression. He didn’t want the others to see that he was so taken by their surroundings.

Auron too felt an odd sense of peace as the three of them entered the forest. Now that they were out of Bevelle, he would have no reason to return to the city until the pilgrimage ended. They would meet warrior monks on the journey, inevitably, but many of those would be people who had been stationed in the provinces for months or years and who, with any luck, would have no idea about the infamy Auron had acquired. For the first time in weeks, he would perhaps be able to go about his business without constantly anticipating that he might meet someone who was going to laugh at him. Maybe they would even be polite. Until recently, he had commanded respect; the thought of that being the case again was too tempting not to dwell on. Above all, without constantly having to try avoiding others, he would be able to turn his attention to what mattered: guarding Braska, and fulfilling the vow he had made to himself when he had first learnt that Braska was going to take the pilgrimage.

They were just a few feet into the forest when they encountered the first fiend of the journey: a skinny, lizard-like creature that rose up out of nowhere and made for the three of them. Braska and Auron exchanged a resigned glance: it would be the first of many. Outside the towns and cities, Spira was plagued by the creatures, as if the threat of Sin wasn’t enough. At least the fiends in most regions could generally be vanquished by a group of moderately skilled fighters, and Auron in particular was a proficient swordsman. He grasped his weapon with both hands, anticipating the attack; beside him, Braska focused too, ready to call on the elements. Only Jecht was anything but fully prepared; he managed to draw his own sword, but only got as far as slashing wildly at the air while the others entered combat.

“Concentrate,” Auron barked, in between mostly ineffective blows – unfortunately for him, the fiend was fast, and managed to evade the majority of them. “You’re not helping.”

The fiend took advantage of Auron’s distraction to lash out at him with a claw, and Auron was knocked off-balance; he stumbled into a crouched position, and tried to scramble up again, but found himself too weakened by the injury to stand. All he could do was watch while Jecht made absolutely no effort to deal with the fiend, even as it turned its attention towards Braska –

“Defend him,” he gasped, and Jecht looked down at him in panic, before shrinking back, making no effort to intervene between the fiend and Braska at all.

Braska called a blast of ice over the fiend, and it was enough to take it down; it dissipated into a cloud of pyreflies, sparkling multicoloured motes that swirled around for a few seconds before fading into the air. Jecht stood immobilised, eyes still round with fright, as Braska knelt by Auron and carefully pressed a hand to his forehead; Auron felt the warm, familiar sensation of healing magic pouring into his body.

As soon as his restoration was complete, he clambered to his feet and rounded on Jecht. “What in the names of all the fayth was that?” he spat. “Didn’t I tell you to defend him? Why do you think I bought you that sword – to use as some kind of ornament?”

“Just didn’t expect it, is all,” Jecht mumbled. “Not used to this fightin’ stuff –”

“Well you’d better get used to it,” said Auron. “And don’t just stand there like an idiot when you should be protecting Lord Braska –”

“Auron,” said Braska, finding himself slightly agitated by his guardian’s outburst. “I can fight too; you know that. This is new to Jecht – I’m sure he’ll be better at it in a few days.”

“We can’t afford that,” Auron protested. “The fiends around here are dangerous. We all need to be prepared to fight.” The fiend was long gone, but his heart was still racing; his anger at Jecht had replaced the adrenaline from battle. He had a good mind to launch himself at the other guardian, to show him how serious this was by settling this physically; only the knowledge that it was likely to upset Braska was enough to hold him back.

“Yeah,” said Jecht. “I’m sorry, right? I just need some practice.”

He was genuinely chastened, and he looked it; less than a day in his company and Auron already knew it was a rare sight. It did little for Auron’s rage, though, and he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword as Braska nodded and said solemnly, “We understand.”

There was nothing to understand, Auron thought angrily, other than that Jecht was neglecting his duty.

They headed on, meeting more fiends in the process; Jecht’s attempts at fighting remained clumsy and off-target for a while, but he quickly gained confidence and soon started to make a more useful contribution. For someone who had never encountered a fiend until that very morning, and who was yet to realise exactly what they were, he was performing beyond all expectations. Auron noticed this, but chose not to comment on it; he didn’t want to give Jecht an excuse to start talking about how great he was again.

A few battles in, Jecht noticed that Braska’s style of combat was decidedly unusual. Auron liked to hack away at the fiends with his large sword and pretend there was something refined about it, but Braska’s offence seemed to consist of moving his staff until odd explosions of energy appeared in their foes’ vicinity. Jecht wondered if the staff was another piece of strange Spiran technology, but it didn’t look as if it was equipped with any buttons or even a source of power.

“So, what’s with the way you fight, Braska?” he said.

“What do you mean?” Braska asked him.

“Well, you ain’t got a sword,” Jecht pointed out. “You just wave that thing around and stuff comes out, I guess. But it just looks like a piece of wood, don’t seem to be electric or anythin’.”

“Well, no,” said Braska. “The staff is just for channelling the energy, really. The spells come from my mind, you see.”

Jecht frowned.

Auron joined them with a snort of contemptuous laughter. “Jecht claims to be having trouble understanding the concept of magic,” he said.

“Magic?!” Jecht exclaimed. He looked at each of the others in turn, taking in Auron’s unimpressed expression and Braska’s rather weary one. “But that’s – no human could – you gotta be kidding. You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s not that uncommon,” said Braska after a moment, when it had become clear that Auron wasn’t going to deign to respond. “Many people can perform a few basic spells, and summoners are usually fairly proficient. It’s the best way to protect ourselves from fiends, especially among those of us who don’t have Auron’s gift for swordwork.”

Jecht was still reeling at the revelation – that magic actually existed, and was apparently so common in Spira that people discussed it in such casual terms – but with Auron seeming to find his ignorance so amusing, he tried to play it cool. “Well, that’s – that’s good to know,” he concluded. “Magic. No problem.”

He fell into step beside Braska as they walked on, and said, “Hey, your little girl’s real sweet.”

“Yuna?” said Braska. He sighed; leaving her had been painful. “Yes, she’s wonderful. Such a special child.”

“How old is she?” Jecht asked him.

“Seven,” said Braska.

“Oh, really!” Jecht remarked. “Same as my kid, then. He’s a real wimp, though, not like Yuna. She could teach him a thing or two.”

“You have a son?” said Braska, taking the opportunity to change the subject. “Back in Zanarkand?”

Jecht nodded. “Yeah, just me, him, and the missus. Dunno how they’re copin’ without me, hah. Bet they’ll be surprised to hear about all this” – he gestured at the trees around them – “when I get back.”

Braska hummed in agreement.

“So is it just you and Yuna at home, or is there a lady?” Jecht remarked casually.

Braska immediately felt a lump form in his throat. It had been three years since his wife had been taken by Sin, and he was still deeply affected by it; in fact, losing her had been his main motivation for becoming a summoner. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s just the two of us.”

“Ah, well,” said Jecht. “You’re a good-looking guy, maybe you’ll meet someone on the pilgrimage. All the women of Spira to choose from, huh? I guess after you beat Sin, you’ll be hot property.”

Braska had ceased to register what he was saying; the unexpected mention of his wife had been too destabilising. It wasn’t Jecht’s fault, he knew, but he found himself not wanting to talk much anymore. After that, he mostly gave distracted, monosyllabic answers to Jecht’s attempts at starting conversation. Jecht eventually gave up on engaging him and took to walking ahead on his own, which seemed preferable to trying to speak to Auron; he didn’t fancy being accused of lying again.

The rest of the day’s journey took place mostly in silence, other than during encounters with fiends, where the three travellers found themselves having to collaborate. Between battles, Auron went over the preparations for the journey in his mind; as much as he’d intended to do so the previous night, he’d fallen asleep surprisingly quickly. Being someone who had always found it easier to store knowledge in his head than bother with writing it down, he felt fairly confident that he knew how the pilgrimage would work. He had a mental repertoire of directions, how long it would take to get from one place to the next, where they would need to camp and when they would need to set off so as to make it to the next such spot by nightfall; how many days’ worth of rations he would need to prepare at each inn and travel agency they stopped in. Slotting Jecht into the plan wasn’t too difficult when he gave it some thought. As a second guardian, he would theoretically be able to share some of the planning responsibilities too, although Auron already knew it wasn’t even worth raising the subject.

He knew the questions he would be asking as well; where he would be posing them, and to whom. That was a part of his preparations that he had kept hidden from Braska. With the right enquiries and the workings of the sharp mind and strong sword arm that had once made Auron the most highly commended young warrior monk in Bevelle, he knew he would succeed in his self-imposed task.

The battles with fiends continued; not long after what had seemed to be a fairly run-of-the-mill fight, both Braska and Auron were startled by a loud groan behind them. They looked around, surprised to see Jecht doubled over, clutching at his chest and grimacing in pain.

“Jecht!” Braska exclaimed, putting his morose mood aside at the sight of Jecht’s discomfort. He rushed towards his guardian with his staff aloft, casting a strong white magic spell as he did so. Jecht felt an odd but nonetheless pleasant sensation around him; when it had receded, he gradually became aware that nothing hurt anymore. He straightened up cautiously. “What was that?” he said.

“That?” Braska echoed. “Oh – sorry – magic again, I’m afraid. For healing. What was wrong?”

Jecht shrugged. “Well, we’ve fought a lot of things, it adds up, right? Think that last one broke a rib, though.” He prodded at the body part in question experimentally; it felt perfectly fine.

“What?” said Braska. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jecht shrugged. “Didn’t think you could do anythin’ about it.”

“But you should have said,” Braska insisted, “and we could have at least given you a potion – haven’t you noticed how I’ve been healing Auron?” Over the course of the day, Auron had been slowed, stunned, and doused with water; he had received nasty blows to his head, arms, and torso; he had taken more damage than he had really needed to, because he was determined to intercept attacks directed at Braska, and normally managed it. For the more minor injuries, he had taken potions; for the worse ones, Braska had been on hand to heal everything immediately.

“You should tell me as soon as you get hurt,” Braska went on. “My magic is powerful, but white spells lose their effectiveness if they’re used too late.”

“Sure,” Jecht mumbled. In truth, he’d noticed Auron informing Braska about his own injuries, and had vaguely surmised that Braska was doing something to help, but he hadn’t wanted to get involved. He himself had been in more and more pain over the course of the day, but had managed to keep it hidden, with some help from his bottles of beer, until that last fiend. He didn’t want to appear weak by revealing his discomfort: all the times he’d received injuries in the blitz sphere back in Zanarkand, he’d just got on with things and done his best to discreetly patch himself up later. That was how things were done. The very last thing he wanted was to show vulnerability.

With so many fiends around, though, he could see it was unsustainable to take that kind of approach. Keeping quiet would mean he would probably collapse at some point, and that would be far more embarrassing than having to let Braska know about a few minor scrapes. From that point on, he began to awkwardly tell Braska each time he was hurt, and the summoner was always quick to assist.

Eventually, evening came and they reached the place where Auron had determined they would camp for the night. They consumed the rations – Jecht made a few complaints about the quality of the food, which Auron ignored – and then Auron began the work of pitching the tent. Jecht remained seated on the ground, working through some more of his beer supply, while Braska searched through their belongings for the sphere recorder. He had promised Yuna that he would record a short message for her each night, and send each one back to her at the next opportunity, until they got past the Calm Lands and away from civilisation. It would help her understand what he had resolved to do, and make their goodbye less sudden.

He sat on the ground, switched the device on, and gave it a small wave. “Hello, Yuna,” he said. “Well, we’ve been travelling a day now, and it’s all gone smoothly so far.” That wasn’t entirely true – he had spent a good deal of time holding back tears after Jecht had asked him about her mother – but there was no need to worry her. “The fiends have been no trouble at all – Sir Auron’s made sure of that. And Sir Jecht, of course – we’ve been enjoying getting to know him.”

Jecht hauled himself to his feet and lurched towards where Braska sat, attracted by the sound of his own name. No doubt, he thought, Braska was rhapsodising about how great his new guardian was. “Hey,” he drawled, looking at the sphere recorder. “What’s this? Keepin’ your fans updated?”

“I’m taking a sphere for Yuna,” Braska explained. “I told her I’d –”

“Oh, Yuna!” Jecht interrupted, sitting down eagerly next to him. Braska couldn’t help recoiling slightly; the smell of beer on his guardian’s breath was difficult to ignore. “Hey, Yuna, hi!” Jecht went on, and waved at the device. “We’re doin’ good so far, right, Braska?”

Braska managed a polite nod.

“You know what, though,” said Jecht, “this place sure is different than Zanarkand. I can’t get over how dark it is at night, you know? Like, in Zanarkand, there’s always so much goin’ on – most of the big blitz games are in the evening, the whole stadium gets lit up … it just looks so awesome. I’ll have to show you guys sometime! Guess everyone just goes to bed here soon as it gets dark, huh?”

“Mostly,” Braska mumbled, once he realised Jecht expected an answer.

Jecht threw his head back in frustration. “Man, you guys are so lame. No, listen – in Zanarkand, on match night, the whole city’s like a big party. Everyone stays up to watch the game, the stadium’s always full – and all the losers who can’t get tickets watch it on TV. And then after the game we stay out celebratin’ till the sun rises. It’s crazy. Not like this place!” He looked at Braska, frowning, as if he thought it was Braska’s fault the woods were so quiet.

“Well,” said Braska, taking advantage of the fact that Jecht’s monologue seemed to have ended. “I think we’ll leave it there for tonight.” He attempted to give the sphere recorder his full attention. “I’ll send this when we get to the travel agency in Macalania. I love you – goodnight.” He gave another small wave, and reached towards the device to switch it off before Jecht could prolong the conversation.

“Aw man, Yuna’s so cute,” said Jecht fulsomely. “She’s missin’ ya, I bet.”

Braska sighed. “Yes. I’m going to turn in, Jecht – I’m tired.” He headed towards the tent without waiting for Jecht to respond. White magic tended to tire its wielder, and Braska had used plenty of it during the day keeping them all healed; on top of that, he had found the day somewhat emotionally exhausting as well. It was a familiar experience.

“Is it ready?” he said to Auron, who had just secured the final peg.

Auron nodded. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Braska responded with an awkward shrug; he suspected that if he said another word, it would all become too much. He ducked quickly into the tent; Auron paused for a moment, wondering whether to follow him inside, and then decided to sort out the night’s arrangements with Jecht first. “Are you listening?” he said to him sharply, trying to put the thought of Braska out of his mind. “This is important.”

“What?” Jecht slurred, much less disposed to be civil now that he was interacting with Auron and not Braska.

“We need to keep watch in case of fiends,” Auron said, trying to ignore Jecht’s drunken state. “You can take the first shift – it’ll be easier that way when you’re not used to it. The night fiends are weaker, so if you’re on your guard, there shouldn’t be any problems. If you see something you think you can’t handle, come into the tent and wake me – not Lord Braska, just me. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure thing,” said Jecht.

“I’m serious, Jecht,” said Auron. “If you fall asleep on the job, we could get badly hurt.”

“I get it,” said Jecht. “I’ll stay awake, I promise.” He belched loudly.

“In Yevon’s holy name,” Auron muttered, before addressing Jecht again. “You should take potions if you get hurt,” he said. “They might sober you up too, if we’re lucky.”

“Ah, fuck off,” said Jecht.

Auron ignored the remark, and looked into the sky, eventually raising a pointing finger. “You can come and wake me up when the moons are there and … there,” he said carefully. “That’ll be midnight.” He turned and headed into the tent.

What he saw when he made his way inside was enough to make him stop in his tracks. Braska had changed into his long nightshirt and was lying red-eyed in his bedroll; his glum expression was nothing new. But as part of his preparations for sleeping, he had removed his headdress – and, Auron realised, this was the first time he had really seen Braska’s hair. In the five years they had known each other, Braska had always worn something to cover his head; even when he had been in the worst stages of mourning his wife, and had spent long hours in bed, he had always sported a simple headwrap during Auron’s visits. Now that they were travelling together, he had clearly decided that keeping his hair covered constantly was unnecessary.

There was nothing at all remarkable about Braska’s hair. It was a medium brown, and just long enough for a slight wave to be detectable: the same sort of hair, in the same sort of style, that was found among many of the men of central Spira. But as far as Auron was concerned, seeing it for the first time was like slotting the final piece into a puzzle. At last, he could appreciate Braska’s true appearance, and understand how that hair and that face came together to form the man he saw in front of him.

“How are you feeling, sir?” he asked, trying not to let it distract him too much.

Braska sighed. “It’s been difficult. Just – you know, leaving Yuna behind, and getting used to all this –”

“I know,” said Auron.

“It’s really happening,” said Braska. “And I’m glad of that – I truly am.” He passed a hand briefly over his eyes. “At least we’re away from Bevelle.”

“Yes,” said Auron. “Fayth be praised. I …” He exhaled slowly. “I didn’t realise how much I needed to get out of there. But now that we’re away from it – it feels as if I can breathe properly. Like a weight’s coming off my shoulders. You know?”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Braska murmured.

Auron turned away to change, putting on the vest and undershorts that he normally wore at night before settling into his bedroll. Braska, unlike Jecht, had the decency not to make any remarks about his musculature.

“Would you do something for me, Auron?” Braska asked quietly, after extinguishing the small flame he had conjured by his own bedroll to give them some light.

“Of course, my lord,” said Auron. “Anything.”

Braska nodded in gratitude, although Auron failed to see it in the darkness. “Earlier today,” he said, “Jecht asked about my living situation.”

Auron frowned, not following. “Sir?”

“I mean –” Braska sighed. “He wanted to know about her, I think, and I – I couldn’t tell him.” His voice had faltered; he cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t mind, would you? I can’t bring myself to explain –”

“Ah,” said Auron, understanding; Braska’s references to her only ever concerned his late wife. “Yes. I’ll tell him tomorrow.” He couldn’t prevent a note of resignation creeping into his voice at the thought of it: he already knew that trying to have any kind of serious conversation with Jecht was difficult.

“I’m sorry,” said Braska. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so quick to bring him with us. I didn’t mean to make things more difficult.”

“No, it’s fine,” said Auron, not entirely honestly. “I suppose I should learn to get on with him. I just sometimes think Yevon must have sent him here to test my patience.”

“Yevon has tested you enough,” said Braska quietly.

“I should try to be more cordial to him, anyway,” said Auron.

“I would appreciate that,” Braska admitted. He yawned. “Oh, Auron, I’m exhausted – I shall have to say goodnight. Thank you for … for all this.”

“You’re very welcome, sir,” said Auron. “Sleep well.”

You Wouldn’t Understand

The night fiends were weaker, as Auron had said; they were still something of a challenge to Jecht, who had never even seen a fiend before that morning. Regardless, he managed to take them all down singlehandedly; he wasn’t about to go into the tent and admit to Auron that he was having trouble. Keeping himself healed with potions, he made it through his shift and headed into the tent; there, having determined which of the two motionless forms was Auron, he awkwardly seized the other guardian by the shoulder and shook him until he woke up. While Auron stood and dressed, Jecht stripped to his underclothes and eagerly clambered into the bedroll that Auron had vacated, where he soon fell asleep.

Morning came; Braska and Jecht rose, and all three consumed their rations, the summoner at a rather slower rate than his guardians. Auron dismantled the tent, and Jecht drank a couple more of his beers, pleased that he had had the foresight to stock up before leaving Bevelle. He engaged in a few morning stretches, and then looked back towards Braska and Auron, who were sitting on the ground, silently and studiously shaving their faces.

The sight made Jecht want to laugh: Auron had told him several times that he shouldn’t expect any luxuries on the pilgrimage, and the attention his companions were paying to their personal grooming seemed incongruous with their rudimentary sleeping quarters. “Didn’t realise you both cared so much about what you look like,” he remarked.

Auron squinted up at him. “It’s a sign of propriety to be clean-shaven,” he explained. “We do hope to maintain some decorum on this journey.” He glanced pointedly at Jecht’s own beard.

“That’s the tradition in Bevelle, at least,” Braska added quietly.

“Yes,” said Auron. “Anyone under sixty or so is supposed to shave. That’s what the teachings tell us.”

As Jecht scoffed and walked away, Auron couldn’t help thinking of his friend Wen Kinoc, one of the few men he knew in Bevelle who defied the teachings on that particular matter. His beard was always neatly trimmed, but its very existence had been known to shock the senior clergy from time to time. Kinoc was like that: a moderniser. His noble birth and his skills in persuasion meant he mostly got away with it. He and Auron had spent hours in the barracks debating the merits of different types of weaponry. Kinoc always extolled guns; Auron ribbed him about sounding like a Crusader – part of Spira’s lay military force, who tended to be more relaxed about Yevon’s teachings – and defended the virtue of his sword. It was a running joke between them that whichever ended up commander of a company first would force all the men to pick one or the other.

Kinoc had won that one, Auron reflected. He was second in command at the barracks now; that was the position Auron would have held, if things hadn’t gone awry for him. Had he accepted the marriage he had been offered, he would have avoided all the trouble that had happened since – but it had been unthinkable from the outset.

The three of them continued on their journey; Auron braced himself for the conversation he would have to have with Jecht. The thought of discussing something so serious with him wasn’t appealing; but Braska had asked, and he knew Jecht would need to learn what had happened to Braska’s wife sometime. His thoughts turned to her; they had met a few times before her untimely and tragic death. She and Braska had been so devoted to each other; they had had to be, when they had so few allies in Bevelle.

Girl – that was her name. Braska had always been a little embarrassed by it; the Al Bhed sometimes employed unusual naming practices. Because they spoke their own language, words that were quite mundane in common Spiran often seemed exotic to them, and they occasionally adopted them as names thinking it sophisticated. Many of the Al Bhed escaped this misfortune, receiving names that followed the longer-established traditions of their race; those unlucky enough to have fashion-conscious parents were potential targets of ridicule from Yevonites, although Yevonites rarely respected the Al Bhed enough to ask their names anyway.

Braska had been so distraught after Girl’s death that he had been judged unfit to care for his daughter. Auron had taken to visiting Braska daily at that time, fearing the worst if he left him to wallow in his misery too long, although Braska’s energy levels had been so low that it was unlikely he would be able to harm himself even if he wanted to. Gradually, he had regained his strength to a point where he was mostly capable of going about his business unaided; but even now, three years later, he still had dark days, and there was a constant melancholy around him. Auron had spent a long time searching for ideas about how to shake it.

Jecht was walking ahead, confident that he could be the advance guard against any fiends now that he had a little experience; Auron strode forward to catch up with him. “I need to talk to you,” he said.

Jecht rolled his eyes. “What about? Let me guess, you’re gonna tell me I’m deluded about Zanarkand again? Don’t waste your breath.” Over breakfast, he had attempted to tell a couple of stories about the city, and each time he had mentioned its name Auron had insisted on muttering some pointed remark.

“No, it’s not that,” said Auron. “Look, Jecht, this is important. Can’t we have a civil conversation, just this once?”

Jecht scoffed. “You, tellin’ me to be civil? Auron, that’s all on you, and you know it.” He spared him an unimpressed glance. “Go on, make it quick.”

“It’s –” Auron began. “Lord Braska asked me to speak to you. About Yuna’s mother.” He had lowered his voice to ensure Braska, a few paces behind them, didn’t hear their conversation. “She died, three years ago – killed by Sin.”

“Sin!” Jecht squawked. “As in the thing Braska’s tryin’ to kill? So what, is this some revenge thing?”

“Keep your voice down,” said Auron. “No, it’s more complicated than that. Anyway, the point is, Braska would appreciate it if you could be sensitive. He finds it difficult to talk about – it’s best if you just don’t bring his wife up at all. And certainly don’t start suggesting he find some other woman to go off with – that would just upset him.”

Jecht scratched the back of his neck; the thought of Braska being upset made him feel uncomfortable. It was disturbing on some kind of primal level: men were meant to be strong. They weren’t supposed to be at the mercy of emotion; that just made them feeble and pathetic, in his opinion. “Three years, though?” he mumbled. “Ain’t he over it by now?”

“Over it?” Auron echoed, incredulous. “Jecht, she was the love of his life. I don’t imagine that’s something you can relate to, but –”

“The hell does that mean?” Jecht interrupted. “I’m married too, remember? You’re the one that’s probably never gotten laid before – stuck-up prick.”

Auron frowned, about to argue, but then remembered his promise to Braska; he needed to try to get on better with Jecht, even if Jecht did make it incredibly difficult. “That’s not true,” he said calmly, “but I can see why you might be confused. There are two orders of monks in Bevelle: those who join the civilian order do take a vow of chastity, actually, but the warrior monks don’t have the –”

Jecht groaned. “Did I ask? I don’t care about dumb monks.”

“Right,” Auron muttered, and ceased the conversation immediately. So much for that, he thought.

They continued through the forest, dispatching more fiends; Jecht had got the hang of them now, realising that as Coultan had predicted, he was best equipped to take down the faster ones, while Auron could deal with the large, heavy ones and Braska used his magic on those that were less corporeal. There were certainly a few mishaps, and the assistance brought by potions and white magic was crucial, but Jecht was getting used to that too. In fact, he had started to wish they had access to such things back in Zanarkand, instead of having to rely on slow-acting pharmaceuticals and waiting for wounds to heal naturally. He’d injured himself badly during a recent training session, colliding with some kind of rusty undersea detritus that had left a deep cut in his right forearm. It had forced him to put an abrupt end to his practice and head home, staunching the bleeding with a towel until he’d been able to get a bandage applied to the wound with some assistance from his long-suffering wife. Several days afterwards, the bandage was still on his arm; the injury would leave a scar, almost certainly, but it was just another to add to the collection. As far as Jecht was concerned, the scars just added to his rugged good looks.

It did still hurt though, sometimes; Jecht’s wife, who had completed some medical training, had informed him that the cut was deep enough to cause some minor damage to the nerve. He’d resolutely ignored her advice to take painkillers, and certainly hadn’t drawn attention to his discomfort, but now that he was aware of the superior treatments available in Spira, he wondered whether there might be a way of expediting the healing process. None of the potions he’d taken had had any effect on this particular injury, but maybe a spell applied directly to the area would help, he thought.

He approached Braska, and said, “Hey, would you do me a favour?”

“Hm?” said Braska. It was a question he wasn’t used to being asked; Auron would certainly never dream of it, especially now that Braska was a summoner.

“Uh, I got this scratch, see, on my arm,” said Jecht, raising his bandaged wrist into view. “Doesn’t hurt or nothin’, it’s just, this bandage gets in the way, you know? Just thought maybe you could do some kinda spell on it.”

“It depends,” said Braska. “What sort of injury is it?”

“I was out swimming,” Jecht explained, “and I stabbed myself on some kind of shipwreck. Went in pretty deep.”

Braska frowned. “When was this?”

“A couple days ago,” said Jecht. “Actually, it would’ve been the day before I wound up in Bevelle, so …” He performed a quick calculation. “Four days, I guess.”

“Ah,” said Braska ruefully. “I’m afraid too much time has passed, in that case. There’s very little we can do about flesh wounds, unless it’s within a few hours of the injury; a few minutes, ideally. Unless it’s causing you pain – I may be able to do something for that.”

“Uh –” Jecht hesitated. He didn’t want to admit that his forearm actually hurt – that was just a sign of weakness, in his opinion. He certainly wasn’t going to say anything about it in front of Auron. But, he considered, Braska was almost like some kind of personal medic. It made sense that Zanarkand’s top blitzball player should have someone available to attend to his many injuries. Maybe, he thought, Braska would consider coming home with him and offering his services there. It would certainly make the rest of the team jealous.

“Yeah, it hurts a bit,” he said nonchalantly.

Braska nodded, reaching towards the affected area and taking hold of it with his thumb and forefinger; Jecht stifled a gasp. “If I were to ask you where the pain is coming from,” said Braska, “would you say it was the surface of the wound, or is it more general?”

“Been through this with the old lady,” Jecht grunted. “She says it’s nerve damage.”

“I see,” said Braska, letting go of him. “In that case, I have just the thing.” He raised a hand to Jecht’s forehead, concentrated, and then let out a burst of white magic energy; Jecht didn’t notice an immediate difference, but upon tentatively flexing his wrist, he found that the movement didn’t hurt as much as before. “Huh, I guess that does make a difference,” he remarked. “What did you do?”

“We call it Shell,” Braska explained. “Nerve damage is akin to magic damage, in a way. All I’ve done is dull the signals from your nerves to your mind, so you won’t feel the pain as strongly. It’ll wear off in a few hours, but perhaps you’ll be feeling better by then anyway. I hear these things flare up from time to time.” He gave a small smile. “Anything else I can help you with?”

“Nope,” said Jecht, suddenly ill at ease with the fact that Braska was treating him like an invalid. “Why didn’t you use that?” he asked, nodding towards Braska’s staff in a hasty attempt to change the subject.

“The staff? I’m not used to it yet,” Braska admitted. “They say it’s more effective than using one’s bare hands, and I suppose it does seem that way for the offensive spells, but with white magic, it still feels a little strange. I haven’t had this staff long, you see, only since I started my summoner’s training.” He paused. “I’ve been trying to use it for casting the minor healing spells on you – I didn’t know whether you’d be comfortable with the hands, when we’ve only known each other a few days. But that Shell spell seemed a bit more important, so I just instinctively –” He let out a brief sigh. “Of course, what I should be doing for more important spells is using the staff. I just hope the fayth can look past my inadequacies.”

“You don’t use it on Auron,” Jecht pointed out.

Braska nodded. “Exactly. I ought to, but … I know he doesn’t mind if I just use my hands directly. We’ve been friends a long time, after all.”

“Dunno why you’d be friends with that guy,” said Jecht. “He’s so up his own ass.” Braska seemed pleasant enough, he had decided: he didn’t think the two of them had much in common, and Braska often seemed distracted, but at least the summoner was polite. As for Auron – Jecht had tried, to begin with, but he was just too disagreeable.

“No, Jecht,” said Braska somewhat sternly, “he’s not. I had a talk with Auron last night, and I did tell him he needs to be more patient with you, but you should do the same. He’s been having a difficult time recently – I don’t doubt that it’ll take him a while to trust you. I know you may find his behaviour frustrating, but all I ask is a little patience.”

“Right, I get it,” Jecht mumbled. “No need for a lecture.”

“I know you’re new to all this, Jecht,” Braska went on, “and there are things you may not understand, but I will not tolerate it if you insult Auron like that.”

Jecht grunted in response; his goodwill towards Braska had taken a hit. If he wanted to dislike Auron, he thought, he certainly had the right to do so. He wasn’t going to take orders from Braska just because Braska was a summoner: he was Zanarkand’s biggest blitzball star, after all. Everyone there fell at his feet; soon enough, the people of Spira would be doing the same.

They walked on, taking this path and that according to Auron’s instructions, seeing off additional fiends without too much trouble. The forest was extensive; neither Jecht nor Braska had any idea which direction they had ended up heading in, nor which way they would have needed to turn to find themselves back in Bevelle.

Jecht hummed a tune as they went along; it was the same one that always got stuck in his head. After a few iterations, Auron turned to him and said, “Stop that.”

“What is it now?” Jecht groaned.

Auron glared at him. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. The Hymn. You’re profaning it.”

“What hymn?” said Jecht.

Auron ignored him. It was more proof of Jecht’s duplicity, he considered: there was no way Jecht wasn’t familiar with Spira and its customs if he knew the Hymn of the Fayth. It was an ancient song in praise of the core principles of Yevon, and summoners’ duty of keeping Sin at bay; at least, that was what believers were always told. The words of the Hymn were in a classical dialect that very few people understood. Despite its arcanity, it had become the principal element of the Yevonite liturgy, sung so widely that even the Al Bhed knew it.

Eventually, they made it out of the forest, entering the region of Macalania Lake. In the short stretch where the trees ebbed away and the ground beneath their feet shifted from crunchy leaves to grass, the climate changed abruptly too, becoming windy and cold – so cold that a thick layer of snow coated everything. The lake itself was perpetually iced over. It was one of the mysteries of Spira: Yevonites tended to accept such things as proof of the limitations of the explanatory power of science, insisting instead that the workings of their homeland defied rational description. The Al Bhed, on the other hand, had made some preliminary enquiries into this kind of natural phenomenon, but as with much of their research, they had never managed to get very far as a result of the dual threat of Sin and Yevonite oppression.

A building stood near the start of the path that led out of the woods; the first sign of civilisation that the three travellers had seen in a while, it was one of the various hostels that could be found in the more rural parts of Spira, popularly known as travel agencies. Braska gazed at it in relief; his feet were aching after the long walk.

“This is our accommodation, I suppose?” he said.

“That’s right,” Auron replied. “It’s the last travel agency before the temple. It’ll take us an hour or two to get there tomorrow, so we can make sure you’ve rested enough before we set off, and then we’ll stay here tomorrow night as well before we head back into the woods.”

Braska nodded. The trip to the temple would take a lot out of him; he had learnt that much from his first visit to the fayth two months earlier, in Bevelle’s holy citadel. The occasion had been so physically and emotionally draining that after he had spoken to the spirit-child who took the role of the fayth of Bahamut, he had stumbled into a sitting position and been unable to stand again for several minutes, forcing himself to stay anchored to reality with the help of Auron’s hand rubbing careful circles into his upper back.

“Then what?” Jecht demanded. “We gettin’ close to Zanarkand yet?”

“When Lord Braska’s ready, we head back through the forest,” said Auron, not looking at him. “Our next stop is Djose, and it’s some distance away, as I’m sure you know.”

Jecht made a noise of frustration, ignoring the last remark. “This blows. I just wanna get home, not go to all these lame religious places.”

Auron was about to make a retort, but the sight of Braska’s weary expression was enough to remind him not to rise to the bait. It was for Braska’s sake, he reminded himself. He disliked Jecht possibly more than anyone else he had ever met, but Braska’s needs came first.

He led the others inside. Auron had stayed at a few travel agencies before with the corps, and this one was just like any other: there was the same small food market in one corner, a similarly furnished seating area, and the same poorly equipped bookshelf that would no doubt contain the usual collections of prayers and hymns. He made a mental note to check the shelf later: perhaps it might point the way to some information that could be of use.

The focal point of the reception area was a large, curved desk; a smartly dressed woman stood behind it, giving a deep Yevonite bow at the sight of the three guests. Trying not to show his relief that she hadn’t recognised him, Auron acknowledged the bow with a nod, and said politely, “Good afternoon. We’re looking for a room – for two nights, if possible. Lord Braska here will require a bed, but there’s no need for any luxury beyond that – basic quarters will be fine.”

The clerk turned to face Braska, understanding the nature of the group of travellers from his appearance as well as Auron’s request. “Lord summoner,” she said reverently, bowing again. “It is an honour.” She turned away to flick through her records, and then addressed Auron. “You can take room eight. One bed, as requested, and there are mats that the two of you can use.”

They thanked her, and were about to head on, when she added, “Just a word of caution: there’s an Al Bhed group in the next room. I’m afraid we get a lot of them staying here. We did instruct them not to do anything sacrilegious, but you never know, do you?” She shrugged apologetically. “I just hope they show you some respect, lord summoner. If they cause any trouble, we can ask them to leave, of course.”

Braska smiled uneasily. “I hardly think the Al Bhed are going to give us trouble,” he remarked to Auron once they had begun making their way along the corridor. “Not as much as we’d get in Bevelle, at any rate.”

“They might not be pleased to see a summoner, though,” Auron pointed out.

“I suppose not,” said Braska. “The Al Bhed don’t follow Yevon,” he added for Jecht’s benefit. “They’re not always well disposed to the idea of the summoner’s pilgrimage.”

“Oh yeah?” said Jecht. “Why’s that? If you wanna be a summoner –” He broke off as they entered the room. “Hey, a proper bed!” he exclaimed, immediately throwing himself onto it. “Been days since I slept in one of these!”

“The bed is for Lord Braska,” said Auron.

Jecht looked up at him from where he lay spreadeagle on the blanket. “What?” he moaned. “Are you kidding? You know who I am, right? They’d never let the great Jecht –”

“It’s for Lord Braska,” Auron repeated, more loudly.

“Auron,” said Braska, and then he approached Jecht. “My apologies, Jecht – but it is the proper procedure for the summoner to be permitted greater comfort where available. You are accompanying me for my protection, after all.” He sat on the bed as Jecht reluctantly vacated it, leaning back against the headboard, and closed his eyes: he really did need a rest. He hadn’t had to rely on his magic quite as much as the previous day – now that the three of them had become used to the types of fiends found in the forest, they had been able to dispatch them much more efficiently. But he could nonetheless feel the slight headache that sustained use of black magic tended to bring on, coupled with the weariness of white. Moreover, his legs and feet were still aching from all the walking; Auron had been sure not to set a pace that would overexert him, but it was still a lot more exercise than he was used to, especially in recent years.

“I think I’ll take a nap,” he murmured.

“Of course, my lord,” said Auron. “Can I get you anything?”

Braska shook his head. “Thank you, Auron. I just need to rest.”

“Are you sure?” said Auron. “I can ask the clerk for some tea –”

“I’m quite sure,” said Braska sharply.

Auron stepped back immediately. “Right, yes,” he mumbled. “Of course, sir.” He retreated into the corridor, closely followed by Jecht, who remarked, “Huh, tetchy, ain’t he?”

Auron sighed. “He’s just – you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh yeah?” said Jecht.

“Yeah,” Auron echoed, folding his arms. “I hope you’re not expecting me to spend the evening entertaining you.”

Jecht snorted. “As if. Pretty lousy entertainment that’d be.”

“Good,” Auron retorted, stomping off towards the reception area, where he planned to have a close look at the bookshelf he’d noticed earlier.

Jecht headed in the same direction, making for the reception desk. “Hey,” he drawled once he got there. “You guys sell beer?”

They didn’t have a lot available – they were waiting for a shipment, the clerk explained – but Jecht bought what he could to top up his supply, and then settled in to interrogate her some more. He still had a lot of questions about Spira, and the more he learnt about the place, the less any of it made sense.

Auron, meanwhile, was trying to work methodically through the books. Many of them could be discounted immediately: some were the standard Yevonite tracts that he practically knew by heart, while a surprisingly large number of the others were in the language spoken by the Al Bhed, which he had no knowledge of. He had made some lacklustre attempts at learning during his preparations for the pilgrimage, thinking that access to Al Bhed science might be useful for his task, but had quickly discovered that his talent for languages was minimal.

The remaining books were hardly much easier, given that Auron was a slow reader. One of them was a handbook to the Macalania Lake region, written by and for devout Yevonites; about eighty percent of it was devoted to an in-depth description of the temple, going into unnecessary detail about the materials used in its construction. The rest gave a perfunctory summary of the layout of the area and the wildlife and fiends that could be found there, as well as some speculation about why the climate of the region was so particular, which led as always to the disappointing conclusion that the divine mysteries of Yevon were simply inexplicable.

There were a couple of tedious-looking novels, and then, wrapped in brown paper, the well-known Treatise on Al Bhed culture and history that had long been banned in Bevelle. Auron had previously had a few opportunities to see it, but had always passed them up; now, more concerned with ensuring a successful end to the pilgrimage than adhering to Yevon’s teachings, he wondered if it might be of use to him. He opened the book and slowly began reading, but found himself distracted by practical matters. He would wash the party’s clothes the following evening, he thought, and he would have to make sure they had rations that would last them to the next travel agency, the one on the Thunder Plains. He would need to do a thorough check of the healing supplies, probably before going to bed; they had used a lot of potions in the last two days, and the remaining stock perhaps wouldn’t be enough for the journey to the temple, he considered, especially if the visit was hard on Braska – it wasn’t a good idea to have to rely on only white magic for healing at the best of times. Taking down fiends had meant they’d collected enough gil in bounties over the two days to be able to replenish the supplies, although they would have to be careful not to spend too much of it; it was always wise to have some in reserve.

With some reluctance, Auron forced himself back to his reading, struggling through the book’s introduction, which seemed mildly interesting but was of little practical value. After a while, Braska emerged from the corridor and lowered himself into the chair across the table from where Auron sat; Auron was glad to have an excuse to put the book down for a while.

“Feeling better, my lord?” he asked.

“A little,” said Braska. He had had a good sleep, woken up feeling more energetic, then taken his nightly sphere for Yuna; after that, he had started to think about the next day’s trip to the temple, and the thought of it had made him so apprehensive that he had started to feel worn out again. At that point, he had decided that the best thing would be some distraction, so he had hauled himself out of bed and made his way towards the agency reception, hoping to find Auron there.

He reached out towards one of the piles of books Auron had made, and looked at the one on top; it was a slim Al Bhed volume. “Oh, I haven’t seen one of these in years,” he remarked. “They were all the rage back when I lived with the Al Bhed. Thrillers about Yevonites and their torrid affairs – all highly improbable, of course.”

“I’m sure,” said Auron.

Braska turned the book over to read the blurb; although his command of Al Bhed had declined over the last few years, his reading comprehension remained passable. “This one’s about a priest and a nun who live in neighbouring temples,” he told Auron. “Of course, they start to realise they’re madly in love with one another, but they have no opportunities to meet and confess their love, so the nun devises a system using –” He frowned at the unfamiliar word. “Pyhhan – oh, it must mean a flag, I think. She uses the flag to send him messages, and then they arrange to meet illicitly at night, and then – oh, goodness me – they consummate their love in the temple, at the foot of the statue of Lord Gandof.”

Auron’s face had turned red; he had heard much worse before, growing up in the barracks, but hearing it from Braska was a lot more embarrassing. “Scandalous,” he managed to say.

Braska gave him a little smile. “They’re all like that, I’m afraid. Very popular among young Al Bhed ten years ago, although I suppose they’d be a bit dated now.” He picked up a few more books from the pile: a number of them were additional entries in the same long-running series. There were some larger volumes below them that looked familiar as well; he lifted one for a closer look, deciphered the title, and then said, “Ah, yes. Gahato’s shorter Al Bhed primer, volume sixteen. I had to use these in my studies – they’re very dull.”

“Doesn’t sound very short if there are sixteen volumes of it, sir,” Auron remarked.

“Twenty-six,” Braska corrected him. “Yes, frightful, isn’t it? I dread to think what the full version must be like. Someone once told me there’s only one copy and it’s buried underground somewhere for safekeeping.” He frowned. “Although perhaps he was trying to pull my leg a little.”

“What are the other Al Bhed books about?” said Auron casually. It had occurred to him that if any seemed as if they might be particularly useful, he could perhaps lift them and try to find someone who could translate later in the journey. He had never been tempted by petty theft before, but in his opinion, the importance of his task outweighed such minor moral concerns.

“Let’s see,” said Braska, working through the rest of the pile. “Gardening … this one’s the ship schedules for the southern islands routes … and this one is about fishing on Macalania Lake.”

“That seems optimistic,” said Auron, thinking of the perpetually frozen body of water they would be passing by the next day.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Braska mused. He looked at the book more closely, carefully reading the full title. “Cbalimydewa – ah – speculative fishing. I see; how peculiar.”

Auron laughed briefly, and then stood up, seeing that there were no books left to go through. “I need to check our supplies,” he explained. “I think we’ll need to stock up on potions before tomorrow.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Braska. “We may need a few – I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to cast, after the temple –”

“I’ll make sure we have plenty, my lord,” Auron confirmed.

Braska rose too, and headed to the reception desk. He planned to ask if the travel agency kept anything that might help his sore feet – the standard potions dealt well with battle wounds, but other aches and pains often responded better to alternative treatment. Braska had imagined it would be a simple question, but somehow found himself drawn into a long conversation about the practicalities of the summoner’s pilgrimage. Admitting that he had entrusted most of the planning to Auron didn’t seem to dissuade the clerk, who continued to ask him a whole string of questions with great enthusiasm.

After some time had passed, Braska gradually became aware that Auron was standing behind him. He had in fact been there for a good while, clearing his throat and shuffling his feet in an attempt to get Braska to notice him without interrupting the conversation.

“Is something the matter?” said Braska, turning around at last.

“Jecht’s gone,” said Auron promptly. “I’ve looked everywhere for him.”

Braska frowned. “Well, it’s not for us to dictate how he spends his evenings – we’re hardly his keepers.”

“He might have run off,” said Auron. “You know, decided he doesn’t want to accompany us anymore, and just bolted –”

“That would be regrettable,” said Braska, “but I thought you might be happier about it, Auron.”

Auron suppressed a grunt of frustration. Braska was right – he really would prefer it if Jecht was as far away from him as possible. But the thought that the other guardian might have disobeyed orders and abandoned them, Braska especially, was one he found highly insulting.

“Perhaps he’s gone into the village for a drink,” Braska suggested.

“Yeah,” said Auron, “a drink.” He snorted, ignoring Braska’s admonitory expression. “And he’ll be totally useless to us tomorrow, then. That’s just great.” He marched off.

“I hope I haven’t done anything wrong,” said the clerk. “Your guardian asked if there was anywhere he could go drinking nearby, so I did tell him there was a bar over in the village.”

“No, it’s all right,” Braska assured her.

“I didn’t think that sort of thing would be a problem for a summoner’s guardian,” she added.

“It’s fine,” he said again, trying his best to appear as if it really was. “Jecht and Auron just aren’t on the best of terms, that’s all.”

Jecht had indeed headed into Macalania village in search of somewhere to go drinking, on the clerk’s advice. The bar he found there was surprisingly lively: it was where many of the villagers spent their evenings, finding it a welcome refuge from the cold. Jecht sauntered towards the counter, cast a critical eye over the beers on tap, and ordered the one he deemed to have the highest chance of resembling a Zanarkand ale.

“Two gil,” said the barman listlessly.

He examined his pockets, but it was no good; he didn’t have a single coin on him. He knew he’d had some cash before – he must have left it behind at the travel agency, he reasoned, or been convinced, in a moment of surprising gullibility, by Auron’s entreaties that he add it to the communal stock. Not to be deterred, he clamped a hand onto the shoulder of the man sitting at the bar next to him, and said cheerfully, “Hey, wanna see something impressive?”

The man looked up at him slowly. He was already noticeably drunk, Jecht could tell, which would probably help his scheme. “Get lost,” he mumbled, and turned back to his beer.

“Aw, man,” said Jecht. “I bet you like blitzball, though, right? You realise you’re talkin’ to a pro blitzer here?”

The man turned around marginally more quickly at that; his interest had been piqued. “Prove it,” he said, after a slurp of beer.

After that, it was only a matter of locating a spare blitzball to get the pieces of Jecht’s plan to fall into place. It turned out there was a ball kept behind the bar, intended for outdoor tournaments on the rare warm days of summer, and the disinterested barman didn’t seem to object too much to the idea that Jecht might borrow it. When Jecht landed a particularly impressive trick shot that involved bouncing the ball off each of the four walls of the bar in turn, the punters seemed to take a bit of notice.

“So,” said Jecht conspiratorially, the second phase of his plan to score a few free drinks incoming, “bet you I can do that again even with some pints in me.”

“No way,” said his neighbour, who had become more invested since seeing the trick. “Not possible.”

“Go on, I bet you,” said Jecht.

“What’s your wager?” another patron asked him.

Jecht grinned. “You guys buy the drinks, I’ll give it a go. Then if I don’t make it, I’ll pay everyone back. If I do, you all had to buy my drinks for me. Deal?”

There was a general murmur of assent, and soon Jecht found a pleasantly high number of full glasses set down in front of him. He settled in to drink them: this was going to be a serious challenge – never mind the shot, just getting all of it down by morning.

After a couple of pints, he found himself getting chatty with the other patrons, who were all much further gone than he was.

“So who are you, anyway?” said one, with mostly unintended belligerence. “Ain’t seen you here before.”

“I ain’t from around here,” Jecht told him. “Just passin’ through, you know?”

“Not much blitz up this way,” his companion pointed out.

“Well, that ain’t all I do,” Jecht explained. “Actually, I’m here with a summoner. He’s goin’ to the temple tomorrow.”

The man gazed at him in surprise. “Wait … a summoner? You mean you’re a guardian?”

“Yeah, I am,” said Jecht proudly.

The man let out a laugh, took a swig from his glass, and said, “So, tell me. Summoners are either stupid kids with some kind of hero complex going on, or they’re arrogant enough to think they can break the cycle, or they’re suicidal. So which is yours?”

“Huh?” said Jecht.

“Gotta be one of ’em.”

The question was ludicrous, but Jecht was drunk enough to give it some thought. Braska was hardly a child, he thought, and neither did he seem especially arrogant: he clearly wasn’t shy of using his summoner’s privileges, but both Auron and Jecht himself were just as self-absorbed. The reference to breaking the cycle passed Jecht by completely, and the idea that summoners might be suicidal seemed equally baffling. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Braska often seemed miserable and withdrawn, but he certainly wasn’t going to waste time trying to evaluate the state of the summoner’s mental wellbeing: that wasn’t any of his business, and he hoped it never would be. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he concluded.

The man laughed again, the same short, bitter bark. “Dream on. Sane people don’t decide to go off and become summoners. Well, I’m sure you’ll find out during the journey – just out of Bevelle, are you? You’ve got some nasty surprises coming.”

“Whatever,” Jecht muttered, turning back to his pint.

When his various glasses were empty, he struggled to his feet and somehow managed to locate the blitzball beside him. “All right!” he roared, holding it aloft. “I’m doin’ it! Everyone watch!”

They did, as he lobbed the ball into the air at entirely the wrong angle, aimed an inexpert kick at it, and sent it in a very vague approximation of the intended direction. It made it to the first wall, somehow, then bounced off and dropped straight to the ground.

“Shit,” he said, into the silence.

“Right, pay up!” someone called.

Jecht bolted, somehow finding his way to the exit despite the fact that everything was spinning slightly. It was a move that nobody had expected him to make, and given the resulting confusion and the fact that most people in the bar were even drunker than he was, nobody was able to pursue him soon enough to have any hope of catching up. At full pelt, Jecht ran up the slope that led out of the village and towards the vicinity of the travel agency, not daring to look back until he was safely inside, whereupon he took a moment to catch his breath before making his way towards the room that he was sharing with his companions.

The lights were out; they had both been asleep for several hours. The noise of Jecht’s clumsy entrance was enough to wake Auron, though, and he sat up, folding his arms in disapproval as he glared up at Jecht from one of the mats, which, Jecht was disheartened to see, looked much less appealing than the soft bed where he could just about make out Braska’s form gently rising and falling under the blanket.

“Where do you think you’ve been?” Auron hissed, as Jecht unsteadily made his way across to the other mat.

“Fuck you,” Jecht slurred. He dropped onto the mat in an ungainly manner and slowly embarked upon removing his armour, without a great deal of success.

“Can you – could you –” Auron paused, having so many things to reprimand Jecht for that he was unable to choose just one. “At least be quiet. Lord Braska’s asleep.”

Jecht grunted in response, and Auron lay back down in irritation, prevented from going back to sleep himself, first by the sound of Jecht laboriously taking his armour and clothes off, and then by the noise of him tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable on the mat, for what seemed like hours.

To be continued. Updates are posted weekly, on Saturdays; see https://tre.praze.net/ffx/asal