A Shot At Life

1. 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.

2. 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.”

3. 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.

4. Hope

Morning came; Auron and Jecht rose and made their preparations for the day ahead, each of them taking great care to avoid the other until Jecht said, “So, we get breakfast in this shithole?”

“There’s a room next to the main reception,” Auron informed him with displeasure.

Jecht wasted no time in heading there; Auron instead approached Braska, who was still motionless under his blanket, and said gently, “Sir, are you awake?”

Braska was; he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to get up. There were days when the mere thought of going out and facing the world seemed like an impossible task, a heavy weight pinning him down and making him feel slow and sore, and this seemed to be one of them. He was due to commune with the fayth of Macalania Temple; as harrowing as the experience was likely to be, it would bring him closer to his goal, and he knew he ought to be glad of that. But the knowledge seemed to be doing nothing to lift his mood, and that in turn just made him feel even more forlorn and ashamed.

He had to overcome it, he knew; he had often doubted that he had the strength to undertake the pilgrimage, but it really was his only option. “I’ll be up soon,” he mumbled. “Just give me a moment.”

“Of course,” said Auron, gazing at Braska’s huddled form for a few seconds.

He headed to the breakfast room. Jecht had already taken great advantage of the food that had been laid out, sampling various items and then casting them aside when he had had enough of them. Auron made sure to ignore him as he entered, taking the seat opposite and reaching for some cold meats and the newspaper, then busying himself while he ate with reading the front-page article, which turned out to be about new regulations for conduct at temporary military encampments, something he already knew about and didn’t wish to be reminded of.

“Hey, Auron,” said Jecht suddenly. “Do me a favour and grab me one of those apples, yeah?”

Auron glanced over at the bowl of apples; he was barely any closer to it than Jecht was. “Get it yourself,” he said.

“Aw, come on,” said Jecht.

Auron wasn’t going to give in that easily. “Why should I have to fetch it for you? You can walk, can’t you?”

“Bet you would if it was Braska askin’,” Jecht pointed out.

“Of course,” said Auron, without a trace of embarrassment, “but I’m his guardian. It’s my duty to do what he asks – and yours too, or at least it should be.”

“You know,” said Jecht, “there’s people in Zanarkand that’d pay thousands of gil for the privilege of servin’ the great Jecht.”

“I’m not one of your imaginary fans,” Auron muttered, attempting to turn back to the newspaper.

“Man, you are so jealous,” said Jecht. “You really wish you were me. It’s tragic.”

Without looking up, Auron quietly replied, “I absolutely do not.”

Jecht let out a disdainful laugh, and then leant across the table. “Where’s my apple?” he said.

“I’m not getting you an apple,” said Auron, slowly and loudly. Despite his effort to keep looking down at the paper, he had ended up making eye contact with Jecht again; Jecht knew exactly how to annoy him.

“Yeah, you are,” Jecht countered, “because I’m gonna keep on askin’ till you give in and get one. Go on, Auron, grab me an apple – please … be nice to your old pal Jecht, come on, you know you wanna …”

Furious, Auron stood, marched over to the bowl, and seized one of the apples, nearly upending the bowl and spilling the rest of them onto the floor in the process; then he returned to the table, slamming the fruit down in front of Jecht so hard that the whole thing shook. He sat back down, folded his arms, and fixed his gaze on a speck on the ceiling.

“Hey, thanks, man!” said Jecht, his voice a ludicrous parody of innocent delight. “Oh Auron, you’re just great.” He took a bite of the apple, grimaced, and carefully inspected it. “Huh,” he said, setting it down on the table. “Well, that ain’t so hot.”

Trying not to shake visibly with rage, Auron closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Jecht, meanwhile, turned his attention to the loaf of bread that had been set out. He sawed off a slice, took it over to the toasting machina, and then, once it was browned to his satisfaction, brought it back to his place at the table and began to coat it in butter, assiduously making sure every part of the bread was covered.

Auron opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. Jecht had used nearly the whole pot of butter on his bread, creating a layer almost half an inch thick: the sight of it was obscene, not helped by the fact that substantial quantities of the melted butter had dripped onto Jecht’s fingers. To Auron, the thought of consuming so much grease at once was appalling. He had never seen anyone eat with such a lack of restraint: in Bevelle, people were at least somewhat refined at mealtimes. The warrior monks ate hearty meals to maintain their strength, but they did so on the understanding that plentiful food was a privilege and a gift of the fayth’s divine providence. It was tacitly acknowledged that one should consume no more than they really needed, lest Sin should unexpectedly destroy any part of the supply chain – it happened often enough, and was sometimes catastrophic.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Jecht bit into the toast. Melted butter trickled onto his lips and clung to his scraggly beard in little beads, catching the light. Auron couldn’t help but stare at the revolting spectacle. The sight of Jecht smearing grease over himself like this was enough to make him feel nauseated.

“Got a problem?” said Jecht, mouth full of toast. More butter oozed out from between his parted lips and into his beard.

Half suspecting that opening his mouth would have unfortunate consequences, Auron declined to respond, fervently hoping instead that Braska would join the two of them and give him a distraction as soon as possible. It didn’t take too long before his prayers were answered: Braska shuffled in, fully dressed, and took the remaining seat at the table, murmuring a greeting without making eye contact with either of his guardians.

Auron was on his feet immediately, fetching Braska some fruit and a cup of tea, and making quiet enquiries as to whether he needed anything else; Braska declined in a whisper and made an unenthusiastic start on the breakfast that Auron had assembled for him. Jecht, meanwhile, had started to feel uncomfortable, once again, faced with Braska’s obvious emotional struggles. He muttered something about going to brush his teeth and then hastily left the room.

“Sir,” said Auron when Jecht was out of earshot, “you don’t look well. Maybe we should put things on hold for today – you can spend the time resting, and then we’ll go to the temple when you’re feeling better.”

Braska shook his head. “I appreciate your concern,” he said quietly, “but I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He could feel tears beginning to prick at the back of his eyes. “I just – I know I’m not – but if I don’t go today, it’ll be even worse tomorrow, and then –”

“Are you worried about speaking to the fayth?” Auron asked him.

“Not worried, so much as –” Braska broke off and sniffed loudly. “It’s just … a lot. It’s a lot.”

“I still think you should consider leaving it until tomorrow,” said Auron, “but either way, you know I’ll be with you – I’ll do anything you need. If it doesn’t go as planned, we can talk about that later. Until then, you save your strength; Jecht and I can deal with the fiends on the way there.” He bit back a remark about the location of the travel agency: out of all the provincial temples they were to visit, Macalania’s was the least well served in terms of hospitality, and the cold climate hardly helped. In Auron’s opinion, the agency would have served summoners much better if it had been built on the other side of the lake; then there would be no fiends intercepting the journey to the fayth’s chamber.

Braska took a deep breath, was still for a second, and then nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, Auron.” He wiped his eyes and forced himself to sit up a little straighter. “Then let’s go. I need to do this, and I can. I can – for her sake.”

It was clear enough that he was referring to Girl. Auron found himself wishing, not for the first time, that Braska might one day become less fixated on his late wife – that was really the root of the problem. He gave a nod of encouragement, though; if Braska was determined to go on, that would be enough to see them to the temple, and whatever happened once they were there would be at the fayth’s prerogative.

They headed out to the reception area, ready to begin the journey. Jecht was sitting by the books, swigging from a bottle; he caught Auron’s eye and raised it in a mocking salute. Auron ignored him.

Not far from Jecht, there was a small group of people sitting around one of the few tables, whose distinctive jumpsuits and large goggles marked them out as the Al Bhed party the clerk had mentioned the previous evening. As Auron and Braska entered, one of the Al Bhed immediately stood up and approached them. “You are the summoner, yes?” he said to Braska, his command of the common language evidently good but heavily accented. “Your name is Braska?”

“That’s right,” said Braska, trying not to sound tearful.

“And you are going to the temple today – is that correct?”

“We are,” said Auron. “What’s your point? We need to get going.”

“Hold on,” said the Al Bhed, and headed back to the table where his friends sat; moments later, he was back with a few garments draped over one arm, holding them out towards Braska. “It’s cold,” he said. “You can borrow these vests. Al Bhed dransymc – thermal linings.”

Braska reached for the vests hesitantly. “That’s very kind,” he said, his voice still a little quieter than usual. “But why are you helping us?”

“We just passed through Bevelle,” the man explained. “We heard a fallen summoner had started the pilgrimage – an Al Bhed lover, they said. None of those Yevonites supported you, but we know you are doing this for everyone. Not just for Yevon.”

Braska nodded, taking hold of one of the vests between his thumb and forefinger, and rubbing the material carefully until he could bring himself to speak. “Thank you,” he murmured at last. “I’ll certainly take one – Auron? Jecht?”

Both of them declined; neither had ever been particularly bothered by cold weather. Jecht habitually dressed in little but shorts, and often spent several hours of the day underwater: he had trained himself to withstand even the most extreme temperatures. As for Auron, he simply preferred colder climates; even the city heat of Bevelle was sometimes too much for him in the summer.

“Al Bhed clothing won’t hurt you,” said the man, turning to Auron.

“I realise that,” said Auron irritably. “I’ve got nothing against the Al Bhed.” It was true; he found the Yevonite attitude towards the Al Bhed and their machina frustratingly hypocritical. In his view, both societies could evidently benefit from the skills and knowledge of the other: indeed, in Bevelle they often did, but it was always done behind closed doors and on the understanding that the general public of Spira were not to know about it. On a personal level, Auron appreciated the utility of certain machina for making life easier. There were certainly a few devices that he found somewhat disturbing, and others that he simply had no interest in: the guns that some modernisers had insisted on adopting in the corps were an example of the latter. Auron much preferred his sword, but he had no issue with people who chose to use the new weaponry, as long as they didn’t attempt to force it on anyone else.

Braska headed back to their room to put on his vest; Auron, whose irritation at Jecht had quickly been displaced by concern for Braska earlier, felt the former emotion return just as rapidly while they waited. At this point, the mere sight of his fellow guardian annoyed him intensely. His ridiculous insistence on going around half-naked, with that odious tattoo plastered across his chest like an advertisement; the hideous scars that he clearly had no qualms about displaying to all and sundry; his hoarse voice tinged with the rasp of alcoholism – all of it made Auron fervently wish he had never met the man. It seemed Braska had permitted him to come on the pilgrimage with them out of the goodness of his heart, but Auron had never been especially swayed by charitable feelings.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Jecht drawled. He, likewise, wasn’t feeling particularly well disposed towards Auron himself. He’d given him the benefit of the doubt to begin with, but by this point, Auron had proved himself to be too disagreeable to be worth the effort.

Auron refused to answer; Jecht was drunk again, he noticed with displeasure. He concentrated on going over his mental checklist for the day, confirming to himself that they had enough supplies. At least, he thought, he had been able to leave the tent behind on this occasion; that gave him more capacity for potions, which would mean Braska could be spared from having to waste his energy on healing them all.

Braska emerged, noticeably red-eyed: a few minutes on his own had been enough for him to lose his composure again, particularly after such unexpected kindness from the Al Bhed. “Well, let’s go,” he said hoarsely.

“Sir, are you –” Auron began.

Braska raised a hand to cut him off, cleared his throat at some length, and spoke again, sounding much more confident. “Yes, Auron. I’m determined to do this today. Let’s be off.”

He ushered his guardians through the door, and then stepped out behind them, feeling a chill even with the assistance of the borrowed vest. It was not only cold but significantly windy: Auron’s ponytail flapped around in every direction, becoming horribly tangled within seconds. The sight of his bare left arm, and of Jecht’s bare chest and feet, was enough to make Braska shiver just thinking about how unpleasant it would be if he had to be out in that state himself.

Jecht looked up at the sign by the travel agency that welcomed visitors to the region, and suddenly remembered the sphere recorder. “Hey!” he said. “This is the first temple we’re goin’ to, right? I wanna get this on video – a souvenir for my kid, you know.” He located the device, along with the two halves of the sphere he had used to make his previous recording, and slotted them back into place. “Let’s just take a quick one of me and Braska under the sign,” he said, holding the recorder out for Auron to take. “Do me a favour and take the stick outta your ass for two seconds, would ya?”

Auron stared down at the sphere recorder, then back up at Jecht, and decided the only response he deserved was a frown. Jecht’s tomfoolery was an utter waste of time, he thought, as well as this being a highly improper use of machina.

“Asshole,” Jecht hissed.

Braska winced; for the first time, he feared that his guardians might actually come to blows. Clearly, he thought, neither had paid attention to his entreaties that they make an effort to be polite to each other, even now that he was deeply in need of their support. “I’ll do it,” he said hastily, stepping forward to take the sphere recorder from Jecht. He wouldn’t normally have offered, but he was keen for relations between Auron and Jecht not to get even worse. Besides, he didn’t fancy being captured on the sphere himself when it would probably be obvious that he had been crying just a few minutes earlier. “Auron,” he said, “you can be in this with Jecht, please.”

Auron stood rooted to the spot as Braska set up the recording; he was still appalled that Jecht insisted on wasting their time with such a vacuous pursuit, but he could hardly disobey Braska. Hoping they would be able to get it over with quickly, he tried unsuccessfully to ignore Jecht while the latter posed and preened under the welcome sign.

Braska switched on the device and attempted to capture both his guardians and the sign in the same shot. “Auron,” he called again. “Could you stand closer to him?”

It was the very last thing Auron wanted to do, and it took several seconds before he was able to bring himself to comply with Braska’s request and approach Jecht. When he had done so, he found it equally difficult to turn around and face the device again. In his belief, this whole exercise was not only pointless and a waste of time, but utterly demeaning. It made a mockery of the pilgrimage, which was, after all, a deeply sacred endeavour.

Braska suppressed a sigh; that was probably as good as he was going to get, and he didn’t want Auron to become even more angry. “Good,” he said, making a surprisingly successful attempt at sounding as if nothing was wrong. “That should do it.”

Auron was still glowering in totally the wrong direction, refusing to be captured properly on the sphere; Jecht turned towards him with a sneer. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Afraid I might bite?”

“Jecht,” Auron said through gritted teeth. He had managed not to react to the last few of Jecht’s taunts, but by now he was so frustrated that he couldn’t help showing it with more than a mere frown. Indeed, it was clear to Jecht that Auron was moments away from losing his temper completely. What would really send him into a rage now that he was finally responding, Jecht thought, would be if Jecht were to start ignoring him in turn. Feigning innocence, he turned away from Auron, stepped forward, and said, “Braska, you should take one too – it’d make a great gift for little Yuna.”

“I suppose,” said Braska doubtfully, as Jecht took up his pose once again. He wasn’t particularly inclined to take a sphere himself, but he wondered if acquiescing might keep at least one of his guardians happy; Auron certainly seemed too far gone.

“Lord Braska,” said Auron, striding forward at last, “we shouldn’t be wasting our time like this.”

“What’s the hurry, man?” Jecht jeered.

It was the last straw for Auron: he had had enough of Jecht’s constant goading. “Let me tell you what the hurry is,” he growled, surging forward with the sole aim of turning off the sphere recorder. He wrenched it from Braska’s grasp; Braska murmured his name in ineffectual protest, while Auron fumbled with the device until he had stopped the recording. He pulled the two half spheres out of the slot and held them aloft in one hand, the recorder in the other.

“People are dying, Jecht,” he spat. “Sin is killing people, every day, and this is the only way we can stop it. This journey is hard enough on Braska without you treating the whole thing like tourism; he didn’t decide to become a summoner so he could go on a nice jaunt around Spira, you know, he made this decision because he really thought he –”

“Auron,” Braska cut in, more sternly. “That’s enough.”

Much too late, Auron realised he had overstepped the mark. He looked at what he held in his hands with mounting horror, suddenly recalling that he had snatched the device straight out of Braska’s grip. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said desperately. “I’m truly sorry.”

Braska acknowledged the apology with a brief nod. “If the two of you can’t be polite to each other,” he said in the same cold tone, “then you’ll have to refrain from speaking to each other at all. You’re both here for my protection, and I need that protection today, more than ever – Auron, you know that. Engaging in petty squabbling is not part of your task.”

“I’m sorry,” Auron mumbled again, lowering his head in contrition. He felt terrible: Braska was right. The summoner’s safety was of far more importance than arguing with Jecht, however frustrating Jecht was.

Braska began to walk on, leaving his guardians to follow; he still felt shaken, and it was easier to cling to his anger than to let it turn back into the kind of wretchedness that would hinder his progress. He was disappointed in them both, Auron and Jecht, but he was just as disappointed in himself for having lacked the foresight to realise taking on a second guardian would cause so much trouble.

Auron, just as annoyed for different reasons, strode forward to take the lead. After his lapse in judgement, he was even more determined for Braska not to have to get involved in fending off any of the fiends they were to encounter. He poured his frustration into the first few battles, driving his sword into each foe as hard as he could without sparing a thought for the need to pace himself. Jecht made sure to give him a wide berth; Auron looked absolutely murderous.

Most of the fiends were the sort that went down easily with a few swordstrokes; soon enough, though, they encountered a different type, one of the amorphous blobs known colloquially as flans. Auron knew full well that a couple of fire spells would allow Braska to take the fiend down with much less effort than either he or Jecht would require, but he continued to insist that the summoner stay away from battle, barking orders at Jecht with increasing desperation as the two of them took it in turns to deliver blows that had very little effect. After the flan was dealt with, both Auron and Jecht were in a bad way; it had sent icy shots towards them several times, and they were both feeling lightheaded, leaning on their swords to stay upright.

“Braska,” Jecht whined; for once, he was feeling bad enough not to downplay his injuries. “I need some magic – gimme a spell –”

Braska frowned, making no move to approach him. Both Jecht and Auron looked like they were about to pass out, in his estimation; Auron was unusually pale, and Jecht was clutching his forehead with his unarmoured hand, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He found it difficult even to look at them when they were both in such difficulty, but Braska knew casting magic could weaken him, and Auron had sworn he wouldn’t need to get involved. And after Auron’s display at the travel agency, Braska thought, he owed Braska the decency of keeping his promises.

“No, Jecht,” Auron grunted, once he had gathered his wits enough to speak. “We have potions. Use them.” He began to search around in his belongings for a few; it was difficult when he felt as if he was on the verge of losing consciousness. Eventually, he extracted several, tossed half of them in Jecht’s direction and swallowed the rest himself, soon feeling normal again. He straightened up as Jecht did the same.

“OK, guys, we’re gonna have to talk about resource management,” Jecht complained, “because yours is shit. We just used up, like, half our potion supply, but if Braska just did some lightning on that thing –”

“Fire,” Auron corrected him; Jecht’s knowledge of elemental weaknesses was still minimal. “No, Jecht, this is non-negotiable. We’re handling this ourselves today – I made sure we have plenty of potions. Lord Braska is saving his strength for the fayth.”

“That’s dumb,” said Jecht. “Braska, you could’ve just done one little fire and then you wouldn’t even have to white magic us anyway. One spell ain’t much, right?”

“No,” said Auron again. “I told you, no. What makes this so hard to understand? Why are you so determined to call every single one of my decisions into question?”

“Auron,” said Braska, before Jecht could respond. “Please – both of you.” Having gone from seeing both his guardians almost knocked out by the fiend to witnessing another of their increasingly vicious arguments, he was starting to feel distressed again. The thought that he could indeed have stepped in to prevent their discomfort was making him progressively more convinced that he was handling everything terribly. “Please,” he said again, unsure what he could do but beg. “Just stop fighting, will you?”

Auron’s heart sank; Braska looked as if he was about to cry again, and Auron knew it was at least partly his fault. He sheathed his sword and walked on, trying to put aside his anger. He had always been short-tempered, but the warrior monks had practised stoicism, and he had usually succeeded, when he had to, in ignoring worldly cares and letting his faith be a guide. But after his recent experiences, that seemed more difficult. He was irritable and on edge more often than not these days, concerned about the progress of the pilgrimage for multiple reasons. The days when he had been able to persuade himself to rise above such minor annoyances seemed long gone.

They rounded a corner in the path, and came to the shore of the lake. It had been frozen over for hundreds of years; the sheet of ice on its surface was rumoured to be several feet thick. Travellers normally walked straight across the middle; the chance of anything but an extremely strong force breaking the ice was minimal.

Auron, who had been taking the lead in an attempt to forget Jecht was with him, came to the edge of the lake first. He looked across to the opposite shore, taking in the expanse they would have to cross; then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he found himself thinking about the body of water that lay beneath the ice; and then, just as suddenly, he felt sharp, irregular pains across his chest, his heart beating a frantic counterrhythm against each constriction. His vision blurred; he staggered back, almost losing his balance, and stumbled into Jecht, who had approached from behind.

“Hey, watch it,” Jecht said angrily, shoving Auron away. Auron might have ordinarily retaliated in kind, but he was too disorientated; all the energy he could muster was focused on trying to stay standing. He turned away from the lake as his vision sharpened and his heartbeat slowed; the sense of panic, of something being terribly and indescribably wrong, gradually ebbed away.

“We’ll go around,” he said breathlessly. “Instead of crossing the lake directly – we’ll stay on the shore.” He searched his mind for an excuse. “Fewer fiends, I think.”

“Yeah, but the path’s longer,” Jecht pointed out, not unreasonably.

Braska tried to brace himself: he could see yet another argument brewing, and he didn’t know whether he would be able to bear it. Auron knew that more squabbling would upset him, he thought, and Jecht had been told enough times by now too. He really didn’t want things to turn sour yet again; it would be one altercation too many.

“You go that way if you want,” said Auron, “but I won’t be joining you.”

He turned to walk along the lakeshore; the others fell into step behind him after a moment’s pause. Normally, Auron would have been stubborn enough to try talking Jecht around, as unkindly as necessary; he was accustomed to his decisions being the correct ones, and was usually prepared to defend them at great length. On this occasion, he was just determined to move away from the edge of the lake as soon as possible. He walked on, trying to avoid looking to the side and seeing the sheet of ice again; his reaction to it had been deeply unsettling.

They fought more fiends on the rest of the journey; the flans they encountered caused just as much trouble as the first had. Braska continued to hang back, looking on gravely as his guardians slowly took them down, almost went down themselves, and carefully healed their injuries using potions. Jecht had ceased to complain about it, although he still thought the whole process incredibly inefficient. He had been working through his beers on the journey, and by now was mellow enough not to be particularly bothered about challenging Auron’s decisions.

Eventually, they arrived at the temple. It was an impressive structure, built to look as if it was floating in midair in the middle of a huge, icy grotto, but in reality anchored to the ground far below by large and ancient ice crystals, more of which surrounded the temple roof and blocked out much of the natural light. A narrow path snaked towards the building; unlike the temple itself, the path truly was suspended in the air, as improbable as it seemed. Magic was clearly at play in the temple’s construction, and it was difficult to discern the exact boundary between the man-made and the natural. Each of the temples of Spira had its eccentricities, although this one was far more striking than the temple of Bahamut in Bevelle that had been the first stop on Braska’s journey. That temple was in the middle of the city, and hardly stood out against the surrounding buildings; this one was the only such structure for miles around, and that fact alone made it remarkable.

They climbed the front steps and entered, passing through the elaborate double doors that opened into the temple atrium. Inside, the statues and decorations resembled those of any other temple of Yevon; pendants inscribed with the holy alphabet adorned the walls, spelling out invocations to the fayth. Groups of monks and nuns stood around, talking quietly or making their oblations. In the centre, a staircase led to a second pair of doors; a priest stood guard at the top of the steps. It was this man who would require Braska to present himself, and who would allow the summoner and his guardians to pass through the doors to reach the fayth’s chamber.

A blue sphere stood by the temple entrance, coming to about waist height. It was one of the waymarkers that summoners and other pilgrims used to record their progress. They were a largely unexplained blend of magic and machina, bathed in an ethereal glow: the kind of thing that would have been banned several times over by Yevon, had they not been deemed essential in carrying out the teachings. With the signals sent from such devices, the high priests could track the progress of summoners as they journeyed around Spira – whether those journeys ever came to anything was another matter.

Braska bent to touch the sphere, watching as the blue glow briefly enveloped his hand. No doubt the authorities in Bevelle would be displeased at the news that he had made it even this far; it gave him a perverse thrill of satisfaction to think it. He was still feeling fretful, especially now that his trial was near; but being in the temple made him determined to see the task through, and just as it had been earlier in the morning, that was enough to ensure he carried on.

Jecht, meanwhile, had realised something: somebody in the depths of the temple was singing a song, and it was the same tune that he habitually got stuck in his head – the same one Auron had scolded him for humming to himself the previous day. “The Hymn,” he murmured, remembering what Auron had called it. It was the first time he’d heard it being sung by another person; he’d always assumed he must have made it up of his own accord.

“Coming back to you, is it?” Auron hissed.

Jecht shrugged; he didn’t want to admit that he was confused. “So what if it is?” he said.

Rolling his eyes contemptuously, Auron slipped off to pray, kneeling at the foot of the nearest statue. He closed his eyes and reflected reluctantly on the morning’s events. His mind was unsettled; his continued disagreements with Jecht had made him act rashly and unkindly, and Braska had suffered because of it. That was the last thing Auron wanted. Moreover, his experience at the shore of the frozen lake had been disconcerting to say the least. All he needed was a sign of some kind, some guidance from the fayth on how he might assuage his troubled thoughts.

Jecht glanced at Auron’s crouched form, trying to forget about the odd experience with the Hymn. It was unusual, he thought, to see his fellow guardian so still and reverent. He tore his gaze away with a little reluctance and took in the rest of the scene, swigging contemplatively from his beer bottle.

“You should put that away while we’re in here,” said Braska, frowning. “This is a holy place.”

“Yeah?” said Jecht without much interest.

“Yes,” Braska said. “I don’t normally insist on following those parts of the teachings – goodness knows they’re full of nonsense. But there are some things where it’s just a matter of decorum. You shouldn’t be drinking in a temple: it’s bad manners.”

Jecht was about to argue, but Braska’s voice was a little hoarse and his eyes glistened slightly, so he decided it was preferable to stop the conversation as soon as possible, even if that did mean having to follow orders. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll behave, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Braska murmured.

Jecht put his beer bottle away and looked for a way to distract himself, ending up peering at the three large statues that flanked the central staircase. Casting an eye over their appearance, he tried to work out who the people depicted could be, but had little luck when none of them resembled each anyone he had met in Spira so far.

He tried to think about something else, but the only thought that seemed to occur to him was how much he wished he could go back to his drinking. He tried looking down at Auron briefly, but found the sight of his motionless, prostrate form too irritating, so he pretended to concentrate on the statues for a little longer before sneaking another look towards Braska, whose condition fortunately seemed not to have deteriorated.

“Who’re these guys?” he asked.

“The High Summoners,” Braska explained quietly. “The people who have defeated Sin before – Yevonites revere them, and rightly so.” He gestured at the leftmost statue; it depicted a man clad in a strangely boxy robe, his head mostly hidden by an odd triangular hat. “This is Lord Gandof. He became the first High Summoner, four hundred years ago. He’s a bit of a mystery, in fact – there are some legends about his Final Summoning, and he’s supposed to have done all sorts of good things for Spira, but we don’t know much about who he was as a person.”

Braska wasn’t accustomed to giving long explanations like this – that was normally Auron’s department – but it helped him focus on what lay ahead. He went on, pointing out the second statue, a bearded man wearing a large cloak. “Lord Ohalland. He was a blitzball player, in fact. He defeated Sin around two hundred years after Lord Gandof did. And that one –” He indicated the third statue, a slighter figure whose eyes were hidden by a veil; it was at the foot of this statue that Auron was pressing himself to the ground. “Lady Yocun. The most recent High Summoner – nearly a hundred years ago now. Her triumph is well documented.”

“Huh,” said Jecht, finding the new information difficult to make sense of. “You mean – these are the only people that’ve managed to beat Sin? In – how long did you say? Four hundred years?”

Braska shook his head. “A thousand, nearly.”

“And –” Jecht blinked, trying to understand. “Wait, you mean Sin comes back? We gotta go all this way, go in all the temples and everythin’, and it just comes back?” His voice had risen to an indignant squawk; a few of the priests and nuns had turned around, casting looks of displeasure in his direction.

“Er,” said Braska, “yes, but –” He was at a loss for words. It was true: Sin always had returned, eventually, after each High Summoner defeated it. But he was convinced it was worth it, to give Spira a few years of respite; even if Sin did come back, there was that precious time in between when the people could go about their lives without fear. It was worth the exchange.

He was still hesitating, searching his muddled thoughts for something that might convince Jecht of how important the pilgrimage was, when Auron suddenly stood, turning to face his companions.

“There’s always a chance of defeating Sin for good,” he said, quietly and solemnly. “The teachings say that if a High Summoner defeats Sin at a time when the people of Spira are deemed to have atoned for their transgressions, then Sin will leave us in peace – forever. So we have to keep trying. It’s the one thing that sustains us.” He looked at Braska, and Braska found himself nodding with relief.

“Hope,” said Auron, his gaze still fixed on Braska. “That’s what makes this worth it. Hope that we can rid Spira of this torment for good. Isn’t that right, my lord?”

“Yes,” Braska breathed. “That’s it. Hope.” It was a word the two of them had exchanged countless times in their preparation for the pilgrimage: when Braska had been feeling especially low, or struggling with his training, and later, when Auron had been the one to suffer. Through those trying times, they had kept that hope as a talisman, reminding each other of the importance of their journey. Hope that the pilgrimage would end in success – and, in Auron’s case, hope that he would find a way to alter that ending.

Jecht grimaced; it was disturbing to think about the fact that Sin had been around for so long. Spira had already seemed a much more sombre place than Zanarkand even when he first arrived, and gradually learning more about the perilous existence of its people was merely making him wish even more fervently that he would be able to leave soon. “You guys are messed up,” he muttered.

Braska forced out a rueful chuckle. “Indeed we are,” he said. “But we can’t mope around here all day.” He looked at the staircase and tried to ignore his mounting feeling of dread. “We should go inside,” he murmured.

“Sir, are you sure?” Auron asked. “You don’t want to rest?”

“I’m as prepared as I can be,” Braska assured him. “No use putting this off.” He made a valiant attempt at a smile, and ascended the steps to face the priest who stood at the top.

“Good morning,” he said, returning the man’s deep Yevonite bow with a small nod. “I am a summoner, by the name of Braska. I have already gained the æon from Bahamut’s temple in Bevelle. And these are my guardians.” He indicated Auron and Jecht behind him.

The priest nodded, looking carefully at each of them in turn. His gaze settled on Auron; he frowned, and then said slowly, “Aren’t you that monk –”

“No,” said Braska immediately; at the same time, Auron said, “Someone else.”

“Oh,” said the priest, a little confused; he nonetheless waved them on. “May Yevon be with you.”

Braska knew, on the contrary, that Yevon was against him, but he passed through the door without further complaint. His guardians followed, finding themselves at one end of an ice-covered corridor. Another door marked the way onward, but between the two, the floor dropped out entirely. The only way they could go was down a slope that ran off to one side.

They made their way down, into a cavernous underground chamber. Pillars and pedestals stood around; small glowing spheres were set into some of them. This was the Cloister of Trials, the puzzle that blocked the way to the fayth at each temple with the aim of making sure summoners and their guardians had sufficiently sharp minds before they were permitted to continue. The reason for this requirement had never been elucidated during Braska’s training as a priest, nor, much later, as a summoner; neither was there anything about it in the teachings. It was one of the many unexplained mysteries of Yevon.

The Trials of Bevelle had been complex, with a series of moving platforms that had left Auron and Braska back at the start of the path more than once after they had made a wrong decision. Auron had tried to handle as much of the puzzle as he could by himself, so that Braska could concentrate on preparing his mind to commune with the fayth, but it had been a slow and complex process. Braska had made a few contributions where something leapt out at him, but he had been increasingly distracted as time had gone on, and Auron had had to struggle through most of the exercise alone. It had taken a long time, and both had been tense and irritable by the end.

This time, Braska thought, at least Jecht might be able to contribute and give Auron some help. He watched as his guardians headed towards the first sphere, and Auron reached out and extracted it from the cavity it rested in.

“OK,” said Jecht, “what the hell is this?”

“The Cloister of Trials,” Auron told him. “It’s a sort of puzzle that we have to complete before we can move ahead. We’ll need to use these spheres to activate the switches.” He looked around, and noticed a small nearby pedestal with a round slot on its side. “This looks promising,” he announced, striding forward to the pedestal and placing the sphere into it. Above the pedestal, a glyph appeared, rotating slowly in midair.

“Freaky,” Jecht remarked. “Now what?”

“It might move,” said Auron dubiously, and he gave the pedestal an experimental push. It slid along the ground, coming to a stop when it collided with a large icicle growing from the floor.

Auron frowned; nothing seemed to have happened beyond the rather dramatic shattering of the icicle. While he was contemplating what to do next, Jecht moved forward and gave the pedestal another push in a different direction, sending it into a second one. This time, when the ice broke, it revealed a ramp that led to a lower level, and the pedestal continued to slide along, travelling smoothly down until it was out of sight.

“I get it!” Jecht crowed, charging down the ramp after the pedestal.

The others followed more slowly. Auron and Jecht experimented with the spheres, inserting them into the various slots that presented themselves; Auron had had some practice at this in Bevelle, but he was well matched by Jecht, who turned out to have a natural aptitude for the task. Nearly every time it was necessary to take one of the spheres and move it into another slot, the two of them seemed to have different opinions on what move to make; with a fair amount of trial and error, though, and a lot more bickering, they eventually succeeded in figuring out most of the puzzle, and after some time, all that remained was the illumination of a single pillar, which would lock the final section of the path into place and allow them to move on.

“Right,” said Auron wearily. “I suppose we take one of the green spheres from down here, then, and put it into the last pillar upstairs.”

Jecht scowled at him. “The green spheres? What, are you dumb? The green ones ain’t gonna light up the pillars. There’s another white one in the wall up there, right? We need to use that one.”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Auron. “I don’t think we left one up there.”

“We definitely did,” said Jecht, “a hundred percent.” He led the way up the ramp; sure enough, there was a sphere in the back wall, glowing invitingly.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to take this one out, though,” said Auron. “It’ll stop us going back down, won’t it?”

“And why do we gotta do that?” said Jecht, exasperated. “This is the last bit of the path, right – no point going downstairs now anyway.”

“It just seems like a bit of a risk,” said Auron through gritted teeth. “We might need access to the rest of the spheres.”

“Bullshit,” said Jecht. He headed towards the wall, ready to extract the sphere from its slot.

“Wait,” said Auron, raising a hand to his head as he tried to concentrate. Jecht’s contrariness had hardly helped him keep track of which spheres were where. The Cloister of Trials here was simpler than the one in Bevelle, but in Auron’s estimation, the experience in Macalania had been notably less pleasant. He attempted to focus on their progress so far: if the sphere up here was white and the ones downstairs were green, he thought, that meant …

Braska, who had previously declined to contribute, cleared his throat cautiously. “Sorry, Auron,” he said, “but I think Jecht’s right. It looks as if only the white spheres will operate the pillars, if I’ve understood this correctly.”

Auron was still trying to understand the state of play; Jecht grinned, plucked the sphere from its cavity in the wall, and darted over to the pillar, where he inserted it. The pillar lit up; he pumped his fist in triumph. “Oh yeah!” he exclaimed. “The great Jecht does it again! Suck on that, Auron!”

“Jecht,” said Braska warningly, giving Auron’s bare arm a brief touch that he hoped would convey some sympathy. Auron shook his head, trying not to be too annoyed by his fellow guardian’s behaviour; Braska had to be his priority, he reminded himself. His quiet moment of prayer in the temple atrium had helped him remember that.

He stayed by Braska’s side as they ascended the ramp and proceeded along the newly made path, observing him closely. Braska seemed subdued, he thought, but certainly better than he had been first thing in the morning. Despite everything that had happened on the journey, the situation could have been worse.

They entered the small antechamber that led to the chamber of the fayth. “Well, I think this is it,” said Braska, his voice faltering a little. “I hope I’m not too long.”

“You can take as long as you need,” Auron assured him. “I’m with you, sir – I’ll be right here.”

“Thank you,” Braska whispered, and he reluctantly turned away and headed on through the heavy door at the other side of the room.

5. Thanks For Your Concern

After Braska disappeared through the door that led to the fayth’s chamber, there was a long silence. “What do we do now?” said Jecht eventually.

“We wait,” Auron replied.

Jecht snorted. “Didn’t take you for the waitin’ type.”

Auron acknowledged the remark with a brief raise of the eyebrows. Jecht was right – he had never been patient – but he would wait all day for Braska if he had to.

Jecht heaved out a long, theatrical sigh, and sat cross-legged on the floor, revealing the dirty, rough soles of his bare feet to Auron, who altered the angle of his stance minutely so as not to have to look at them. “So what’s he doin’ in there?” Jecht asked.

“Praying to the fayth,” Auron replied. “That’s the point of the summoner’s pilgrimage: summoners pray to the fayth of each temple, and if they’re deemed worthy, they can receive the æon.”

“Wait, wait, slow down,” said Jecht. “What’s an æon? No, actually, go back to the fayth – what’s that?”

Auron sat down on the steps; they would probably be there a while after all, he thought. “The fayth are the guardian spirits of Spira,” he explained. “The deities of Yevon, in essence. Temples are built over places where the fayth made their sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice?” said Jecht.

“Yes. Each fayth was once a person who chose to die,” said Auron. “In times of war, or torment from Sin – there were those who decided the best thing to do would be to give their own lives to protect the people. With their strength, they can sustain the æon, and then the æon is used by the summoner.”

Jecht’s blank expression was encouragement enough to go on. “Æons are – they’re a bit like fiends, I suppose, but bigger and more powerful. Once a summoner gains the trust of one of the fayth, that fayth allows the summoner to call on their æon. That’s what Lord Braska is doing in there right now – attempting to convince the fayth of this temple that he’s worthy. If he succeeds, he’ll be able to summon the æon in the future.”

“And if not?” Jecht prompted him.

It was a very real possibility; a lot of summoners’ pilgrimages ended because of the premature death or serious injury of a traveller, but it was just as common for the fayth of a given temple to refuse to surrender their æon to those who came asking for it. Nonetheless, Auron hesitated before responding. He and Braska had never properly discussed what would happen if they were forced to abort the journey for such a reason. It would destroy Braska, he knew, if one of the fayth were to turn him back.

“Then he’ll have to abandon his pilgrimage,” he murmured.

Jecht grimaced. “Well, that’d be a bummer. Dunno how I’d get back to Zanarkand in that case – maybe I’d find another summoner to take me. Are there lots of ’em?”

“Usually five to ten on the go,” Auron informed him. “Probably more like ten now, since the weather’s getting better.”

“And …” Jecht frowned. “Only three of ’em ever beat Sin?”

“What’s your point?” Auron asked, knowing full well what it was.

“We ain’t gonna get to Zanarkand, are we?” said Jecht.

Auron folded his arms. “Jecht, if you’re so desperate to make it to Zanarkand, you know what you have to do – be an attentive guardian. If Lord Braska doesn’t manage to win the fayth’s trust, that’s out of our hands. But the rest is our responsibility. We need to support him.”

Jecht grunted in response.

“Our lives should be dedicated to his protection,” Auron added, just for the pleasure of seeing Jecht squirm. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe what he was saying: he would willingly risk his life for the sake of Braska’s wellbeing, but he could tell Jecht wasn’t used to putting others’ needs before his own.

“I get it,” Jecht said peevishly; Auron responded with a small snort of amusement.

They were silent for a while, and then Jecht said, “Why’d you change your mind, anyway?”

“What do you mean?” said Auron.

“If I asked questions before,” said Jecht, “you never gave me a real answer. This mean you finally believe I’m from Zanarkand?”

Auron contemplated the question: Jecht was close to the mark, but not quite there. It had been Auron’s prayer at the foot of Lady Yocun’s statue that had shown him the way forward: tense and troubled, he had found that a few minutes’ quiet reflection had been enough to allow him to think about the situation more calmly. All he had managed to do with his constant suspicion of Jecht was make things more difficult for Braska, and that was the last thing he wanted.

“I still think the idea of someone actually coming from Zanarkand is ludicrous,” he explained carefully, “but I am starting to think you really are unfamiliar with Yevon. I thought you were doing it to annoy me, but – you really don’t know anything. There’s no way anyone would pretend to be that ignorant – it would just make them look stupid.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Jecht. “And I thought you were finally showin’ me some respect, but turns out you’re still a dick.”

“Takes one to know one,” Auron muttered.

“Whatever.”

They sat in silence for some time longer, and then Jecht groaned loudly. “Oh man, I’m fed up of waitin’,” he complained.

“Get used to it,” said Auron unsympathetically.

“How many more times do we gotta do this?” said Jecht.

“Four,” Auron replied. “The temples of Djose, Kilika and Besaid, and then the Final Æon in Zanarkand.”

“Final Æon, huh?” Jecht echoed. “Sounds fancy.”

Auron didn’t respond. Jecht’s typically vapid response had led him to a sudden realisation: if Jecht really didn’t know about any of this, he thought, then he would have no idea of the significance of the Final Summoning. He was totally ignorant of the consequences of a successful pilgrimage.

“Why’s he doin’ it, anyway?” Jecht went on. “How do the æons help him beat Sin?”

“They don’t,” said Auron. “It’s only the Final Æon that he’ll have to use against Sin. But he needs to master the rest of them first. They’re extremely powerful – he can’t just go straight to the fayth of the Final Æon and expect to win their trust immediately. Each fayth lends him a little more strength, and then once he gets to Zanarkand he should be ready for the last one.”

“But it could turn him away, like any of the others, right,” Jecht surmised.

“That’s true,” said Auron. “Although I suppose it won’t matter to you,” he added contemptuously. “You’ll be home by then.”

“You got it,” said Jecht coolly, trying to mask the sting he felt from Auron’s words. Auron was right, to some extent: getting to Zanarkand was the most important aim in Jecht’s mind. But that didn’t mean he didn’t care about Braska’s goal, at least a little. It was clear that Braska was committed to his task; and Sin, Jecht could tell, was obviously a serious concern for the Spiran people. He wasn’t planning to get too hung up on it, but he had nothing against Braska and therefore had no reason not to hope he would succeed. If Auron was the summoner, things might have been different.

They exchanged few words after that.

Braska, meanwhile, had left the antechamber and found himself rather disconcerted that it led not directly to the chamber of the fayth, as he had expected, but back outside. There, another long and icy path lay before him. Thankful for the Al Bhed’s generosity, he carefully made his way down the slope – the journey seemed longer without his guardians’ company, fractious as their relationship was. At last, he arrived at the other end, finding a door that took him inside once again; after that, he was met with a small chamber whose main feature was a colourful and otherworldly carving set into the floor in front of him. This was the stone in which the fayth had been preserved, and from which their spirit would rise.

He carefully assumed a kneeling position, laying his staff on the floor in front of him. When he had done the same in Bevelle in order to gain his first æon, it had been the first time he had prayed in at least seven years; but this was one of the few occasions where, in his opinion, praying was merited. He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his clasped hands, trying to remain calm.

Time passed, and then he heard a voice.

“Stand, summoner. Let me see you.”

He got to his feet; his knees ached. He suspected he had been on the ground for a good while, although after the first few minutes, the exact nature of the passage of time had begun to elude him. As he lifted his head and beheld the ghostly figure in front of him, taking in her voluminous, colourful garments, he realised: she had been a member of the clergy, just like he once had.

“My lady,” he said reverently.

He could see her eyes roving over him, taking in his appearance; but she said nothing. “I am Braska,” he began.

“Yes,” she replied. “Braska. I know you; I can see you. No need to speak your thoughts – they are no secret to me.”

He realised, then, that she was not merely looking him over, but somehow reading inside him, seeking to understand him without the need for him to speak himself. Bahamut’s fayth had done the same, he recalled, back in Bevelle. This time, because the fayth was a grown woman and not a child, the experience of it seemed very different. He was grateful that her body was so thoroughly covered up; it made it easier to ignore the strange intimacy of the act. If she had dressed in a way that made her features more obvious, he found himself thinking, he would no doubt have been reminded of Girl.

The thought of it, of course, was enough to make him think of her anyway, and he felt his jaw clench as the fayth studied him.

“Such sorrow,” she said. “So few years. Sin has wronged you, summoner – but Yevon has been still more unkind.”

Braska was glad he didn’t need to speak out loud – her words were enough to bring him close to tears again. He closed his eyes and tried to redirect his thoughts, breathing deeply in and out as he focused on his simple determination to obtain the æon and complete the pilgrimage.

“Your will is strong,” the fayth said in response. “But I must see, summoner. Show me what is in your heart, and then I shall show you mine.”

He understood – again, Bahamut’s fayth had used the same technique. The child had reached out to him with a ghostly hand, stretching upwards to take his own, and as soon as they had made contact, his mind had begun to flood with memories: his own memories, unsettling in their vividness. He had come to understand that the fayth was searching inside him, seeking those moments that would reveal the true reasons for his decision to follow the summoner’s path. That had been what had exhausted him the most during the encounter: having to relive his own life, watching all the trials he had faced, in so much detail that it felt as if he was suffering anew.

Braska stepped forward; the fayth had already extended both her hands towards his own. He let her take them; she drew them together in a gesture of prayer, and then it began.

He was a young boy again, standing obediently by as the great rituals of Yevon were conducted. He was a teenager, aiding the senior priests at one of Bevelle’s minor temples; then, he was a young man, lodging with the Al Bhed in the city they called Home, sharing warm pastries with Girl and her brother. He was teaching those who did not reject him outright about the doctrines of Yevon, and his friend Rin was the only one listening; he was walking on the shore with the Al Bhed elders, learning about machina that even Bevelle men would never have dreamt of; he was an outcast, worried but reasonably content, at home with Girl and an unfathomably tiny Yuna. He was practising black magic; he was distraught, utterly bereft, and struggling through paperwork that was so arcane it seemed to be in a foreign language, and they had taken Yuna away from him; he was rediscovering his purpose in Bevelle. He was distressed, but determined, working through each day with ever-increasing certainty about what he would do. He was standing in the city sun with Auron, doing his best to listen to his friend animatedly complain about the maesters’ most recent decree. He was staggering out of the chamber of the fayth, a summoner at last, and Auron’s strong hands were steadying him.

The memories ended; Braska came back to himself with a start, and found that he had sunk to his knees, his hands still holding onto the fayth, now above his head, as if his wrists had been tied to a post. His head was pounding; the experience of reliving his whole life in such a short time had been just as unpleasant as it was in Bevelle. He stayed there, kneeling, anchored by the fayth’s grip as he fought the urge to collapse.

“You have great passion, summoner,” the fayth murmured.

The sound of her voice, gentle though it was, made Braska’s head hurt even more; he couldn’t prevent himself from releasing a brief moan, swaying on the spot as the fayth continued to grip his hands. He was dimly aware of her bending forward, leaning close, and then, suddenly, the images returned.

It was her life he was witnessing now; a life lived hundreds of years ago, but the struggles the people had faced back then were fundamentally the same. He could understand what it was like to have been the priestess that this fayth once was: he saw through her eyes.

He knew of nothing but love: love for Spira, and for the people of the ice fields especially. They had been visited by Sin, again and again, and they deserved better; they deserved something that lasted longer, something that would allow them to rest, just for a while.

He watched as her family were taken, one by one, their blood soaking into the snow as bells tolled incessantly for the dead. He watched as she performed the rituals, protecting the people even when her own grief was new and raw. He saw what nobody at the time had seen: how, when the ceremonies ended for the evening and the villagers returned to their homes, she let her strength crumble and broke down, weeping for her lost husband and children. He watched as she finally stepped up to offer her soul, and he understood: they were not so different.

The images ended abruptly; Braska was back in the fayth’s chamber, shaking with distress, confused by the two lifetimes he had witnessed. It was difficult, by this point, to distinguish what had happened in his own life from what had happened in hers. He looked up towards her, trying to maintain eye contact despite the pain clouding his vision.

She let go of his hands; that was all it took for him to slump to the floor, his forearms smarting as they made contact with the ground through the sleeves of his robe. It was a struggle not to lose consciousness; but he held on, scrabbling against the floor with his fingertips in an attempt to hold onto something that was real and solid, and not an awful memory long repressed. He felt the fayth’s careful touch against his headdress; she had bent over his prone form and was leaning close.

“Summoner,” she said, “you have much to learn. There is still weakness within you – you must be ready to cast that weakness out, and face the trials ahead.”

Braska could only whimper in response, pressing his face into the hard, cold ground.

“But you are passionate,” she murmured. “You have love, and that is all I ask. I grant you my æon – Shiva is her name. Only a little of her strength – you are not yet ready for more. But she will help you in all that she can.”

She stood, moving away from Braska; he felt her touch at the back of his neck recede.

“Choose wisely, summoner,” the fayth said as she faded away; but Braska heard nothing. He had passed out at last, and lay still and silent on the ground, alone.

A few minutes passed; Braska drifted back into consciousness, and hauled himself into a kneeling position, gasping from the effort. His head was still throbbing; his arms ached, having borne the impact from his fall to the ground after the fayth had let go of him. He massaged them slowly in an attempt to ease the pain; a simple Cure spell would have done the job, but he was in no state to be casting magic.

The images of the fayth’s life and her sacrifice were still in his mind, although he was finding it easier to separate them from his own memories with each passing second: they were starting to seem more like scenes he might have seen in a sphere, or read about in a novel. Remembering his own struggles was nonetheless deeply unpleasant, and it was hard for him to decide which set of visions to dwell on.

He located his staff and used it as an aid in clambering to his feet. Standing, he felt lightheaded again, and pressed a hand to his forehead to soothe himself; then, once he felt able to walk, he made his slow way towards the exit. The journey back up the icy slope did nothing to make him feel better; he shuffled forward at a snail’s pace, reminding himself that every step would bring him closer to a soothing potion and the chance to rest. Everything ached, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to continue, feeling more and more sure that he was about to faint again.

Auron and Jecht were both seated; they hadn’t spoken for a long time, beyond a few muttered complaints from Jecht about how bored he was. Auron had almost fallen asleep, but as soon as he heard the door to the fayth’s chamber opening, he leapt to his feet.

Braska stood at the top of the short set of stairs, his eyes half-lidded; Auron hurried to his side, vaulting the steps two at a time. As he approached Braska, he threw an arm around his back to support him; Braska leant into the contact, relief evident on his sweat-drenched face.

“Thank you, Auron,” he mumbled. “It was difficult, but – the fayth has accepted me.”

“Well done, my lord,” Auron murmured, and then turned to Jecht, who had stood and was staring at Braska in disbelief. “Jecht,” he said. “Come up here and help me.”

Jecht found himself rooted to the spot; the sight of Braska looking this awful was too horrifying. Braska had already shown weakness that, in Jecht’s opinion, was unbecoming of a man; seeing him as vulnerable as this was something he found absolutely repulsive. The thought that he might have to care for Braska in the way Auron was doing, hold him gently and ease his pain – the idea of it was disgusting. He cast a glance at the exit, looked briefly back at Auron, and then made up his mind: it was time to get out of there. He bolted.

“What in the names of all the fayth,” Auron muttered. “Damn you, Jecht!” he yelled, losing his grip on Braska a little. Braska stumbled slightly.

“Auron,” he said, “now is not the time –”

“Is it ever the time?” Auron snapped.

“Please, Auron,” said Braska, and the weakness in his voice reminded Auron of the task at hand.

“Of course, my lord,” he said, suddenly chastised, and he guided Braska down the steps, helping him sit when they reached the bottom. Braska leant against Auron’s shoulder, pressing one hand to his forehead, and tried his very hardest not to faint again as Auron searched his possessions for a potion, eventually producing one and handing it over.

Braska drank it down as quickly as he could; it did little for the headache, but his arms stung less at least. He took out his handkerchief to clumsily wipe the sweat from his face; Auron, meanwhile, continued looking through his own belongings in search of some ether. It was a liquid that alleviated magic-related pains and tiredness; bottles were in short supply, and it was common practice to keep them for emergencies, but this situation was deserving enough, in Auron’s opinion.

He located one at last and passed it to Braska; Braska took it with an exhausted nod of thanks, gulped it down, and sat there forcing out deep breaths, his hands on his knees. The ether had helped; a few more moments, he thought, and he would have the strength to begin the journey back to the travel agency.

Auron lifted his bare hand to place it on top of Braska’s, hoping the contact might be some solace during his recovery; Braska made no reaction, and after a few seconds, Auron discreetly withdrew again, trying not to make anything of it. He waited, watching Braska silently until the latter finally raised his head and met Auron’s gaze with a weak smile.

“Thank you, Auron,” he said softly. “I’ll be all right – let’s go.”

“Are you sure, sir?” said Auron. “You don’t want to rest a bit longer?”

Braska shook his head. “No, I’m ready – and Jecht will be waiting.”

The mention of Jecht made Auron suddenly irritated again. “If he hasn’t run off,” he muttered.

“Auron,” Braska warned him.

“No, my lord,” Auron insisted, looking at the ground. “I’m sorry, but I must protest – he’s not fit to be your guardian! If he can’t even do this –” He gestured around the room, and then looked back at Braska, attempting to ignore his reproving expression. “Even if he really is from Zanarkand – that doesn’t mean he can’t help when you need it –”

“Auron!” said Braska again. “If you must discuss this, take it up with him later. I need you to support me now – and if Jecht won’t give me any help, it’s even more crucial that I get it from you.”

Auron nodded, suddenly mortified that he had let Braska down yet again. A little prayer and reflection had allowed him to be more patient with Jecht for a while, but now the effects of that seemed to have worn off. He was tense and irritable again – it had become his default state over the past few weeks.

“Help me stand, please,” Braska commanded him.

Auron supported him glumly, letting Braska take hold of his arm as they both slowly stood. Once they were up, Braska broke away from Auron, and walked forward without looking at him; Auron felt his heart sink even further. They made their way across the chamber, and then along the long, icy path that their completion of the Trials had set in place. Auron followed Braska closely, ready to support him if he needed it; Braska was determined not to rely on his guardian, but when they reached the top of the long staircase that led down into the temple’s main hall, he found himself reaching for Auron’s arm instinctively. There were a good twenty or thirty steps; the way these temples were constructed hardly made things easier for summoners whom an encounter with the fayth had weakened.

They advanced clumsily down the stairs; Braska almost tripped over his own feet several times, but Auron’s strong grip righted him on each occasion. Braska felt a twinge of guilt at the realisation that Auron was still supporting him so steadfastly after their last interaction – but he dismissed the thought. This was Auron’s duty, he reminded himself, and in his own state of exhaustion and lingering pain, he could hardly be expected to be polite.

Auron had expected to find Jecht at the bottom of the steps, but the familiar figure he was faced with was an only slightly less unpleasant sight. It was Perula, an older lady from Bevelle who had undertaken training to become a summoner contemporaneously with Braska. Wedded to Yevon’s precepts, she therefore despised Braska, and now Auron, quite openly. There had been rumours in Bevelle that she had been training as a summoner for at least a decade, and had been rebuffed several times by the fayth of Bahamut; whether or not that was true, she had finally received the æon about a month before Braska had, and had at long last been able to begin her pilgrimage, enlisting her two young nephews to act as guardians.

“Oh, the fallen summoner,” said Perula as Braska reached ground level. “I hear that’s what they’re calling you – how appropriate. So you’ve finished your training.”

“He’s more than finished his training,” said Auron, “he has two æons now –”

Perula turned her gaze slowly on him, and then back towards Braska. “And you’ve brought your pet.”

Braska tightened his grip on Auron’s arm, both to support himself and to warn his guardian not to rise to the bait, and said, “It is good to see you too, Lady Perula. Forgive me for not speaking to you at greater length – the fayth of this temple has weakened me. I am sure you will cope admirably.”

“I would hope to do better than you, at any rate,” she said, casting a significant glance at the way he clung to Auron before sweeping past them both with her guardians in her wake.

“How can you stand it?” Auron couldn’t help asking. Being treated so dismissively was something he found hard to bear; Braska, on the other hand, had been the target of such mockery for almost a decade.

“I got used to it,” said Braska. “You won’t have to.” After Auron’s disgrace, Braska had realised that his rehabilitation within Yevon would be yet another positive outcome of his pilgrimage. If Auron returned to Bevelle following a successful defeat of Sin, they would have no choice but to admit they had been wrong to cast him out. He had said as much to Auron several days before the pilgrimage began, and had been surprised by Auron’s somewhat muted response.

“Please don’t worry about it, Auron,” he added. “I’ve had worse. Let’s fetch Jecht and be on our way.”

Auron nodded tightly; he had just spotted Jecht sitting on the floor at the other side of the atrium, and was disappointed to see that he was once again swigging assiduously at one of his ever-present beer bottles.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Braska murmured, extricating himself from Auron’s grip and leaning against the wall with a grimace; Auron made his way over to Jecht. “You know you’re not supposed to drink in here,” he growled. “I heard Lord Braska telling you not to; you said you wouldn’t. You promised.”

“Did I?” said Jecht. “Ah, so what. You gonna yell at me again?”

Auron suppressed a sigh; Jecht’s slow speech and ungainly movements were a sure sign that he had consumed a large amount of beer indeed while Braska had been mustering the strength to leave the temple. “No,” he said through gritted teeth. “That doesn’t matter, anyway, it’s the fact that you just ran out of there – Jecht, why? Why are you determined to neglect your duties when it matters most?”

Even as addled as he was, Jecht knew perfectly well why he had fled – it was for the simple reason that the sight of Braska in that state had made him extremely uncomfortable – but he wasn’t about to admit that to Auron. “Dunno,” he slurred. “Just had enough, yeah? Wanted some fresh air, you know?”

Auron shook his head in exasperation; there was no point trying to get any sense out of Jecht when he was this far gone, he decided. “We’re going back to the travel agency now,” he said, slowly and clearly as if he was speaking to a child. “Can you stand?”

“Gimme a minute,” Jecht grunted; he struggled to his feet. Auron looked back at Braska, who was wincing as he levered himself away from the wall; it was going to be an arduous journey back, he realised. At least, he reflected, he knew which of them he would be helping if they were both to stumble.

Braska led the way as they walked back, setting a pace that suited him and was much too slow for his guardians, but Auron insisted that the summoner not overexert himself. Jecht complained a few times about the slow pace of their progress, and on each occasion he was rebuffed with a hissed “shut up” from Auron. Braska was barely aware of their muttered arguments; he found that he had so little energy that the mere act of trudging through the snow demanded most of his concentration. At the temple, he had felt better after taking the medicines Auron had retrieved for him, but now, having to return to the journey was rapidly exhausting him again, not helped by the cold and bitter climate. He needed to stop and rest frequently, pressing a hand to his brow in largely futile attempts at assuaging his persistent headache. Auron stayed back on these occasions, making sure Jecht didn’t approach Braska and disturb him. He would have preferred to draw close to Braska himself, ready to lend a hand if he needed support, but after their brief disagreement in the temple, he was unsure of whether Braska really wanted him nearby at the moment.

Auron had expected Jecht’s combat skills to be significantly worse than usual in his drunken state, and had resigned himself to the thought that he would have to deal with the fiends himself; but it turned out that Jecht was still of some use, and the intermittent battles actually sobered him up fairly quickly. The flans still caused trouble for both of them, though, and they made heavy use of potions during those fights, gulping them down between blasts of ice from the fiends.

They circled the lake, as they had done in the morning; Auron purposely avoided looking at it this time, and, regardless, still felt a slight tightness in his chest. He wondered, once again, what the cause of this sudden discomfort was; it was something he had never experienced before. Dwelling on it would make him feel worse, though, he could tell; so he looked away into the snowy hills and tried his best to think about other things.

When they were halfway around the lake, they were set upon by two flans; it was a formation they had faced before, and while it had been hard on Auron and Jecht, they had always managed to see to both of them. This time, however, things went differently; instead of distributing their attacks between the two guardians, the flans happened both to target Auron. Almost on his knees, he succeeded in taking one of them out, and was confident that he would be able to dispatch the other one with Jecht’s help, but he had miscalculated; close as it was to going down, the second fiend nonetheless struck Auron with a strong torrent of ice, and it was too much for him to bear. His sword fell from his hand, hitting the frozen path with a loud clatter, and at the same time, Auron sank to the ground himself.

Jecht had landed the final blow on the fiend at the same time, and it disintegrated into spiralling pyreflies; he paid little attention, staring down at Auron’s motionless form instead in horror.

“Phoenix down,” said Braska, moving forward with surprising alacrity. “With the potions – a gold feather, you’ll know it when you see it.” With some effort, he knelt beside Auron and took his hand; normally he would have used a spell to raise him to consciousness, but that would be impossible in his current state. He caressed the lifeless hand instead, looking down at Auron sorrowfully; it was horrible to see his guardian incapacitated like this. Braska knew how strong Auron was and how much force he had trained himself to withstand: the flans must have been very powerful.

Jecht located the phoenix down, holding it aloft bemusedly as he tried to guess how it might help; Braska all but snatched it from him, tearing the feather into tiny pieces and scattering them over Auron’s chest. Soon enough, Auron’s eyes opened, and he hauled himself into a sitting position with a grimace.

“A potion, please, Jecht,” said Braska sharply, and Jecht passed him one; Braska unstopped the bottle and handed it to Auron, and Auron drank it down. As soon as he had swallowed it, the agonised expression left his face; on coming to, he had felt almost as bad as when the fiend had been about to strike him down, but now he was feeling much more invigorated.

Braska reached for Auron’s hand again. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I’d have cast Life if I could, but –”

“I’m fine,” Auron assured him. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Life?” Jecht stammered, and the other two looked up at him. “You don’t mean – uh – Auron, you weren’t dead, were you?”

Auron smirked. “Just knocked out. But thanks for your concern.”

“Magic can do all sorts of things,” Braska added, “but it can’t bring back the deceased, alas.”

“Sure,” Jecht mumbled, trying to disguise his discomfort. He turned away as Braska helped Auron to his feet; he couldn’t deny that briefly believing the fiend might have actually killed Auron had disturbed him. As much as Auron got on his nerves, he considered, having him die didn’t seem like it would be very pleasant – and Braska would certainly be upset by it.

Braska idly brushed some snow off the sleeve of Auron’s robe, and then said, “If there are more flans, I’ll help. Jecht was right earlier – this is more trouble than it’s worth. I’m not up to white magic at the moment, I’m afraid, but I think I’m well enough to use fire.”

Auron shook his head. “Don’t exert yourself, my lord. We have plenty of phoenix down – it’ll be no trouble.”

“No, Auron, I insist,” said Braska, with gentle intensity. “I don’t like seeing you hurt like that, especially when it’s so easy to prevent. Just one fire spell when one of those flans comes up – that’ll be enough to take them down without you and Jecht having to make a fuss. I’m only sorry I didn’t do it earlier.”

“Thank you, Lord Braska,” said Auron quietly.

Braska was right: at the next attack, they found that each flan went down with just one hit from a fire spell. Jecht had just about enough tact not to crow about the fact that his suggestion that morning had turned out to be the more efficient one. In Braska’s weakened state, he found it required more exertion than usual to cast the spells, but he tried not to make too much of his discomfort. His headache was worsening again, but he supposed that was a fair price to pay for his guardians’ health.

Finally, they reached the travel agency; all three were aching and tired, but none more so than Braska, who asked the clerk for some more medicine and then went straight to his bed. Auron grabbed Jecht before he was able to enter their room as well. “Don’t disturb Lord Braska while he’s sleeping,” he said. “If you want to rest, find somewhere else to do it.”

Jecht shook him off with a scowl. “I ain’t gonna rest,” he said dismissively – he wasn’t about to admit to Auron that the idea sounded highly appealing. “Whatever, see you later.”

He stomped off; Auron returned to the reception area and sank into one of the chairs there. It had been a gruelling day, he reflected; the long walk, the fiend attacks, having to put up with Jecht, seeing Braska so discomforted by the fayth – and of course, his own adverse reaction to the lake. By this point, he was thoroughly exhausted. He arranged himself into as comfortable a position as he could, and was asleep not long afterwards.

Time passed; it was noticeably darker when Auron found himself being shaken awake by Jecht. “What?” he mumbled, half-conscious.

“I’m hungry,” said Jecht. “This place do dinner?”

Auron rubbed his eyes. “They’ll make you something if you ask. Or you can go into the village again, if you want a proper meal.”

That avenue was closed off to Jecht, who was aware that he was now persona non grata in Macalania village. He headed over to the reception desk instead to make enquiries, and returned a few minutes later with two steaming bowls. Auron, who had been close to falling asleep again, eyed the one Jecht set in front of him with suspicion.

“You can say thanks, you know,” said Jecht through a mouthful of food, sitting down opposite Auron.

Auron grunted in response, and began to consume the dinner Jecht had brought him. It was a pleasant surprise, he had to admit, that Jecht had thought to get a portion for him as well; not that he was going to say so out loud.

“Guess we should get some for Braska too,” Jecht pointed out after a while.

“He’s not always that hungry when he’s –” Auron began, and then he reconsidered. “Yes, I suppose so. I’ll take him some.” He stood up stiffly – sleeping in the chair hadn’t been entirely comfortable – and went over to the reception desk to get the bowl refilled before heading to their room.

“Sorry to disturb you, my lord,” he said as he walked in; “we just wondered if you’d like some dinner.”

Braska looked up slowly; he wasn’t at all hungry, but he knew Auron would make a fuss if he didn’t eat. “Thank you,” he said, sitting up and taking the bowl from him.

“How are you feeling?” Auron said.

Sighing, Braska gave no answer at first. “It’s not a pleasant experience,” he said eventually. “But it was no worse than Bevelle, at least. I knew what to expect this time – that helped a little.”

“That’s good,” said Auron, watching as Braska slowly consumed his food. He ate about half of it before carefully setting the spoon down in the bowl and placing it on the table beside the bed.

“I should take tonight’s sphere for Yuna before I fall asleep again,” he said, without much enthusiasm. “Where’s the recorder?”

“Jecht has it, I think,” said Auron. “He’s at reception; I can go and –”

“No, I’ll go out and do it,” Braska interrupted. “Better than lying here like an invalid – I wouldn’t want to worry her.” He swept the blanket out of his way and stood up, still a little unsteady on his feet; then he located his robe, which he had removed along with the Al Bhed vest before getting into bed, and slipped it back over the light shirt and trousers he wore underneath. Forgoing the breastplate and the single earring he normally wore, he nonetheless put his headdress on, and left the room without a backward glance, taking the vest with him so he could drop it off with the Al Bhed next door.

Auron stood there, looking down at the bed; the imprint of Braska’s body was still dimly visible in the mattress. Privately, he couldn’t help feeling a little envious: the bed was no doubt significantly more comfortable than both the chair he had had to sleep in and the mat where he would again be spending the night. He reached out to touch the blanket; it was just as soft as it looked, he discovered.

He considered. Braska surely wouldn’t mind, he thought, if he took advantage of the bed while it was unoccupied. Just five minutes’ quick rest might make him a little less sore. He removed his robe and boots, arranging them in a neat pile on the floor, and climbed into the bed, sighing contentedly at how cosy it was. Barely a few seconds later, he was asleep.

Braska had left the vest back with the Al Bhed, all of whom seemed thrilled to hear he had been successful at the temple; after making his excuses, he walked out to the reception and found Jecht there, also sleeping in the same place Auron had left him. The sound of Braska approaching was enough to wake Jecht, and he straightened up quickly, hoping Braska wouldn’t notice he’d been asleep.

“Good evening, Jecht,” said Braska, taking the seat opposite. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Jecht said defensively.

“Not too tired, I hope,” said Braska. “It was a strenuous day for all of us, I’m sure.” Jecht made no response, so he added, “You wouldn’t have the sphere recorder, would you?”

“Sure,” said Jecht, fishing around in his belongings and handing it over. “Oh – takin’ a sphere for Yuna?”

“That’s right,” said Braska.

“Great!” Jecht exclaimed. “Let me get in frame.” He dragged his chair across the floor until it was next to Braska’s; Braska winced at the unpleasant noise it made.

“Oh,” he said, “you’re … I see.” He had hoped Jecht might give him some privacy, but he was beginning to suspect that his guardian would become a constant fixture in the evening spheres he recorded. Jecht had been absent from last night’s, but that was because he had been out in the village; now that he was around for the recording, he seemed to assume that Yuna would want to see him.

“Hello again, Yuna,” Braska said as he switched on the device.

“Hey, Yuna!” Jecht echoed.

“We travelled to Macalania Temple today,” Braska went on, trying to ignore him, “and I spoke to the fayth there – it was challenging, but she took pity on me. So I’ve gained a second æon, I’m pleased to say.”

“What is an æon, anyway?” Jecht asked. “Auron said something about big fiends and the strength of the fayth, or somethin’, but that sounds like a load of crap to me.”

“Language, Jecht,” said Braska quietly, nodding towards the sphere recorder. “I think you may have misunderstood him. The æons aren’t fiends, they’re the manifestation of the fayth’s will. It’s a little difficult to explain – I’ll show you at some point.” He turned back towards the sphere. “We’ll be heading back through the woods tomorrow – it’s a long journey to the next temple. Sir Auron said he expects it’ll take us at least a week to get there. First we have to cross the Thunder Plains, so I’ll need to make sure my water magic is strong; then we’ll stop off in Guadosalam, and then cross the Moonflow, of course –”

“Aw, man,” Jecht moaned. “We gonna walk all that way? You know, in Zanarkand, we have a metro, just gets you from one side of the city to the other in a couple hours. I guess there’s nothing like that here, huh.”

“I suspect that would be considered a forbidden machina,” said Braska gravely. “No, we’ll be making the journey on foot, I’m afraid.”

Jecht groaned. “This place sucks. I wanna go home.”

Turning back to the sphere recorder, Braska gave it an apologetic smile. “Well, I suppose we should turn in,” he said. “I love you, Yuna – goodnight.” He switched off the device and carefully took out the two halves of the sphere, stowing them away in his robes; then he looked back towards Jecht. It was a little irritating, Braska found, to have his spheres constantly hijacked by his guardian; but on the other hand, he knew Jecht was confused and lonely away from his hometown. He wondered whether he should ask about it – try to make Jecht feel comfortable – but he didn’t have the energy.

“Time for bed, I think,” he said. “More walking tomorrow.”

“What a surprise,” Jecht muttered, folding his arms; but bed certainly sounded like an attractive proposition, and he followed Braska back to their room. When they entered, they were both surprised to see Auron asleep in the bed, only the top of his head poking out of the blanket. He was sleeping soundly enough, but the noise of his companions walking in sufficed to wake him up, and he lifted his head, beginning to pull the blanket off himself before catching sight of Braska’s somewhat bemused expression and wishing he had remained covered up so as to spare himself the embarrassment.

“I didn’t expect to find you there, Auron,” Braska remarked.

“Yeah, too right!” said Jecht angrily. “What about all that the bed is for Lord Braska stuff? Just wanted to get me out the way so you could have a turn, huh? You lying piece of shit –”

“Sorry,” said Auron, totally ignoring Jecht and looking up at Braska guiltily. “I just meant to take a quick nap.”

“It’s all right,” Braska replied. Auron looked unusually young, he suddenly thought: with his cheeks reddened and his eyelids drooping with fatigue, his long hair uncharacteristically untidy, he seemed almost childlike. Or maybe, Braska reflected, it was just that he himself felt very old. After experiencing two full lifetimes in a day, ten years’ age difference had never seemed so large.

“I’d like to go back to sleep now,” he said, “so if you’d …”

“Of course,” Auron mumbled, and he clumsily made his way out of the bed and across the room to the mat where he had slept the previous night, lying down and hauling the blanket over himself without another word.

Braska raised his eyebrows at Jecht. “Well, that’s that, I suppose,” he said. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Jecht echoed. He eyed his own mat with displeasure, still resentful that everyone had got to sleep in a real bed but him. Nobody in Spira realised what a celebrity he was, he thought as he lay down. They didn’t understand that he deserved more respect than this.

6. Best Intentions

Auron, unusually, was the last to rise for breakfast the next day; he felt well rested, at least.

“Feeling better?” Braska murmured as Auron joined his companions at the breakfast table.

“I’m sorry,” said Auron, remembering the shame of being found in Braska’s bed the previous night. At the time, he had barely been awake enough to care; now, he looked back on the event with deep embarrassment.

“It’s quite all right,” said Braska. “You didn’t do any harm.” He gave Auron a brief touch to the wrist to emphasise his sincerity. “Did you rest well?”

“I did, sir,” said Auron. “Did you?”

Braska nodded.

He hadn’t eaten much of his breakfast, but Auron declined to comment on that and got started on his own portion, trying to avoid glancing at Jecht, whose approach to the food was just as chaotic as the previous morning. On the few occasions where Auron did accidentally meet Jecht’s eyes, Jecht smirked at him and raised his eyebrows; Auron didn’t want to begin guessing what that was supposed to mean.

“I suppose we should think about leaving, should we, Auron?” said Braska, once they had all finished eating.

“We should, if we’re to make good time,” Auron agreed. “The woods will take us a couple of days, but we ought to aim to camp as close as possible to the Thunder Plains tomorrow.”

“You’d better go and settle up, then,” said Braska.

Auron took the communal gil purse and headed to the reception desk. The same clerk was there – he wondered briefly whether she was ever off duty – and he began the negotiation of the price with her. It was a skill that his time as a warrior monk had taught him: the art of winning an argument. It hadn’t come naturally to begin with, but he had dedicated himself to learning the rules in the same way that he had approached his swordwork, and eventually it had paid off. Both had been essential requirements for rising through the ranks in the corps.

Braska and Jecht listened to the distant sound of the conversation as each respectively finished his tea and coffee. Braska had heard Auron negotiating like this a few times, but the process still seemed entirely alien to him: he had never understood the art of successfully manipulating a debate. It had made him a poor envoy to the Al Bhed in some respects, back when that had been his mission, but he had been sent to them more as a way of getting the senior priests shot of him than because of any skills in diplomacy.

Once the exchange seemed to be concluded, he set down his empty teacup and began to rise, leaving Jecht to follow. “Next time, we’ll agree a price beforehand,” the clerk was saying as they approached the desk. “Mark my words.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” Braska said while Auron joined them, grinning, his face a little flushed. The clerk nodded, as politely as she was able under the circumstances; and then Braska and his guardians headed back out towards the woods.

Braska found the cold weather less bearable without the vest the Al Bhed had leant him, but fortunately it was only a short journey to the forest entrance, where the sudden shift to a warmer climate was welcome despite remaining inexplicable. Equally welcome, and equally odd, was the fact that a glowing path, so thin and transparent as to be almost invisible, had somehow appeared in the thirty-six hours or so since they had left the woods after their previous journey. Rising up from the forest floor in the distance, it snaked away into the treetops, its sparkles even more intense than those that shone from the vegetation.

“Oh, that’s handy,” Auron remarked.

“What is it?” said Jecht.

“We call it the sky trail,” Auron explained. “It appears here from time to time – nobody really knows why – but it’ll let us get to the south side much more quickly. Before nightfall, probably.”

“The fayth’s blessing, perhaps,” Braska mused, looking up at the shining walkway. “One of Spira’s great mysteries, at least. Have you used it before, Auron?”

“Once or twice, sir,” said Auron, who had come through Macalania a few times on military business. “No fiends up there, either – that’ll speed things up.”

Braska nodded. “So I’ve heard.” He wondered if it really was the goodwill of Macalania’s fayth that had set the sky trail in place. She was, in essence, the guardian spirit of the whole region, not only the temple, and she would have known that he was intending to head south for the next æon. The thought of it gave him a little spark of hope: it was that occasional feeling, the same hope he and Auron had spoken of the previous day, that ensured he was just about strong enough for the journey. He took the few steps towards the path, and then walked onto it, beginning to follow it as it rose into the sky.

Auron was close behind; the path was mostly too narrow for two to walk abreast, but he stayed near Braska, ensuring that he would be able to provide assistance if his master needed it. Jecht brought up the rear, mildly impressed by the way that this new path had sprung up out of nowhere. In Zanarkand, there would have been health and safety concerns about walking on something so narrow, so far above the ground, with no handrail or other such protective measures in sight. The likelihood of being set upon by fiends as soon as one left a populated area, however, had already convinced him that people in Spira weren’t particularly bothered by that kind of thing.

He still had so many questions to ask about Spira, and now that they were going to be spending most of the day walking with no fiends to worry about, it was an ideal time to ask them. Indeed, if he had been able to speak directly to Braska, he would have done so without restraint. But the fact that Auron walked between them held him back: the other guardian had seemed more receptive to his queries while they were at the temple, and Jecht had, in turn, tried his best to be civil with him in the evening, but it was still frustrating to try getting information out of someone who was so suspicious of most things he did. If Auron had known just how famous he was in Zanarkand, Jecht thought, he would have been deeply embarrassed by his own conduct.

He kept the questions to himself instead, swigging contemplatively from one of the bottles he had hoarded. He would just have to work it all out on his own, he decided: he was no stranger to that. The drunker he got, the harder it would be, but the less he would care, so it would all balance out in the end.

At the front of the group, Braska was thinking about his new æon. He knew her name, but nothing else about her: the form she took and the type of magic she used would remain unknown to him until he summoned. Æons were normally reserved for the more difficult battles – it was thought disrespectful to call one to deal with just a couple of low-level fiends – but by that time, he would need to know how she operated in order to use her effectively. He had summoned Bahamut just once, having travelled out to the fields outside Bevelle with Yuna in tow; it had seemed right to call the æon for her and show her exactly how the fayth would be protecting him on his journey. The act of summoning had been strange: he hadn’t known what to expect, but somehow it had felt even odder than he had anticipated. While he knew he had a bond with Bahamut, and he could feel the æon within his soul, it seemed almost embarrassingly intimate to actually call the creature and see it manifest itself in front of him.

He had been told that winning the trust of the remaining fayth would be more difficult; indeed, bonding with each æon was to be a greater challenge, preparing him for the difficulties of receiving and using the Final Æon. He was supposed to practise summoning them so he could strengthen those bonds; but he was worried that they might resist him. Then again, he thought, he would have to start somewhere. It would be unwise to put off calling Shiva until it was too late.

He raised the subject with Auron, half-hoping that Auron would tell him summoning unnecessarily was a waste of his energy; but Auron agreed with the idea. “That sounds sensible,” he said. “I didn’t realise you knew so little about the æons to start with.”

“Yes, all I know is her name,” Braska said. “And I’m sure I could have found that out by talking to the temple elders.”

Auron hummed in agreement, trying not to appear disconcerted by Braska’s use of the female pronoun. At some point towards the end of his training, he had taken to referring to æons as if they were people – other inhabitants of Spira, Auron included, were accustomed to calling them it. From what Braska had told him about Bahamut, it sounded like the æon wasn’t very much like a person at all – and that tallied with the handful of occasions when he’d seen æons summoned in the past. Braska had seen a humanity in them that continued to elude Auron.

“Do you think it’ll be very different from Bahamut, sir?” he asked.

“The fayth certainly was,” Braska mused. “Yes, I think they’re quite unlike each other. The connection feels different – in here.” He tapped his breastplate, giving Auron a small, slightly sheepish smile.

Auron did his best to grin back – the knowledge that Braska could somehow feel the æons inside him was even more unsettling than the way he referred to them. He was thoroughly familiar with the way summoners bonded with their æons, having found out as much about it as he could before they had embarked on the pilgrimage, but knowing about it and experiencing its effects were two quite different things. The thought of harbouring what was almost a second soul in one’s body – a second and third soul now, in Braska’s case – was one he found fairly disturbing.

“This one might be elemental, I suppose,” he said.

“Yes,” said Braska, “that’s just what I was thinking. That’s why I’ll have to summon her – it would be good to know which element she favours, if any. If it had anything to do with the climate around the temple, I’m sure it would be ice, but I don’t suppose we can rely on that as a factor.”

Auron considered. “Ice would make sense,” he said, “given the name.”

“How’s that?” said Braska, frowning.

“Well,” said Auron, “you said the æon’s name is Shiva, didn’t you?”

“Yes?” Braska replied, still confused.

“So, you know – Shiva – like shiver –”

“Oh,” said Braska; “yes, I see.” His mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, and then he turned his attention back to the path ahead.

Auron suppressed a sigh; it had been a poor attempt at a joke, he knew, but he had hoped for slightly more of a reaction. He had never been much of a comedian, but over the past three years he had found himself taking any opportunity he could to try making Braska laugh: to get him to produce the kind of wholehearted, uninhibited laughter that had been the norm before Girl died. These days, the closest Braska came to true amusement was the occasional weak chuckle or rueful grin; but Auron had resolved not to stop trying to coax more out of him.

They walked on, exchanging a few more brief conversations. At around midday, they came to a curious area where the path forked, the short sideways branch leading to a large glowing orb, rather like an enormous sphere.

“That’s strange,” said Auron. “Never seen anything like it before.”

He stopped to take a closer look, curious about what the orb could signify; Jecht, approaching from behind, shoved Auron out of the way so that he could get a look at it himself. “Whoa, that’s cool,” he said, having drunk enough beers over the course of the morning to fail to come up with anything more insightful. “What is it?”

Nobody answered, so he strode forward towards the orb, determined to see it up close. It was made of such an odd substance that he couldn’t even tell whether it would be hard or soft to the touch; he extended a hand and found that it was neither. It was like touching light, if light had somehow been made solid. A pleasant warmth, not unlike white magic, enveloped his hand. Then, after a moment, a voice of unknown gender began to speak in his head, with the same soft warmth as the orb itself: “Have you the –”

Jecht yelped and recoiled; he had never experienced anything like it before. Withdrawing his hand from the orb’s surface, he backed away, towards Braska and Auron, who, despite their eccentricities, were at least fellow human beings.

Braska blinked at him a few times, and then murmured, “Is something wrong, Jecht?”

“Nah, I’m fine,” Jecht lied.

“Ignore him, my lord,” said Auron dismissively. “He’s drunk.”

“So what?” Jecht snarled.

“So,” Auron went on, his voice taking on a severe tone, “you’re neglecting your duties. Again. You’re supposed to be guarding Lord Braska.”

Jecht let out an incredulous laugh. “Guardin’ him against what? There ain’t even any fiends here!”

“That’s not the point!” Auron snapped. “You should be alert at all times – who knows what’s going to –”

“Auron,” Braska interrupted. “Stop arguing with Jecht, please.”

Jecht smirked; Auron clenched his fists. He already knew his confrontations with Jecht could have negative consequences, and he really had been trying to be polite to him, especially since the temple, but that didn’t mean he could stop himself losing his temper at times like this. Braska’s command took priority, though, so he forced himself to obey with a muttered “Sir”.

Braska nodded in response, and led the way forward again. He pondered as he went; his own troubles had largely prevented him from giving much thought to Jecht’s situation, but it was becoming obvious that they would need to address a few things.

“I know you don’t approve of Jecht’s drinking,” he murmured to Auron when they were sufficiently ahead of their companion, “but I’m starting to think he really has a problem. I’m not sure he’d be able to stop even if he wanted to.”

“Yeah,” said Auron irritably. “His relationship with alcohol is unhealthy – that’s obvious. But he should know your protection comes first.”

Braska shook his head. “No, Auron, I don’t think you understand. I think he really depends on it, the poor man. I think he’s addicted.” His voice had lowered to a whisper as he regarded Auron intensely.

Auron did his best not to roll his eyes: it had been obvious to him that Jecht had a real problem with alcohol since they had first set eyes on each other. He had seen that sort of thing in the past, before his dismissal from the warrior monks: both among civilians they had supported, and in the corps itself, young men and women who had regretted their enlistment and turned to drink to blot out the fact that they weren’t coping with military life. Braska, in comparison, was naïve: he had never spent much time among Spira’s more disenfranchised populations. The Al Bhed were discriminated against, of course, but they got on quite well within their own societal units; apart from them, Braska had only really known Bevelle’s upper classes. Auron knew full well that Jecht was in the throes of a serious alcohol addiction, but he remained of the opinion that there were no excuses for not paying full attention to the duties of the pilgrimage.

Braska, interpreting Auron’s frown as disbelief, turned back towards Jecht and called out to him. “Jecht, if I were to ask you to stop drinking while we’re on the pilgrimage – just to make sure you can dedicate yourself to your duties, as Auron says – do you think you’d, er, be able to do that?”

Jecht snorted. “Sure I could. I can stop whenever I want.”

“Then stop,” said Auron flatly.

Slowly, Jecht raised the beer bottle he held in one hand to his mouth and took a swig, extending the middle finger of the other hand in Auron’s direction. Auron’s jaw tightened: it was a gesture he hadn’t come across before, not being part of the Spiran repertoire of body language, but the broad sentiment behind it was unmistakable.

“Never mind,” said Braska hastily, turning away to resume the journey.

They continued along the sky trail for a few more hours; it was noticeably darker by the time they reached the end, alighting on the soft forest floor. The path had brought them almost to the limit of the southern part of the woods, and it would be unwise to travel any further south than that; camping on the Thunder Plains would result in a sleepless night for everyone, even Braska. Auron had already determined that they would spend the night in the woods, giving them a whole day to make it across the northern half of the plains to the travel agency located at the region’s halfway point: it would be a long journey, but a manageable one.

Auron handed out the evening’s rations, and they ate in silence. Jecht, who had realised he needed to slow the pace of his drinking in order to allow for another day’s travel, was beginning to get a sore head that he certainly wasn’t going to mention out loud. Braska’s thoughts, meanwhile, had turned back to the need to summon his new æon; he picked distractedly at his food for a while, and then stood up, deciding something needed to be done.

“I should see what this æon’s about, I suppose,” he announced, taking hold of his staff.

Auron nodded. “Try not to overreact,” he said to Jecht.

“Overreact?” Jecht echoed. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“Well,” said Auron casually, “I’m just saying that this might surprise you, if you’ve never seen an æon being summoned before.” He couldn’t help grinning.

“Sure, whatever,” said Jecht, not enjoying being the butt of Auron’s joke; he much preferred it when things were the other way around.

Braska revolved slowly on the spot, dragging his staff through the air; he was trying to get a feel for the best method of summoning Shiva. Each æon reacted best to a different motion, he knew; Bahamut, he had discovered, seemed to favour a sort of twirl that he himself thought rather ostentatious. Concentrating on the æon, he did his best to let her spirit guide him, eventually raising his staff as high as he could before dropping into a crouch, lowering the staff quickly to the ground.

It was a success: huge ice crystals formed behind him, and the æon descended, gradually taking a distinctly human shape. She was a woman, he realised, a stunningly beautiful woman with impossibly long, flowing hair that hung from her head in heavy plaits, framing her almost nude body. She cast one arm sharply behind her; the ice shattered, and Shiva’s mantle flew into the air. Instinctively, Braska rushed forward to catch it in his arms, almost tripping over the hem of his own robe.

“Holy shit,” said Jecht as he watched Shiva appear. “This is an æon? Auron, you didn’t tell me æons were … smokin’ hot ladies! Could’ve mentioned it, huh?”

Auron took a moment to respond: he found himself captivated by the look on Braska’s face, an expression of sheer fervour. He could tell that Braska was putting as much effort into the summoning as he could, baring his soul to the æon in a way that was almost physically painful to witness. “They’re not usually humanoid,” Auron murmured, tearing his gaze away reluctantly. “The ones I’ve seen before are more like beasts – this is unusual.”

Braska faced Shiva, trying to remain confident. Her mantle was uncomfortably cold in his arms, but he knew he couldn’t put it aside now: he had to show her his persistence. As he looked into her eyes, he found himself feeling increasingly unsettled: his suspicion had been right. This already felt much more difficult than bonding with Bahamut had. He could tell he would need to put in a good deal more work to encourage Shiva to trust him. And yet, at the same time, his body was reacting in a different way altogether: he was a man, after all, and this type of intimacy with such a stunning woman – one, moreover, who was so scantily dressed – was enough to make his cheeks redden slightly and his heart beat somewhat faster. He was glad that the shape of his robe made what was underneath difficult to discern: he was sure there would be further consequences if he had to maintain this contact much longer.

Jecht wasn’t experiencing the same emotional connection with the æon, of course, but even from a distance he too found himself unable to look away. “What a view, huh?” he murmured.

“Show some respect,” said Auron.

Jecht turned towards him, shaking his head in disbelief. “Man, I don’t get you, Auron,” he said. “I mean, I know you’re a jerk, but how are you not gettin’ turned on by that?!” He gestured towards the æon with enthusiasm. “Never seen a woman that perfect before.”

“Aren’t you married?” said Auron suspiciously.

“I can look at other girls,” Jecht declared. “Seriously, is there somethin’ wrong with you? Apart from the whole stick-up-the-ass thing? Cos any guy I know would be goin’ crazy for her. Hell knows I am.” He let out a long, low whistle.

Auron shrugged; the direction the conversation had taken was starting to make him feel uneasy. “Not my type,” he muttered.

“You’re kiddin’,” said Jecht, not noticing Auron’s discomfort. “That’s everyone’s type, right there.”

Braska was flagging; he was becoming increasingly worried by the current of unfriendliness he could detect from the æon, and decided at last to dismiss her. He waved his staff to communicate the instruction; slowly, Shiva’s form lost its substance, fading away until it was like glass before vanishing altogether. He looked down at the ground for a moment, steadying his thoughts; the intensity and uncertainty of the whole experience made him feel like crying. But he remembered Shiva’s fayth telling him he needed to be stronger: that was what mattered most. If he couldn’t be as the fayth wanted, there was really no hope at all.

“Well,” he said hesitantly, “that was something.”

“Something?” Jecht echoed. “You’re damn right! That was just about the sexiest woman I ever seen – and you just magicked her out of thin air!”

“Not quite,” Braska attempted to explain as a way of distracting himself. “I summoned her – it’s not exactly the same thing –”

“Sure, yeah,” said Jecht. “Well, I’m sure gonna store that one away for later.”

Auron scowled. “Don’t be crude,” he said.

“I can be as crude as I damn well want, you prick,” said Jecht. “Hey, Braska, this guy said she wasn’t his type! Can you believe that? I think there’s somethin’ seriously wrong with him.”

Auron grimaced, but Braska had barely registered the remark; he still felt close to tears. The few people who had consented to share their experiences of summoning with him during his training had been right, he now knew: not all æons were as trusting as one’s first. He had grown up in Bevelle and spent much of his adult life there as well, and perhaps that also helped explain why Bahamut, as the æon of the citadel, had seemed so familiar from the start. Things would be different with Shiva. The chill in the air that had accompanied her arrival seemed not to have lifted.

Exhaling slowly, he reminded himself what he needed to concentrate on. He had to be strong – strong, he thought, briefly clenching his fists. Even if it meant forcing his sorrow aside, he would have to try his very hardest. A moment to catch his breath would help: just a few minutes on his own, away from Auron’s concern and Jecht’s posturing.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled. “Nature calls.”

“Nature calls, yeah right,” said Jecht with a snort as Braska trudged away. “More like …” He curled his right hand into a loose fist and moved it back and forth in front of his crotch – the meaning of the gesture was unambiguous.

“Don’t,” Auron protested weakly.

“Wouldn’t blame him,” Jecht went on. “Not after that – man, I can’t believe you said she wasn’t your type! So what kinda women are you into, then?”

Auron sighed. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, so you’re gonna make me guess?” said Jecht. “Let’s see – you’re a preachy asshole, so – oh. Oh, Auron.” He shook his head in feigned disappointment.

“What?” Auron snapped.

Jecht grinned. “You’re into those nuns, ain’t ya? The old ladies at the temple – the ones that look like they’re about to drop dead. Man, Auron, that’s messed up.”

“I am not,” Auron hissed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jecht laughed. “Oh boy, your face. You know, you should learn to lighten up a little. Quit bein’ so serious all the time.”

Auron ignored him. The pilgrimage was serious, he thought, and Jecht knew that. Besides, after what he had been through recently, he couldn’t help being tense, especially given the subject matter.

“Braska’s takin’ a while,” Jecht remarked after a few moments of silence. “I think he really is jerkin’ off.”

Auron tried not to react, but it was too late: Jecht’s words had already planted images in his head unbidden. He could imagine Braska, his robe held up by one hand, the other working at his crotch, his eyes gradually falling closed as he got into a rhythm –

He forced the thought away with some reluctance. It really wasn’t a good idea to be thinking about that sort of thing while Jecht was around, he reflected. “I’m going to get the tent ready,” he muttered, and sprang up to attend to it.

Jecht smirked. He relished making Auron feel uncomfortable – although he wasn’t quite sober enough to work out the exact reason for that discomfort.

Not long afterwards, Braska returned. His urge to give in to tears had eventually passed, and he remained more determined than ever to work on his strength: as he had already concluded, it needed to be his foremost priority. Carefully, he sat on the ground where Auron had been, facing Jecht across the small campfire he had lit earlier. “I’d like you to help me with something, Jecht,” he said as he did so.

“Uh huh,” said Jecht warily.

Lowering his eyes towards the fire, Braska went on. “When I spoke to the fayth yesterday, she told me I wasn’t strong enough. I’m worried that this failing could hold me back at the next temple. We have a while before we get there, but I need to do all I can to overcome it. It’s terribly important.”

“Right,” said Jecht.

“Well,” said Braska, “perhaps this is something you could help me with. Take me through some exercises, maybe – I know you’re a fit and active man yourself.” Asking Auron would be a possibility, but Auron had already put him through some training before the pilgrimage had started, and despite promising it would be manageable for a civilian, the pace had been almost too fast for Braska to cope with. Moreover, Braska had wondered whether doing something with Jecht might allow the two of them to bond a little. Jecht was struggling with a serious alcohol addiction, and he was far from his home, surrounded by things that were new and strange: he surely needed companionship, Braska thought.

“Uh,” said Jecht, “you sure she meant strong, like, physically? Was she maybe talkin’ about –” He was well aware by this point that Braska tended to let his emotions show, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. “Other stuff?”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Braska, attempting a smile. “But I should think this is part of it, and it seems as if it might be easier to work on. So, what do you say – do you think you could put me through my paces?”

“Sure thing,” said Jecht. “You know you’re talkin’ to Zanarkand’s top blitzer, right? Ain’t nothin’ I don’t know about keepin’ fit. Course, it all comes natural to me, but I happen to be a pretty great teacher too, so you’re in luck.”

He coached Braska through a few basic strength training exercises; there weren’t exactly any weights they could lift, but it was easy enough to have a go at some squats and push-ups, even if Braska did insist on doing the whole routine fully clothed in his robe and headdress. He was slightly out of breath by the end of it, but had coped better than Jecht had anticipated.

“Not bad,” said Jecht. “I dunno what you’re worryin’ about – you’re stronger than I figured.”

Braska smiled and shook his head; he had found the experience more enjoyable than he had expected, and it had allowed him to mostly forget about Shiva, leaving him in a notably better mood than before. “Looks can be deceiving,” he remarked. “I might not have done so well if I’d been casting magic all day, but I’m glad I was able to give it a good go. That was just the sort of thing I needed – I have to thank you, Jecht.”

“Well, I am the expert,” Jecht declared. “One last thing – wanna race me to that tree?”

Braska looked at the tree Jecht was pointing out: it was about fifty yards away, he estimated. “With all this on?” he said, gesturing down at his robe.

Jecht shrugged. “I mean, you can take it off.”

“Not in public,” said Braska, although the chance of any strangers coming by was minimal. “All right, I’ll make do.” He hitched the robe above his ankles with both hands, revealing the light trousers and walking sandals he wore underneath. “Just to the tree, then?”

“There and back,” said Jecht. “Let’s say we gotta get close enough to the tree to touch it, then turn around and –” He looked for a marker on the ground, and saw both their weapons that they had set down earlier. “Whoever picks up your staff first is the winner.”

Braska nodded. “That suits me,” he said.

“Ready, then?” said Jecht, settling into a sprinting stance. “Three, two, one – go!”

They hurtled towards the tree, neck and neck; as it was such a short race, Braska’s complete lack of technique was made up for by his determination, but that didn’t give him the edge over Jecht, who managed to overtake as they got close to the halfway point. He stretched out an arm as he approached the tree, ready to tap it and make a quick turn – but he suddenly found himself hindered by Braska, who had reached out from behind and was trying to tug his arm away.

“Hey,” Jecht exclaimed breathlessly, “you cheatin’ bastard!” He wrenched the arm from Braska’s grasp and managed to touch the tree before turning around, hearing Braska close behind him; his interference had narrowed the gap between them. Nonetheless, Jecht was clearly in the lead again by the time they reached their goal, and he bent down to lift Braska’s staff from the ground; but once again, Braska was doing his best to get in Jecht’s way, grabbing at any part of Jecht he could reach until he got close enough to the staff to lay his hands on it, even though Jecht was already holding it himself.

Jecht wrenched the staff away from Braska as hard as he could; the friction made Braska’s hands burn, and he gave a little yelp of pain, but it soon turned into a quiet chuckle as he cast a quick Cure spell on himself.

“What the hell, man?” Jecht complained. “I didn’t think you were gonna cheat!”

Braska shrugged. “I don’t think it counts as cheating when there aren’t any rules to break. If you were concerned about my behaviour, you should have established what was allowed beforehand.”

Jecht couldn’t help grinning at the absurdity of it, mirroring Braska’s own wry smile. “I just never knew you had it in you,” he said. “Thought you were too … moral for that kinda thing.”

“I think you’re confusing me with Auron,” said Braska.

Jecht laughed. “Yeah, maybe. I guess I should apologise, then – you’re way cooler than that asshole.”

The asshole in question appeared before Braska had the chance to reprimand Jecht, frowning suspiciously at the sight of Jecht still clutching Braska’s staff. “What’s going on?” he said, looking from one to the other.

“We were just exercising,” said Braska. “You should be pleased, Auron – you’ve told me often enough how important it is for me to stay fit.”

Jecht failed to stifle a whoop of laughter at that; Auron barely registered it. Braska was smiling, he had realised, noticeably more broadly than his usual efforts. In fact, Auron didn’t think he’d seen this kind of smile on Braska’s face in a very long time.

“Are you all right?” said Braska, more gently. “You look a bit bewildered.”

“I just don’t see what sort of exercise could have resulted in Jecht holding your staff, sir,” said Auron gruffly, while Jecht doubled over, laughing even harder.

Braska gave a little snort of amusement, and then said, “It’s nothing to worry about, Auron. I suppose we should turn in, anyway – it’s your turn to take first watch, isn’t it?”

Auron had been going to suggest that Jecht take first watch again, given that he still wouldn’t be used to dealing with the reduction in his sleep; but the fact that Braska was even aware of whose turn it was supposed to be was surprising enough for him to go along with it. “Yeah,” he said, before turning to Jecht. “I’ll be in to wake you in a few hours, Jecht – don’t get complacent.”

Jecht laughed again. “Sure thing,” he said, before following Braska into the tent, ready to guest star in the evening’s sphere for Yuna once again.

Auron stationed himself by the campfire and gazed into the flames, watching the orange-tinted image of the trees behind as it slowly morphed from one distorted elongation to the next. The memory of Braska’s earnest smile was still vivid in his mind; he had expected to be relieved to see it, but it was surprisingly disconcerting. He wished he knew exactly what Braska had been smiling at – what Jecht had done that had achieved something Auron himself had never had much success with. If Braska was to smile like that again, he thought – perhaps eventually even laugh – there was a chance that things might work out differently.

He wrapped his robe around himself more tightly as the sky grew darker. It was an absurd hope, he thought – a hope he had to keep secret from Braska at all costs. An improvement in Braska’s mood might go some way towards changing the course of the pilgrimage, but he would also need to keep working on it himself. There had been no clues as to how he might do so in Macalania, but the region had always been a long shot. Visiting temples further from Bevelle would be more useful – he was sure of it.

There was a crunching in the leaves nearby. Auron raised a hand over his shoulder to take hold of the hilt of his sword, expecting to see a fiend; but it was a woman, carrying a gun and dressed in the characteristic baggy trousers of the Crusaders. The lay militia of Spira had always had a rivalry with the warrior monks, and even though Auron had severed his ties with the latter, he still felt an instinctive suspicion as he watched the woman draw closer.

“Evening,” the Crusader said.

“Good evening,” Auron replied quietly.

“What’s this, then?” said the Crusader, nodding towards the tent.

Auron stifled a sigh. “I’m a summoner’s guardian,” he explained reluctantly. “He’s asleep in there.”

“Oh, right,” said the Crusader, unimpressed. She peered at Auron more closely. “Here – do I know you?”

“I don’t know you,” Auron replied, “so presumably not.”

The woman frowned. “Just – you look familiar. You haven’t been on the sphere lately, have you?”

“No,” Auron lied; his likeness had indeed been shown during a public sphere broadcast recently, but he would rather not jog the Crusader’s memory further. “What are you doing, anyway?” he said. “Since when was it your job to walk around the woods questioning people?”

“New orders,” said the Crusader. “Got a problem with that?”

“I just think people should be entitled to travel from one place to another without being interrogated about it,” said Auron.

“They are,” the Crusader replied, “unless they cause trouble.”

“And am I causing trouble?” Auron hissed back.

The Crusader blinked back at him for a moment, and then said, “Not at present.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds more, neither saying anything; then the Crusader turned around and walked off in as dignified a manner as possible. Auron let out a snort of contempt once she was out of earshot. The pilgrimage was going to be hard enough, he thought, without Crusaders meddling in it.

Inside the tent, Jecht and Braska slept, unaware of the exchange outside. Braska’s unusually good mood had persisted, and he was quite ready not to have to spend any more time worrying about Shiva. His relationship with Jecht seemed to be improving too; perhaps, he had thought as he drifted off to sleep, Jecht might soon realise he didn’t need to cloak himself in bravado. Maybe that would mean he and Auron might soon be able to get on better, too – and if that happened, Braska would go to the Final Summoning with one thing less to worry about.

7. Laughter and Tears

They rose early, woken at dawn by Jecht on Auron’s instruction: they would need to get across the northern part of the Thunder Plains before nightfall, and Auron was determined to build in extra time for the journey in case of unexpected mishaps.

Once again, there was a sudden shift in the climate as they emerged from the forest; Braska and Auron were long used to it, but Jecht peered around in confusion at the abrupt change. The Thunder Plains, as the name suggested, consisted of a large, flat, open area without much vegetation, dotted here and there with tall, forbidding-looking towers that were clearly man-made, despite the apparent absence of civilisation. While the weather in Macalania had remained dry over the past few days, there was a persistent rain here: not so heavy as to drench travellers in minutes, but the kind of fine drizzle that would gradually accumulate until passersby were soaked through without even noticing when or how it had happened.

On top of that, there was the eponymous thunder, which rumbled menacingly every few minutes; unsurprisingly, this was accompanied by lightning, not in the form of faraway flashes but as actual bolts that periodically shot down to strike the ground, leaving little scorched patches that took a moment to blend in with the surrounding terrain.

Jecht surveyed the scene doubtfully: it looked extremely unsafe. He didn’t want to seem like a coward by pointing it out, but on the other hand, he thought, Zanarkand’s star blitzball player deserved better treatment than to have to walk through such an obvious deathtrap. He hesitated, unsure of how to draw attention to the situation, and then abruptly stepped back as a bolt of lightning struck the ground less than an arm’s length away from him.

“Don’t look so offended, Jecht,” said Braska, who was still unusually cheerful. “It won’t hurt you.”

Jecht’s frown deepened. “Huh? What do you mean, it won’t hurt me?”

“This is no ordinary storm,” Braska explained. “The lightning’s almost totally harmless; it might knock you off your feet, but the worst thing you’ll have to worry about is the fall. The only downside is that the storm’s perpetual.”

“No way,” said Jecht. “You mean this place is always like this?”

Braska nodded. “It’s been this way for hundreds of years, they say. The towers were built to disperse the lightning’s power. They do a good job of it – and they absorb a few of the strikes in the areas where –”

He was cut off by a lightning bolt that suddenly struck him, as if on cue, and he toppled over, landing on the ground with a quiet gasp of pain. Auron stepped forward, a potion in hand, but Braska was almost immediately back on his feet, rubbing the arm that had taken the impact of the fall and refusing the potion with a shake of his head. “I’m all right,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll be in greater need of those later.”

He was right; they were all sore and fed up after the first hour of crossing the plains, having been knocked off their feet several times each. The fiends did more damage, but at least they were easier to fend off; the lightning was constant enough to be quite an annoyance.

“We’ll rest here for a moment,” said Auron when they came within reach of one of the lightning towers. Braska nodded, wiping the rain off his face with his sleeve; due to the fiends’ elemental weaknesses, he had mostly been using water spells in combat, which hadn’t helped.

“Hey, this place is great!” Jecht enthused, joining them; since discovering the lightning was mostly harmless, he had found that his attitude towards it had rapidly changed, from suspicion, to acceptance, to delight. “I want a picture. Somethin’ to show the guys back home – hey, Auron, take one of me with the tower in the background, right? Braska, you can be in it too.”

Braska paused – he could see Auron was about to argue, but it didn’t seem as if there would be any harm in indulging Jecht on this occasion. “Just a quick one,” he said, averting his eyes from Auron’s suddenly irritated expression.

Auron maintained his scowl, but he took out the sphere recorder and attempted to set up the shot while Braska and Jecht stood in front of the tower. Braska looked on, making the mistake of glancing towards Auron again and finding him looking even more annoyed than last time. But it was important to make Jecht feel comfortable, Braska thought resolutely; Auron needed to learn that too. That was the only way Jecht would come to trust the two of them.

He decided he ought to discuss it with Auron before the latter got too angry, and left his position beside Jecht, making for his other guardian. Concentrating more on Braska than on readying the sphere recorder, Auron studied his expression as he approached, hoping Braska might be about to tell him that there was no need to give into Jecht’s foolish whims after all.

“Hey, hold it steady!” Jecht complained as he watched Auron’s meagre efforts at positioning the sphere recorder.

His exhortation had little effect: it merely served to remind Auron of how ridiculous it was to be taking these recordings, as if the pilgrimage was some kind of holiday. “Why am I doing this?” he hissed into the recorder, turning away from Jecht and switching it off at last.

“What the hell?!” Jecht said.

“Auron,” said Braska. “You know Jecht’s a long way from home. I really think –”

“This isn’t the place,” Auron insisted, gesturing irritably towards the sky.

“I know,” said Braska, “but …” He hesitated, wondering if placating Auron might for the moment be more important than keeping Jecht happy. “Jecht,” he said, turning to face him again. “Maybe we should leave it until later. I think Auron’s just worried about whether we’ll make it to the travel agency in good time.”

“Ugh, lame,” said Jecht.

Despite his protest, they walked on, seeing off a few more fiends. Braska and Auron paused again at the next tower, waiting for Jecht to join them: he had been bringing up the rear. Auron wrung out his ponytail, grimacing as the rainwater trickled over his bare left hand. Over the few days they had been on the road, he had started to realise that the way he had decided to dress on the pilgrimage was somewhat impractical; but, he reflected, Braska and Jecht were hardly more conveniently dressed themselves, and the clothes he wore were a nod to a centuries-old tradition. He had made a commitment, and he would stick to it: that was how he operated.

The sky flashed around Jecht, and he instinctively leapt back; moments later, a bolt of lightning hit the ground in front of him, just where he had been standing before. “Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Did you guys see that? I can’t believe I just dodged –” He considered. “I mean, obviously I can dodge the lightning, I’m the great Jecht! Fastest reflexes in Zanarkand! There was this one time in the sphere, the guy from the Cadgers was tryin’ to trick me by sendin’ the ball the other way, but I –”

“A fluke,” said Auron, raising his voice a little so Jecht could hear across the distance. “Could have happened to any of us.”

“Are you serious?” said Jecht. “Didn’t you see that, Auron? You wanna try doin’ that yourself? I didn’t think so!”

“Come and shelter with us, Jecht,” Braska suggested, cutting in before Auron could make a retort.

Jecht snorted. “Hell no. I’m gonna stay out here, and I’m gonna dodge it again, just so I can show that asshole.”

Auron rolled his eyes; Braska glanced at him and sighed minutely. There seemed to be no way of resolving his guardians’ disagreements; on one of his worse days, the situation might have driven him to tears. At least that might have encouraged Auron to be reasonable, he reflected.

Jecht stood, his arms folded, until another telltale flash lit the sky around him; this time, he jumped ostentatiously to the side, and the lightning hit the ground a short distance away. “Ha!” he crowed, extending an arm to jab a pointing finger in Auron’s general direction. “See that, Auron? Not a fluke now, is it? Pretty clear that I’m the best. Looks like you should be apologisin’.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Auron called back, before Braska could stop him.

“Ugh, you’re so jealous,” said Jecht dismissively. “Hey, you know what’d be good? We should get this on video, for … for posterity, you know! All my fans are gonna want to see it. Auron, get the camera out, and I mean it this time.”

“He means the sphere recorder,” Auron muttered for Braska’s benefit; he had become more accustomed to Jecht’s strange vocabulary than he would have liked.

“I see,” said Braska. “Perhaps you should on this occasion, then.”

“Are you serious?” Auron protested.

“It clearly means a lot to him,” Braska pointed out, “or he wouldn’t keep asking, would he? If we indulge him this time, that might be the end of it. Come on, Auron.”

Auron quickly took out the sphere recorder again; he had detected the note of exasperation beginning to creep into Braska’s voice. Braska, meanwhile, looked into the distance, wondering what else he could possibly try as a way of encouraging his guardians to be more tolerant towards each other.

Glancing at Jecht as he swaggered and pranced around, and dearly wishing it was something he didn’t have to see, Auron turned back towards Braska as he switched on the recorder, and found him staring at something on the horizon.

“What do you see there, my lord?” he said, eager to forget about Jecht’s antics.

“Oh, I was just thinking,” said Braska truthfully.

“This is important!” Jecht yelled. “No foolin’ around, you’re gonna spoil it!”

Auron ignored him, keeping the recorder pointed at Braska. Now that he was looking away from Jecht, he felt supremely unmotivated to turn back towards him; the sight of Braska, even facing in the other direction, was much more appealing.

Jecht scowled, waving his arms in an attempt to get Auron to turn his attention back to him. In his frustration, he failed to notice the sky flashing until it was too late – seconds later, a lightning bolt struck him. “Whoa!” he yelled as he went down, falling flat on his face with uncharacteristic inelegance.

At that, both Braska and Auron finally turned to look towards Jecht, who hauled himself into a slightly more respectable position with a grimace.

“Are you all right?” said Braska. He assumed Jecht was fine – they had all been so far – but the fact that Jecht hadn’t yet stood up again was something that he wondered whether he needed to be concerned about. As he drew closer, though, he was relieved to find that Jecht appeared unharmed.

“Now there’s a scene for posterity,” Auron remarked, grinning as he carefully zoomed in with the sphere recorder.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jecht said crossly.

Braska’s smile widened: he was starting to find some humour in the situation, and now knowing that Jecht was unhurt, there seemed to be no harm in showing it. Such ironies were just the kind of thing that tickled him – the fact that Jecht had dodged the lightning twice in a row, and then, once a recording was actually being made, he had failed so spectacularly –

He began to laugh out loud.

At the sound, Auron felt a sudden, sharp ache in his chest. He had gone three years without hearing Braska laugh properly; it was something he had begun to think he would never hear again. And here he was on the Thunder Plains, standing in the rain and listening to it once more; it was a bittersweet echo of happier times.

He stood immobilised for a moment, and then fumbled to switch off the sphere recorder, watching numbly as Braska helped Jecht to his feet and then led him towards the closest of the towers to take cover, an arm slung lightly around his guardian’s shoulders. Jecht was somewhat awkward in his reactions – men didn’t tend to make physical contact with each other in that way in Zanarkand, even if they were very close friends – but Auron completely failed to notice his discomfort. He was still reeling at what he had heard, and what it might mean for the pilgrimage. If Braska were to laugh like that again, he thought, perhaps he would begin to seek a path other than the one he had chosen.

Surreptitiously, he took a few deep breaths, reminding himself to be rational. This didn’t mean anything, not on its own, he told himself. He was normally an extremely logical and clear-headed person; jumping to conclusions like this wasn’t his style. It was just that there was something about Braska that sometimes caused his thoughts to be less well organised than usual, and something about that laugh that had reminded him of the very hope that he and Braska had spoken about before. He couldn’t let go of it; the sound echoed in his mind as they set off into the storm again.

Braska had taken the lead, striding forward with unusual vigour. Jecht initially followed right behind, but Auron grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close. “I need to talk to you,” he said, lowering his voice so Braska wouldn’t hear.

Jecht scowled. “Get off of me, you weirdo. What is it?”

“It’s –” Auron frowned as he tried to put his thoughts into words. “You made him laugh.”

“Yeah, and?” said Jecht.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh,” said Auron, “in three years. I’ve been trying, all that time – and you just –”

Jecht shrugged. “Guess you just ain’t a funny guy.”

“But –” said Auron. He broke off. There was no point trying to explain the significance of this to Jecht, he realised – and even if he did, Jecht would no doubt make light of it. He couldn’t possibly realise what this meant, even if Auron laid it out for him.

“Never mind,” he said gruffly, striding forward so he wouldn’t have to look at Jecht’s derisive expression.

Despite the fact that Jecht continued to be obtuse, though, Auron couldn’t help seeing him in a new light as they continued. If Jecht was capable of making Braska laugh like that, he thought, he had a utility that Auron had never expected. It was difficult to stop his imagination running wild, conjuring up some kind of scenario in which Braska might become truly happy again, and go back on his decision; forcing himself not to picture it, Auron nonetheless found himself wondering how Jecht’s newfound talent might ease the sadness of the pilgrimage.

He paid unusual attention to Jecht while they advanced, seeing off more fiends. Jecht’s fighting had come on enormously since they first set off a few days earlier, but he was still reckless and impulsive, and displayed nothing resembling proper sword technique; Auron almost cringed visibly as he watched him leaping about, landing blows that damaged the fiends in defiance of all logic. His own swordstrokes were slow and precise, and many times more powerful – and yet Jecht was cutting down just as many fiends as he was.

They arrived at the travel agency in good time, despite or perhaps because of Auron’s earlier insistence that they needed to set off as early as possible; it wasn’t yet evening when the three of them staggered into the building, soaking wet and aching again after having been knocked to the ground by the lightning so many times. The man at the reception desk, to whom this was a familiar sight, cheerfully made each of them a cup of steaming tea and handed them a blanket that would have been large enough to drape over all three travellers if they had sat close together; Auron and Jecht both refused their respective corners and left the whole thing to Braska, who enthusiastically wrapped it around himself as he sat to drink his tea.

Jecht didn’t touch his own; he was a coffee man. Auron had the same preference, but he drank his tea out of politeness, sneaking the occasional glance at Braska, who seemed thoroughly contented to have finished the day’s journey despite how soaked he was.

“Well, I think I might have a bath,” he announced eventually, standing slowly and making his way towards the washing facilities. Auron watched, vaguely half-remembering an occasion some time ago when Braska had made the same declaration and Auron had spent the next half-hour worrying that he might be about to try to drown himself; there was no chance of that today, at least.

He turned to Jecht, having resolved earlier to speak to him about his swordfighting prowess. “Your fighting’s improving,” he began, after a brief and unimpressed look at the beer bottle Jecht had produced seemingly from nowhere.

Jecht looked at Auron, frowned momentarily, and then barked out a laugh. “Wait – are you kidding me?” he said. “Is that a compliment? Don’t tell me you finally realised I got talent?”

“Shut up,” Auron snapped back. “I was going to say, it’s improving, but it still needs work. You can’t afford to get complacent – there are some dangerous fiends out there.”

“Dangerous like those flans that took you out a couple days ago, huh?” said Jecht, grinning.

“Yes,” said Auron, ignoring the jibe. “And if we find ourselves in a position like that again, with Lord Braska unable to help us, you’ll need to be as precise with your sword as possible. We can’t afford to make mistakes.”

“Braska wasn’t unable to help us, you were just being overprotective, as usual,” said Jecht dismissively. “Anyway, what am I supposed to do about it, practise? You gonna give me lessons, if you’re such an expert?”

Auron shrugged. “I can go through some of the basics of proper technique with you, yeah.”

“Oh yeah?” said Jecht, raising an eyebrow. He considered: he didn’t fancy having Auron order him around, but maybe he would be able to show his fellow guardian just how sophisticated his combat skills had become. “OK, then,” he said, setting his beer on the table. “You wanna do it now?”

It was still raining, of course, but they were soaked anyway, Auron reasoned. “Sure,” he said.

They headed outside, staying close to the travel agency to minimise the chance of fiends intervening, and began to circle each other, Auron with his sword over his shoulder in his customary two-handed grip, Jecht waving his around apparently at random.

“You’re fast, so use it,” said Auron. “When I attack, you should be able to parry easily. Rely on your agility, not your strength; land a blow when you see an opportunity.”

He raised his sword to strike, and Jecht deflected the blow easily with his own blade. Auron nodded. “That’s it,” he said. He lunged a few more times, and each time Jecht managed to block his approach.

“Try an attack,” Auron urged, wiping the rainwater off his face, and Jecht complied, lashing out clumsily towards him with his sword. Auron deflected the blow easily with his own, and bore down on Jecht with his greater strength, forcing him onto his knees. “You need to focus,” he said. “That wasn’t targeted properly – you lost time. Pick a spot and aim straight for it.”

Auron was still pushing his sword against Jecht’s, and Jecht was bending back towards the ground, struggling to hold himself in a crouched position. “Fine, fine,” he said, his voice strained from the effort of not falling backwards. “I give in, I – I yield. You got me trapped here.”

Auron laughed, and let Jecht go, pushing against his chest roughly as they both stood up. “Try again,” he urged him.

Jecht hit out with his sword once more, and Auron blocked it, not bothering to force him onto the ground this time. “Better,” he grunted. “Now –”

Jecht decided to rely on his speed, and try for a second blow while Auron was distracted. He drew back and struck once again, not really picking a particular spot to aim for, but just trying to show Auron that surprise was one of the prime features of his arsenal. Auron twisted at the same time, assuming a different stance, and Jecht’s blade drove straight into his bare left arm, just below the shoulder.

Auron cried out, dropping his own sword and tearing off his gauntlet with his teeth, before he raised his right hand to the wound instinctively. Jecht’s eyes widened as he looked at it; he’d cut deep. Blood was flowing from the incision and seeping out between Auron’s fingers, trickling down towards his elbow.

“Don’t just stand there,” Auron hissed.

“Well, what am I meant to do?” said Jecht desperately.

Auron gaped at him. “Don’t you – haven’t you been here long enough to learn how healing works? I need white magic, and quickly –”

“Right,” Jecht stammered, and began to hurry towards the travel agency, fervently hoping that Braska was out of his bath.

He was in luck, finding Braska sitting on the bed in the room they had taken for the night; he had put his robe back on and was towelling his hair dry. “Auron’s hurt,” said Jecht, bursting in without ceremony. “You gotta help – he’s outside.”

Braska looked up at him, suddenly wide-eyed. “What?” he said sharply. He stood, and then remembered his headdress, and hesitated: it wasn’t proper to go out with his hair uncovered. But it would take time to put the headdress on, he knew: it would surely delay his getting to Auron. Eventually, after a few seconds of fierce mental debate, he decided Auron was worth the trouble, and followed Jecht outside with his staff in hand.

Auron had fallen to his knees, the pain from his wound making it difficult to remain standing; his right hand was still clamped firmly over it in an effort to staunch the blood. He gritted his teeth – it hurt more than a single blow from an ordinary fiend ever would. He hadn’t known Jecht was capable of striking with as much force as that; if he had been slightly more charitably disposed towards him, and less afflicted by his injury, he might even have been impressed.

Braska approached, hitching up his robe with his free hand to permit him to run; Jecht followed behind. Once they arrived at the scene and Braska could see what needed to be done, he cast his staff aside and knelt by Auron’s side, gently removing Auron’s bloodied, trembling hand from the wound and placing both his there instead before he concentrated on sending out a strong pulse of white magic.

Immediately, Auron’s pain subsided; the gash in his arm closed. He let out a sigh of relief, raising his eyes to meet Braska’s concerned gaze.

“Are you all right?” said Braska softly.

Auron chuckled briefly. “I am now. Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mention it,” Braska murmured back, caressing Auron’s bare shoulder with a lingering finger. “Any time.”

Auron found himself looking into Braska’s eyes a moment longer before he abruptly turned away, standing and collecting his discarded sword and gauntlet from the ground and then approaching Jecht. Jecht blinked at him in trepidation: Auron had seemed relaxed enough after Braska healed him, but now he looked serious again. It was possible, Jecht thought, that Auron would retaliate. He wondered whether that was how things worked in Spira: if you wounded a person, even accidentally, maybe they had the right to respond. Jecht was under no illusion about Auron’s abilities: if he was to attack, he knew he would be in trouble.

“That was very effective,” said Auron gruffly. “You can rely on surprise.” He hoisted his sword into its sheath on his back, and stomped off towards the travel agency.

While Jecht was staring dumbly after him, Braska frowned. “Effective?” he echoed. “What’s he talking about?”

“It was me,” Jecht explained. “We were fightin’ – for practice. I didn’t mean to do that to him; we just both moved at the same time, and, you know.”

“I see,” said Braska, suddenly lost in thought. If Auron and Jecht had been practising their swordwork together, he realised, it must mean that they were beginning to get on after all. If Auron cared enough about Jecht to help him with his fighting technique, and if Jecht cared enough about the pilgrimage to consent to working on it – it seemed as if the truce between them that he had been hoping for might be within reach after all. He couldn’t help beaming.

“What?” said Jecht suspiciously, at the sight of Braska’s smile.

“Oh, nothing,” said Braska cheerfully. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

8. Man Up

Braska was fast asleep by the time Auron and Jecht came to bed, and remained silent and unmoving under his blanket when they rose again in the morning; Auron wondered whether he should attempt to wake him, but then decided it would be better to let him rest. He headed to breakfast with Jecht instead, trying to distract himself from his companion’s anarchic eating habits by looking at the recently delivered newspaper.

The front-page article, unsurprisingly, was about Sin’s attack on the Al Bhed: the picture that accompanied it, a blurred still from the sphere footage, was enough to inform him of that before he even tried to read it. He turned to the second page, and slowly deciphered the headline there: New laws debated: machina, transport funding, summoners.

He frowned, deciding this looked like something he needed to be aware of. Gradually, he began working his way down the article, placing a finger by the line he was reading to keep his place, and feeling increasingly disconcerted as he got through more of it. “Oh no,” he muttered.

“Somethin’ bad happen?” said Jecht between mouthfuls of yoghurt.

Auron glanced up at him. “Yeah, maybe.”

“So, what is it?”

“I’m still reading,” said Auron. “You can look in a moment.” He turned back to the paper, letting his lips carefully form the shape of each word as he mentally sounded them out.

“Oh, give it here,” said Jecht impatiently. “I’ll read it out, it’ll be quicker.” He grabbed the paper, turned it to face him, and began reading. “The court of Yevon today debated new legislation that is planned, if passed, to be implemented with immediate effect. The deliberations started early in the morning with a discussion of the funding model for Moonflow crossings –”

“That’s not the important bit,” Auron interrupted him. “Go to the second column.”

Jecht acknowledged the instruction with a scowl, and then started reading again. “After prayers, the subject turned to a controversial bill that aims to impose restrictions on who may become a summoner or a summoner’s guardian. Under the proposed law, only those who submit themselves to an inspection at the citadel of Bevelle and are deemed to be sufficiently pious followers of Yevon will be authorised to undertake the pilgrimage. Temples will be instructed to turn away those who are not sanctioned to visit their fayth.” He lowered the paper. “Looks like we started just in time, huh? You think they’d have tried to stop us comin’?”

“I think they might have,” Auron admitted. “Never mind – keep going.”

Jecht turned back to the paper. “Several amendments to this divisive bill are due to be debated over the coming days, including a clause that would require the registration of all those who are undertaking the summoner’s pilgrimage at present. Should the law be passed with this amendment, any summoners and guardians currently on pilgrimage will be asked to return to Bevelle at their earliest convenience. Newly appointed deputy commander of the warrior monk corps and chief envoy to the Crusaders, Wen Kinoc, said – hey, that name sounds familiar. Did I meet him somewhere?”

“He’s a good friend of mine,” said Auron. “He left me that sphere the night we –” He cut himself off, remembering Jecht had forgotten all about it as soon as the next morning. “What did he say?”

“Wen Kinoc said,” Jecht repeated, “I am pleased to support this motion, and trust the court of Yevon will agree that it is particularly timely. Spira’s good people are accustomed to showing kindness to summoners and their guardians, as the teachings advise, but with the recent increase in the number of pilgrimages embarked on, it is important that this hospitality and assistance not be abused. This law will ensure that those without a hope of succeeding in their pilgrimage will waste nobody’s time.” He laid the paper down carefully. “You sure he’s your friend?”

Auron ignored the question; he was too busy trying to work out what might have motivated Kinoc to say such things. Like many people in Bevelle, Kinoc had never been very comfortable around Braska; but most of them had turned on Auron as well after his troubles, and Kinoc had been one of the few to remain a friend. He was probably doing this for political reasons, Auron reflected: Kinoc had always been one to take whatever unscrupulous opportunity he could for the benefit of his own advancement. Auron had done similar things once or twice. It was unlikely, he thought, that Kinoc really thought the pilgrimage should be the preserve of the most pious Yevonites; he was surely just pretending to agree in order to win respect in his new position. Braska and his guardians’ situation probably hadn’t crossed his mind at all, Auron concluded.

“What does it say next?” he asked quietly.

“Speaking in opposition to the motion,” Jecht went on, “Lady Torroll of Kilika gave a passionate speech in which she cited discrimination against those summoners who begin their journeys in the outer parts of Spira. While these summoners –”

“Stop,” Auron suddenly hissed – he could hear the sound of shuffling footsteps in the corridor. “Lord Braska’s coming – put that away.”

Jecht looked up at him, not understanding the sudden urgency; Auron snatched up the newspaper, hastily folded it, and tossed it under the table. It would upset Braska to see this news, he knew, and after the previous day’s events, he would hardly be starting this one in the best of moods. “Tea, my lord?” he said as Braska slowly walked in. “Toast? We’ll start with toast, shall we, and then you can have some tea. Did you sleep well?”

Jecht averted his eyes; Auron’s terrible attempt at acting as if nothing was wrong was almost worse than the sight of Braska himself, who was cowed and pale. If a grown man were to act like this in Zanarkand, Jecht thought, nobody would take him seriously. Men weren’t supposed to be weak.

Auron placed the toast in front of Braska, hastily arranging an assortment of jams behind it; Braska stared at the spread dully for a moment, and then mumbled, “I’m sorry – I – I can’t face it.” He felt as if he had used all his energy in getting himself dressed and undertaking the brief walk from bed to breakfast; actually consuming the food demanded a strength that was beyond him, to say nothing of the onward journey.

“Right,” said Auron, immediately putting his pretended cheerfulness aside. “We’ll stay here a second night. You’re in no state to travel, sir, and it’s still a long way to Guadosalam. We’re ahead of schedule – we’ll write today off, and see how you’re feeling tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Braska mumbled, blinking as new tears began to form in the corners of his eyes. “I don’t mean to cause inconvenience – it’s just that I can’t –”

“It’s not an inconvenience,” said Auron, more loudly than he intended. He lowered his voice again. “It’s fine, sir. We didn’t expect to get here until this evening. Let’s get you back to bed, and then I’ll tell them we need to stay another night.”

Braska let himself be coaxed out of his chair and led back to their room, Auron’s strong arm around his shoulders; Jecht stared up at the ceiling while they walked awkwardly away, and then turned back to his breakfast in an attempt to forget he had seen any of it. The worst part of all, he thought, was the special soft voice Auron adopted when Braska got like this; the way he suddenly took on a sort of nurselike persona. It made Jecht almost physically recoil.

After seeing that Braska was back in bed and had everything he might need, Auron made his way to the reception desk to inform the staff of their change of plans. Passing Jecht, and ignoring him, he reached the desk and let the clerk on duty know they needed to make a change to the reservation.

“You’re staying another night, right?” said the clerk. “Your friend just spoke to me – it’s all taken care of.”

Incredulously, Auron turned to face Jecht, who reluctantly met his gaze. “You’ve already told them?” said Auron.

Jecht shrugged, taking a sip from the bottle of beer he had acquired from the clerk. “Yeah, thought I might as well.”

“That’s odd,” said Auron, “because I seem to remember you repeatedly saying that you don’t want to take any part in organising this pilgrimage, and that the only thing you care about is getting back to Zanarkand.”

“Look,” said Jecht defensively. “It just seemed like the right thing to do, OK? Wasn’t like there was anything else I was meant to be doin’. But if I’d known you were gonna make a big deal of it, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

Auron raised his eyebrows. “Oh no, don’t let me stop you, if you want to help me prepare for the journey. Maybe later, we can get the rations ready together.”

“Fuck you,” said Jecht with a scowl. “I was just bored, all right? What else am I meant to do all day?”

“Do what you like,” said Auron, “as long as you don’t try to get me involved.”

“Sure,” Jecht shot back. “I guess you’ll be busy anyway, lookin’ after Braska while he lies in bed cryin’ like a little girl.”

Auron’s hands curled reflexively into fists; his loyal defence of Braska had at times turned physical in the past, and he had a brief desire to strike Jecht’s smug face as he had done on that handful of occasions to whichever of his subordinates in the corps had dared speak ill of him. Instead, he took a deep breath and flattened his palms against his thighs, remembering just in time how disappointed Braska would be if he were to lash out. “He’s not well,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m sure you’ve realised that by now.”

“It’s pathetic,” said Jecht. “He needs to man up, you know?”

“Man up?” Auron echoed. “What’s that supposed to mean – you think this makes him less of a man?”

“Guys are meant to be tough,” said Jecht, shrugging. “We ain’t supposed to act like that. Leave it to the ladies, yeah?”

“In case you’d forgotten,” Auron hissed, “his wife was brutally killed –”

“Yeah, three years ago!” Jecht interrupted.

“Brutally killed,” said Auron again, cutting over him in turn, “when they were barely in their thirties, and after he’d given up everything for her! No career, hardly any friends, a little girl to look after – and he was a Yevonite missionary! He was supposed to be the one convincing the Al Bhed to give up their machina so we’d have a shot at getting rid of Sin for good – and then when he didn’t manage it, Sin killed his wife. Can you imagine how lonely, and guilty, and angry that made him feel? How unbearable it must be to walk around every day with a burden like that? Or are you completely heartless?”

Jecht was silent for a moment: put that way, it made some sense, he thought, but he still found Braska’s behaviour deeply unsettling. “If all that stuff happened to a guy in Zanarkand,” he pointed out, “he’d be sad for a while, I guess, but he’d suck it up eventually, you know?”

“Well, this isn’t Zanarkand, this is the real world,” said Auron.

Jecht groaned. “This is a shithole. That’s what it is. All this Sin stuff, no entertainment –” He glanced up at the sphere screen above the reception desk, which showed a group of young men in rubbery yellow trousers, passing a ball to each other with woeful imprecision. “Even your blitzball players are crap,” he remarked, before sighing heavily and sitting down at the nearest table. “Auron, do me a favour and get me another beer, yeah?”

Auron took the seat opposite, leant over the table, and said, “I’m not your slave, Jecht.”

“Just Braska’s slave, huh?” Jecht taunted him.

“We’ve been through this,” said Auron. “You’re a guardian too – it’s about time you started acting like one.”

“Hey, I do act like one,” Jecht protested. “Got a hold on the sword stuff now, ain’t I? And I did that strength trainin’ with him a couple days ago. Back home I’d normally charge for that kinda thing.” It struck him as he said it: he hadn’t even considered asking for a fee.

“And what about Macalania Temple?” said Auron, interrupting Jecht’s thought. “Your behaviour there was disgraceful – just running off like that. Those are the moments when Lord Braska needs us most, and you just –” He waved a hand dismissively, too appalled by the memory of Jecht’s actions to finish the sentence. “I certainly hope you won’t try that again in Djose.”

Jecht narrowed his eyes, ready to retort, but he was interrupted by the appearance of a wizened old man who suddenly approached the table. Clad mostly in green, with a cape, baggy trousers, and an unusual mitre that added at least a foot to his diminutive height, he stared at the two of them from behind a pair of small round spectacles.

“Can we help you, sir?” said Auron, suddenly polite.

“Perhaps, perhaps,” the man said; he had a tremulous voice that made it mostly sound as if he was on his last legs, although as Auron and Jecht were shortly to discover, he was given to the occasional moment of surprising force in his lengthy pronouncements. “You see,” he went on, “I am a historian of this place, by the name of Maechen – for many years I have been conducting research on the ins and outs of Spira: on everything that makes it tick. Indeed, were you to ask me a question about the history of our land, I should be delighted to provide an answer – for, you see, what I truly crave is a captive audience.” He looked between them hopefully, his gaze not quite meeting either of theirs; he was too distracted by some matter of great academic importance to give them his full attention.

“Well, thanks, dude, but all I wanna know about this place is how to get out of here,” Jecht informed him.

“He said history, not geography, you idiot,” Auron muttered.

“A fascinating question,” said Maechen, having mercifully failed to notice Auron’s remark. “Should you travel north from this location, you will find the remarkable region of Macalania, with its woods that sustain a marvellous diversity of plant and animal life. To the south, you will come to Guadosalam, the home of that most ancient and respectable race, the Guado; and to the west, there is the great Thunder Lake. Ah, but who knows what terrible beasties dwell beneath its surface! I shudder to think. Legend has it that High Summoner Ohalland once played blitzball in those very waters.”

“I don’t think you get what I was askin’,” said Jecht, who had very little interest in most of the information he had just been given. “I meant a way of gettin’ out of Spira. I’m fed up of it.”

“Getting out of Spira?” Maechen echoed, his bemusement evident in the deepening of his many wrinkles. “My word, what an unusual idea. In all my long years, seldom have I heard such a proposition. It seems that there may yet be research to be done.”

“It’s a ridiculous idea,” said Auron contemptuously.

“It is certainly a startling one,” Maechen replied. “But a puzzle worth considering, I daresay. One that surely flies over the heads of the common folk of Spira. Alas, their minds are simply too tiny to allow them to think outside the box, as it were.”

Auron frowned, suspecting that he had just been insulted; Jecht yelped with laughter, hastily disguising it with a cough as Maechen turned a curious glance towards him.

“Is there anything else you might wish to know about?” said Maechen, now staring at Jecht quite incisively.

“Actually, there is something,” said Auron, who not only wanted to avoid the subject of Jecht’s origins in the presence of a third party, but was also beginning to wonder whether Maechen might be able to help him in his own endeavours. “I’d like to know if you’ve come across any alternative methods of bringing the Calm. Or hints, even – anything at all, really.”

“Another most peculiar question,” said Maechen approvingly, turning his penetrating gaze in Auron’s direction.

“What’s the Calm?” Jecht said.

“Now that,” said Maechen, “I can answer most authoritatively. When each High Summoner performs his greatest service, the Final Summoning – when he calls forth the Final Æon and makes the very ground quake in terror – when he defeats that most wretched of pests, Sin! Surely you know of Sin, my young friends.”

Auron, who thought friends was somewhat forward at this point, nonetheless nodded brusquely, while Jecht said, “Heard of it, yeah.”

“Well,” Maechen went on, “that is the moment at which the Calm is, as we say, brought. The beginning of a splendid time for the Spiran people – blessed respite from our constant troubles. The time before Sin is born anew, when we have a few short years to live in peace and rebuild our resources.”

“So, how long does this Calm last?” said Jecht, thinking back to the statues of the few High Summoners he had seen at Macalania Temple.

“It depends,” said Maechen. “Lord Gandof’s Calm was a fine twelve years – but Lady Yocun’s, alas, only three. Some say that time will continue to decrease – but they are a rather pessimistic lot.”

“Not that long either way,” Jecht pointed out.

“But better than nothing,” said Auron. “Jecht, the threat of Sin is constant in Spira. There are people who barely sleep because of how terrified they are of waking up to find their families dead. Even three years – even one year – it’s something.”

“Uh huh,” said Jecht, unconvinced. “And you said there’s a chance it might last forever, right?”

“Exactly,” said Auron. “An eternal Calm – that’s what the teachings say. If we can truly atone, then Sin will be gone for good.”

Maechen nodded solemnly. “Quite, quite. We must all have hope in those bold enough to take the summoner’s pilgrimage. The Final Summoning is a drastic act, but one that is capable of quite unexpected consequences.”

“Yes,” said Auron, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation back towards his question. “But you haven’t heard about any other ways of bringing the Calm? Even rumours?”

“Nothing I can recall at present, alas,” said Maechen. “But I must say, the two of you have given me some meaty puzzles to chew over. I shall have to continue my research posthaste – and when we meet again, perhaps I shall be able to give you answers to your most fascinating questions.”

He stood up, gave a clumsy little bow, and announced, “I bid you good day,” before turning and ambling towards the exit.

Jecht was beginning to wonder why Auron had been so insistent on discussing the Final Summoning; he almost asked him about it, before realising Maechen had mentioned something much more interesting. “Hey,” he said. “He said there’s a lake nearby, right?”

Auron nodded. “Yeah, not far to the west.”

“And Lord what’s his name used to play blitz out there?”

“Ohalland,” said Auron. “That’s right, there are a few stories about this place. There was also the man who worked out how to stop the lightning causing harm. He was an Al Bhed – I forget his name –”

“Do you think I care about that?” Jecht interrupted. “Just thought I could go for a swim out there – it’s been like a whole week since I was in the water. It’s weird, you know? Feels like I’m missin’ something.”

“Oh, right,” said Auron. “Sure. You should ask at the desk if they can lend you something that repels fiends – it’ll be too dangerous to go out on your own otherwise.”

Jecht headed to the reception desk to do so, expecting to be offered some kind of aerosol spray, and found himself heading back in Auron’s direction with an embarrassingly sparkly bracelet snug against his bandaged forearm. “This is meant to keep fiends away?” he said. “Why’s it gotta be so girly?”

Auron shrugged. “There aren’t many types of armour with that property. I suppose that’s the only one they had.”

“Couldn’t we just wear stuff like this all the time, though?” Jecht asked him. “The pilgrimage would be way quicker if we didn’t have to bother with the fiends, right?”

“It’s extremely expensive,” Auron explained. “Anyway, summoners and their guardians are supposed to fight fiends – it’s one of the traditions of the pilgrimage. It’s not meant to be an easy journey. They’re good practice, too: building up strength for when we climb Mount Gagazet. Apparently it’s tough.”

“Right,” said Jecht, bored as usual by another of Auron’s overly earnest and detailed explanations. “Well, see ya later.”

“Take your sword,” said Auron, “just in case.”

Jecht stopped off at their room to pick it up, trying to ignore Braska, who was lying motionless in his bed, staring at the ceiling; he had almost made his way back across the room to the doorway when he heard Braska mumble, “Jecht?”

“Just goin’ out for a swim,” he said, not turning to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” said Braska. “Will you tell Auron?”

“Tell him what?” said Jecht reluctantly.

“That I’m sorry,” Braska said again.

“Oh,” said Jecht. “Right. Sure.” He made a swift exit, and headed out towards the common area, where Auron was still sitting; neither did so much as glance at the other. Jecht felt no remorse for not passing on Braska’s message: he firmly believed that he was too important to be doing such duties. If Braska was that keen to apologise to Auron, Jecht thought as he walked towards the lake, he could get up and do it himself. He was still of the opinion that if Braska only tried a bit harder, he would be able to put his sorrow aside and get on with the pilgrimage.

He was all too happy to forget about Braska and Auron as he reached the edge of the lake. As he had told Auron, he hadn’t had a single chance to go for a swim since arriving in Spira, and that had been over a week ago. It was about the longest he’d gone without getting in the water in his whole life: back at home, he would have gone at least once a day, unless his son had some kind of school commitment that Jecht was required to go to. When he was first training to get into the Abes, back when he was still a skinny teenager, he’d pushed himself to his limits every day; then, once he’d got onto the team, he’d initially dialled back the intensity of his sessions, just circling around the sphere a few times and then calling it a day after that. That was where the rumours about him had originated: the claims that he’d made it to his position through talent alone.

He’d let them believe it: it only increased the myth of the great Jecht, the player gifted like no other. In reality, his rapid rise to stardom had been the result of a lot of luck and a lot of talking to the right people in the right ways – sometimes, indeed, not just talking to them. Fame was a dirty business. He hadn’t been able to go down the bribery route in the early days, so he’d pursued other options, and once he’d managed to scope out the right people, everything had gone well from there. His celebrity had grown exponentially.

More recently, he’d found himself needing to train harder again: a whole new generation of stars was starting to pop up, kids who were barely in their twenties, and Jecht had found his own playstyle slow and outdated in comparison. After long years, he had started needing to make a real effort in training once more, just as he had as a youth. But the persona he had cultivated, the star player who had no need to practise, had to remain for the sake of his image. Instead of using his team’s facilities, he began to train at sea, early in the morning and late at night so nobody would spot him making his way there and back.

To start with, he managed to fool the media: the image of Jecht as the prodigy who relied on pure talent persisted. But some reporters started to notice that he was struggling in the sphere, occasionally caught off guard by the new techniques brought in by the younger players. Stories about his alcohol dependence began to emerge at the same time; and as a result, the rumours started to spread. For the past few months, the celebrity gossip columns in the papers and the afternoon talk shows had been churning out the same stories: speculation that Jecht’s lack of practice had finally caught up with him; that the drinking was slowing his reactions in the sphere, and that despite his enduring popularity with the punters, his manager at the Abes was planning to force him into retirement.

All the while, Jecht continued his clandestine training regime. The extra time he spent at sea meant he was able to keep up with what was going on in the sphere, and to continue to come out on top more often than not. But he had to make sacrifices in other areas, most notably spending time with his family. He had already taken a wrong turn somewhere in his relationship with his son, who was more often than not resentful and emotional in the face of Jecht’s attempts to prepare him for the harshness of life; as for his wife, she was prone to depressive periods, not as a result of some specific trauma like in Braska’s case, but merely as a consequence of a long family history of mental struggles. She clung to Jecht as if he was the only thing that could make her happy.

He tried to take care of them both, but it wasn’t where his talents lay. Tidus, the boy, was just as stubborn as Jecht had ever been; but being a young child, he was understandably volatile, bursting into tears with alarming rapidity. Jecht nonetheless found it irritating: his son had to be a man, and men didn’t cry. He tried to encourage Tidus to toughen up, but that seemed to make him cry even more. Sometimes it seemed as if the mere sight of Jecht was enough to set him off.

So he stayed away, putting in long hours of training in the sea where nobody would find him, and, when he was with his family on the houseboat where they had made a home for themselves, relying on the drink to dull his worries about having messed up his relationship with his son at home and created an unrealistic image of himself in the sphere.

He would have it all back in an instant, though, he knew: that life over Spira any day. He missed his wife and son terribly, although he would never admit it. The adulation he received from the blitzball-watching public was nice, and had cemented his belief that he really was someone special, but it was his family that truly mattered – not that anybody could ever know.

He plunged into the lake without hesitation, immersing himself in the cold water. It was wonderfully fresh: not full of purifying chemicals like the sphere where the Abes played their matches, and not tainted by pollution like the sea outside Zanarkand. There was good visibility, much better than he was used to in natural settings: he could see a few fiends in the distance, large and skinny green fishlike creatures floating around in groups of two or three. They made no attempt at approaching him: the armour he had borrowed was doing its job.

Jecht made a few circuits of the lake, relishing the feeling of being in the water after so long. His hair trailed behind him as he went, sleek and smooth and free; his feet were finally relieved of the dirt that multiple travel agency showers had failed to remove. He was weightless and unencumbered, back where he belonged – or at least, as close to where he belonged as he could get in Spira.

After a long time, he emerged, standing on the lakeshore and shaking the water out of his hair and clothes like a dog. He felt thoroughly invigorated, and bounded back to the travel agency; even the sight of Auron, who was still sitting in the common area but had taken to carefully running his sword across a small, flat stone, wasn’t enough to ruin his good mood.

“Hey!” said Jecht.

Auron looked up, frowned at the enthusiasm of the greeting, and gave a small nod back once he had decided Jecht didn’t seem to be up to anything dubious. “You should use this too,” he said, gesturing at his whetstone. “Your sword’s probably getting blunt by now.”

“Oh, right,” said Jecht, taking a seat opposite him. He looked down at the movements of Auron’s hands, trying to figure out exactly what he was doing, and almost immediately lost interest: his mind was still somewhere in the lake. “You know,” he said, “I’m gonna admit it, I wouldn’t have the patience for that kind of thing. I bet you could do it a hundred times better than I could.”

“Probably,” Auron muttered suspiciously, wondering why Jecht seemed to be complimenting him for what was probably the first time ever.

“So,” said Jecht, drawing his own sword, “it’d be better for you to do it, right? I mean, if I try, I’m just gonna get the technique wrong or somethin’, and then you’ll get all annoyed with me.”

Auron snorted, seeing where this was going. “Right. Let me guess – a favour?”

“If you like,” said Jecht nonchalantly.

“Fine,” said Auron; he took hold of Jecht’s sword. “Only because mine’s done,” he added.

Jecht grinned and settled in to watch, taking in the scene as Auron carefully drew the red sword across the stone. There was something oddly calming about it, Jecht thought. Auron was usually so tense and short-tempered that seeing him doing something like this cast him in quite a different light. The way concentration drew his eyebrows into a frown over his dark eyes; the way he pursed his lips minutely as those same dark eyes moved ever so slightly, their gaze flitting from one target to the next; the way he occasionally reached to his face to take hold of a few stray strands of hair that had escaped his otherwise neat ponytail, and tucked them behind his ear in an automatic gesture – it was inexplicably mesmerising, just as the sight of him bent in prayer at Macalania Temple had been.

Auron was easy on the eye, Jecht reluctantly concluded; and judging by the sort of looks his fellow guardian had been getting from many of the travellers they had passed over the last couple of days, a number of Spira’s women were of the same opinion. It wasn’t the case that Braska wasn’t good-looking, but Jecht was sure it was hard to be drawn in by someone who went around with so much of his body covered up; as for himself, Jecht had initially been certain that his rugged good looks would attract a lot of interest, based on his experiences at home, but maybe Spiran women were into a different type of man. It was indisputable that Auron was the one who received the most attention – although, oddly, he never seemed to notice. There were certain areas where Auron was highly skilled and very much knew it, and yet, in this one, he seemed totally oblivious.

If all those women happened to see Auron’s chest, Jecht thought, he would have no choice but to notice their interest; they would surely make an even more obvious reaction. He himself was still having enough trouble taking his eyes off it on occasions when Auron removed his cuirass, despite having seen what was underneath a few times now; each time, he experienced the repeated realisation that someone could be simultaneously so infuriating and so handsome.

The sword was almost sharpened to Auron’s satisfaction by the time Braska emerged from the bedroom, fully clothed. “Auron,” he said, “a word, please.”

Auron stood and left his station straight away, following Braska back to the room; he stood by stiffly while Braska closed the door and sat slowly on the bed, only sitting down himself once Braska gestured for him to do so.

“How are you feeling?” Auron said.

“Somewhat better,” said Braska, although his expression was grim. “That’s what I wanted to discuss, in fact. Auron, the fayth at Macalania told me I was too weak. She said I needed to be stronger.”

Auron nodded uncertainly.

“And with that in mind –” Braska hesitated. “Auron, I appreciate that you’re trying to look after me, but we shouldn’t be taking days off like this. We should have gone on to Guadosalam today.”

“Sir, you could barely walk this morning,” said Auron. “We wouldn’t have made it.”

“We would have had to,” Braska insisted. “That’s what this is about: pushing through the difficulties. That’s how I can show the fayth I’m strong enough.”

“Sir,” said Auron again, “you’re ill.” Ignoring Braska’s shake of the head, he went on. “This is nothing to do with being strong – of course you’re strong. But when there are setbacks like last night – you know what things like that do to you. Do you really think you’d have been able to spend the whole day casting magic after the state you were in this morning? The plains are dangerous enough as it is – the fiends could have caused real damage.”

“We’d be fine,” said Braska, his voice taking on a stern edge in the face of Auron’s continued defiance. “I’d have had no choice but to cope with it.”

“No,” Auron protested. “You wouldn’t – I’m sorry, but you wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes. And then what would I have been supposed to do, carry you all the way to Guadosalam? With all due respect, sir, that seems like a pretty poor way of showing the fayth how strong you are.”

“Auron!” said Braska sharply. “You’re my guardian – and this is an order. We are to go on – no matter how ill you think I may be. Do you understand?”

“And what if I disobey?” Auron retorted. “Because I still think this is ridiculous –”

“Then Jecht and I shall have to continue without you,” said Braska.

“Unbelievable,” Auron snarled, springing up from the bed. “You know as well as I do that relying on Jecht would be disastrous. I don’t care what you imagine the fayth are trying to tell you – this is completely stupid. If you’re that determined to get yourself killed before we even reach Djose, never mind Zanarkand – I don’t know what you think you’re trying to achieve.”

“You know why I’m doing this, Auron,” Braska hissed. “You know what this pilgrimage means to me. And the fayth want me to push on, I can tell – I can feel it –”

“The fayth,” said Auron, “weren’t the ones taking care of you while you shut yourself in your house for months. The fayth weren’t there when they took your daughter away because you weren’t well enough to look after her. The fayth don’t know you can still barely eat a proper meal. If you want to be strong, Braska, maybe you should start with that, instead of some ludicrous plan to overexert yourself and destroy any chance of ever making it as far as the Final Æon.”

“Auron!” Braska exclaimed. “That’s enough – I can’t listen to any more of this!”

“Well,” said Auron, “I’m glad we agree on something.” He turned and stormed out of the room, strapping his gauntlet on as he did so. He was livid, absolutely seething with rage, and he knew from experience that there was only one way of calming himself down when he got into this kind of temper: taking his sword and throwing himself into a fight until he was exhausted.

In the barracks, there had been training rooms where he had been able to work off these moods in a safe environment; here, there were only fiends. Auron strode into the reception area, shaking with anger, and came face to face with Jecht.

“Where’re you goin’?” the latter remarked, setting his bottle of beer aside.

“Outside,” said Auron. “Training.”

Jecht raised an eyebrow. “On your own? Is that safe?”

“Do you care?” Auron snapped.

“Not really,” said Jecht, “but I bet Braska wouldn’t like it if you got in trouble out there.”

Hearing Braska’s name was enough to enrage Auron still further; he let out a groan of frustration. “Just get out of my way,” he muttered, ignoring Jecht’s expression of mild puzzlement.

Jecht hesitated for a few seconds, and then said, “You know what, I’m comin’ with you. Those fiends are a lot to deal with if you’re on your own, you know? Could be useful to have a bit of backup.”

Auron would much rather have been alone, but he was too angry to waste time protesting. “Fine,” he said. “Just don’t try talking to me, I’m not in the mood.”

Jecht followed Auron outside and watched as he began hacking away at the fiends, occasionally making his own contribution but mostly leaving Auron to it. Auron was attacking with a speed and ferocity that were very unlike his usual style: normally, Jecht reflected, he was much more measured and precise in his swordstrokes. On this occasion, he was landing many more hits than he did normally, but more often than not they were so poorly targeted that they did only a fraction of the usual damage.

The fiends were striking back, of course; not just at Auron but at Jecht as well. Jecht kept himself healed with potions, but every time he raised one in Auron’s direction, Auron waved it off with a scowl. He had sustained several minor injuries, including a few blows to the head that had succeeded in giving him an increasingly painful headache, but still he persevered, swinging his sword wildly at the fiends and occasionally felling them through sheer desperation. Jecht looked on sceptically as Auron visibly became more and more afflicted, practically on his knees and yet still refusing the potions that Jecht thrust towards him.

After that, it only took a few more attacks from the fiends for Auron to lose consciousness, slumping face-first onto the wet ground. Jecht, totally unsurprised, saw off the large reptilian creature that had landed the final hit, and then located some phoenix down, tossing it over Auron’s back.

Auron came to, groaning as he hauled himself back into a kneeling position; Jecht once again shoved a potion in his direction. “If you don’t take this one,” he said, “I’m gonna fuckin’ force it down your throat.”

Auron snatched the potion from him and drank it, then took a few deep breaths and finally scrambled to his feet, dirty and dishevelled but cured of his injuries. He glanced at Jecht, gave him a small nod, and then hoisted his sword over his shoulder, ready to head back inside.

“Hey, wait a second!” Jecht protested, shoving against Auron to prevent him from going any further. “What was all that about?”

“Just … letting off steam,” said Auron reluctantly.

“Steam?!” Jecht squawked. “What, your idea of lettin’ off steam is comin’ out here and trying to get yourself killed?”

“I’m not the one who wants to –” Auron began, and then stopped abruptly. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about it.” He walked on, ignoring Jecht’s further complaints, and led the way into the travel agency.

Braska was sitting at the same table that his guardians had occupied earlier, doing his best to eat a light dinner; he looked up as they walked in, and his gaze fell instantly on Auron. Muddy and drenched by the constant rain, his hair and robe in disarray, Auron looked so miserable that Braska simply couldn’t ignore it. “Auron,” he murmured, at a loss for what he might say next in order to put things right between them.

Auron had been looking away, but at the sound of Braska’s voice, quiet and gentle, he couldn’t help meeting his eyes. He stood there, not bothering to hide how upset he was, feeling Jecht’s curious gaze on him as he stared sorrowfully at Braska’s face.

After a few seconds, Braska broke eye contact; Auron’s look of utter despair was too intense to bear. “Would you get me some more tea?” he asked instead, moving his empty teacup in Auron’s direction as he looked down at the table.

Auron obeyed, taking the cup with only a little less poise than usual, and heading over to the desk to ask morosely for a refill; once it had been supplied, he took it back to Braska without looking at him, and then walked off, not waiting to be thanked.

“OK,” said Jecht, watching him leave, “do you know what that was about? Cos he’s been actin’ real weird tonight.”

Braska knew perfectly well what was going on, having borne witness to Auron’s temper enough times over the past few years. “He’ll be all right,” he said, and then sought to change the subject. “Would you like to be in tonight’s sphere for Yuna, Jecht?” he asked. “I was just about to take it.”

“Course!” said Jecht.

Braska set up the sphere, and had barely greeted Yuna before Jecht launched into an enthusiastic recollection of some blitzball game he had played a few months ago. Listening, Braska found himself glad Jecht had taken the lead; having spent most of the day in bed, feeling awful, and then emerging only to have that terrible argument with Auron, he didn’t have much he could tell her himself. After a while, he even found himself smiling slightly at Jecht’s anecdote, which had turned out to be the story of an occasion when the device that kept the sphere water purified had malfunctioned, and Jecht’s entire team had had to play the whole match covered in foul-smelling green goo.

With the sphere finished, they headed back to their room; Braska was steeling himself to try talking to Auron again, hoping their disagreement wouldn’t be left to fester overnight. When they arrived, though, the room was dark and quiet, and Auron was already under his blanket, turned towards the wall and apparently asleep.

Braska murmured his name again – he even stooped down and laid a hand briefly on Auron’s shoulder – but Auron made no response. Sighing, Braska conceded that he would have to try raising the matter in the morning; he whispered goodnight to Jecht, and then retired to his own bed.