Ever since he left the bustling streets of Luca behind, the hairs on the back of Zveran’s neck had been standing. He reshoulders his pack, adjusting to make it more comfortable, as well giving him the chance to peek behind him.
He couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean no one was there, and if he let them get the better of him, if they caught him by surprise, well. The thieves who trained him would be very disappointed.
They'd started tracking him not long after he left Luca. Really, they'd tracked him for longer than normal, gut twisting in an unpleasant way, and not just from hunger. Something told them he knew. But they hadn't eaten in days, nothing substantial, and they needed food.
They'd taken advantage of his pause to move a little ahead of him. And now they-
-Stepped out, knife ready in their hand.
Zveran drew a knife of his own, eyes narrowed at the person. What sort of a mask was that?
“Step aside. I am a summoner on pilgrimage.”
-They wouldn't be dissuaded. (They were shaking, slightly, from exhaustion, and lack of food.)
(And what had Yevon ever done for them?)
They darted forward - they're quick, and good, and they're aiming more for Zveran's pack than Zveran himself.
Zveran is no slouch with a short sword.
He parries the move and side steps, twirling to face his attacker (who seemingly did not want to strike him? Odd).
They stumble at the move, but keep their feet with a slight headshake, before diving back towards him, aiming low. (A killer was more likely to be hunted down than a lone thief, but they needed to eat.)
Zveran blocks low, twists the knife upwards and then sweeps his attacker's legs in one swift move.
They go down, with surprisingly little noise, just the sound as hitting the ground forces the air out of their lungs. They start to scramble backwards. (They've been bested before, and it's never been good. Always been pain. And they've survived, but...)
"You've not faced someone of talent before, have you?"
-It's not wise, but they swear at him in place of an answer.
"And you didn't move to strike me when you had the advantage. Something tells me you don't want to kill."
They growl. Then relent a little. "Murder catches attention." They'd learned that.
"True enough. You start down that road and you become quite noticeable. What then, pray tell, was your plan?"
Shrug.
He could go. He could keep walking, leaving this person to terrorise others.
But he couldn't.
Instead he swung his pack off, and offered it to the person. "Whatever you want out of that you can have. I can replenish at the next temple."
-does he think they're an idiot? Even with the mask the sceptical look is plain.
He tosses the pack at their feet.
They stare at him. "I'm not going to pay you back." (There's a definite innuendo to the idea of paying him back.)
"Wouldn't dream of asking you." He means in every sense of that.
"Screw you," they mutter and push themself to their feet. They're not taking anything. There's always a price and they're in no shape to fight, not someone skilled.
"You don't seem in a position to refuse free food."
They aren't. They really aren't. And yet...
"I won't make you promises, you don't know me. But I won't move a muscle unless you come at me again."
"Why?"
“Because you’re shaking with exhaustion. You’re hungry. I have supplies, so I can help.”
They shake their head, tired and confused and just...done. "You don't make sense. I try to rob you and you-"
“I’ll take that as a compliment. I do try to be the opposite of whatever people perceive me as.”
He kneels down so he’s eye level with the masked person. “You’re not robbing me for fun. You need food, clothes. And you tried not to strike me. This tells me you’re a good person in a not good situation.”
"Ha," they say flatly. (Good is not something they have the luxury of being.)
Zveran smiles a little grimly. “All right. A person who would be good if the situation allowed?”
They don't respond to that, instead, they crouch down - probably still watching Zveran, and rifle through the pack.
Inside is plenty of food, a few changes of clothing, a few mysterious things wrapped up, and tied on the end is a bedroll and blanket.
They take some of the food, although not much, and straighten, stepping back.
Zveran takes the pack back, and frowns a little at the contents. "You didn't take much."
"And?"
"You could take the whole lot. You look hungry."
That gets him another flat look. They still don't trust this, still half-think he's mocking them, going to take this away.
“Take this too.” He pulls out some more food and wraps it in a blanket, tossing both to the stranger.
They catch it, a move that's far more reflexive than anything else. "I don't-" they start.
"Take it, please. And spare the next person their life."
-Silence. And then the stranger disappears back into the forest.
Zveran frowns. He hopes the stranger took his words seriously.
He starts on his way back to Luca.
For now, he is unmolested by any further robbery attempts.
He thinks about his robber the whole time, and wonders how things got so bad that people must turn to that.
It's a couple of days later that he'll encounter them again - by some strange coincidence - on the Mi'Hen Highroad.
A handful of people have cornered them against an outcropping. Whatever's going on, does not look particularly friendly.
"You've had your fun," one of the people is saying, "now it's time to remember who you belong to."
Zveran knows all about people like that. The priests and monks of Yevon would like to think he belongs to them too.
"Pardon me, but I do believe that you've mistaken your friend's role there."
The would-be robber isn't looking at him, is looking more for an escape route - despite the hand that is resting heavily on their shoulder, or perhaps in spite of it.
The man turns to Zveran, looking him up and down. "Beg your pardon, but I don't think this is any of your business."
"Ah, you see, that's where you're wrong. People in danger is very much my business."
"No danger here. Just a friendly discu-"
He doesn't get any further, as the stranger moves, a dagger plunging into the hand on their shoulder, slipping sideways and lashing out at the apparent weakest of the group hemming them in.
Zveran leaps into the fray beside them, making sure to protect his would-be thief.
Between the two of them, they've got more skills than the other group put together. The group, when this becomes apparent, flee, their assumed leader snarling out threats of dire consequences.
Zveran goes to draw throwing knives, taking aim at the leader.
"Not worth it."
“He may come back for you. I’d say that’s worth it.”
Shrug. (And near-palpable confusion.) "Maybe. Maybe not. Your choice."
Zveran looks at them, frowning, but he takes his hands from his knives. “Who were they?”
"My owners."
“You were a slave?”
They shrug again. "Something like that."
"Well, no longer. You'll never suffer under a master again."
Silence.
"Pretty sure of that aren't you?"
"With complete and definite clarity."
They shake their head. "Was sort of the plan anyway. Didn't expect to run into them."
"The past always does have a strange way of reappearing when you need it least."
"Now that's the voice of experience."
"Mine was not so dangerous as yours. Someone I cared about very much died, and suddenly I had to take up her mantle, just what I had fought against for years."
"-my apologies. That sounds...difficult."
"Oh, you know. At least I know what's coming at the end of my Pilgrimage."
"-You're a summoner?" Something about that has them on edge again.
"For my sins, yes. That upsets you?"
They look away. "I am- not precisely on speaking terms with Yevon."
"Either am I. I find them to be stuffy, pretentious, and most importantly, racist."
-Okay. That's a very definite impression of a sceptically raised eyebrow.
"My mother was Al Bhed. They'd rather I not mention it, lest their image of the perfect summoner is tarnished."
They snort. "Sounds like them."
"Doesn't it just? All of them, self-righteous assholes to a point."
"They must love you."
"They find me heretical and problematic, and yet they need me quite desperately. I wouldn't have it any other way."
That gets an amused snort as they look up to the sky. "The day's getting on. I imagine you have places you need to be."
Zveran doesn't want to leave them on their own, but they aren't wrong. He has a long journey along the Highroad.
"What will you do?"
Shrug. "I guess the same thing I was already doing."
"Robbing people for bare essentials?"
"It's worked so far."
"There's another way for you to get the essentials."
Scepticism.
"You could come with me. As a summoner, temples have to supply me and my guardians."
Silence.
"I've already told you I'm not going to pay you back."
"You don't have to pay me anything. I go up to a temple, with you, they have to resupply you. Then we can part ways, if you prefer."
The silence this time is more thoughtful. "-Another way for you to screw Yevon, I suppose."
He's not sure he likes that, but says nothing. "True enough."
"...Okay then. I accept."
"Excellent. I'm Zveran, at your service." He bows.
There's another amused snort, but no immediate response with a name.
"You don't have to tell me your name, if you feel the need to keep it secret. I would like a name to call you by, however?"
"Masquerade, I suppose. Or Masque."
"An honour, Masque. Shall we?" He points the way down the Highroad.
They nod, but let him lead the way.
He's happy to walk in silence down the road, though he does point out a few of the wrecked parts of an ancient city.
Masque is quiet, and while they look, it is perhaps because he's pointing it out than any real interest.
“Yevon would have us believe that it was our arrogance that made Sin. I’m not so sure arrogance caused entire cities to be devoured.”
"Yevon's arrogance is...much."
"So why isn't Sin knocking down a few temples, no?"
They shrug. "Maybe the world would be better if it did."
"I'll agree with you there. I think they might put more effort into properly ending Sin."
"Yeah..."
"You...haven't heard how Sin is destroyed, have you?"
They shrug, awkward and perhaps a little ashamed.
"No, no, do not feel bad. I can't imagine the filth who thought they owned you would care to give you that information."
They shrug again. "All I needed to know about Yevon was that I wasn't-" they cut off.
"They were wrong. Whatever cruelty they spouted, they were wrong. I swear to you."
That gets that half-amused snort again. "You're very sure of that for someone who barely knows me."
"I suppose you could say, I was you. Maybe not so literally, but I have been owned by people who didn't care for me, only what I could do for them."
Masque makes a quiet sound, that might be sympathy, but doesn't seem to know what to say.
"I want you to know that even though we may only travel together for a short time, you are not beholden to stay. Or listen to me. Or even like me. You are free."
-There's an impression of a thin smile. "I was predisposed to like you after you helped me back there."
"Oh, that was nothing. Practising skills that Yevon would rather I didn't have."
"Always wise to keep your skills well practiced."
"Especially when one believes they had to travel alone."
Masque gives an agreeing hum.
"How did you learn to move the way that you do?"
Head tilt. "How do you mean?"
"Your skill with knives is exemplary. Not many could make me pause."
"-Huh. I- It's instinct really? What feels right?"
"Your instincts had you fight that way?"
"Give or take."
“That is incredible. I had a great many teachers, and I barely beat you.”
-Somewhat startled silence. "I guess it was just- Survival. For me."
"How long were you with them? The people who believed they owned you."
They shrug. "For most of my memory."
Zveran reigns in his anger, keeping himself walking forward and unclenching his hands.
"I have to say I am not sad most of them are no longer with us."
"That would make two of us."
“If I had known when we first met, I would’ve helped you track them down. I’m sorry you had to go back to that.”
"I wouldn't have accepted."
“I understand. You never know what people may want in return.”
Masque hums their agreement.
Zveran is happy to lapse back into silence, but does keep an eye out in case they are surprised by fiends.
Masque seems to be fairly alert as well.
They have a couple of brushes with aggressive wildlife, but nothing they can't handle.
Masque continues to be adept with their knives. And for the most part: silent. Almost ominously so in combat.
Zveran is incredibly impressed by their silence, it had been hard for him to learn that skill.
-Well. It's likely they learned their silence the hard way. Still. They're also definitely not used to fighting alongside someone who'll actually watch their back.
And he does watch their back, catching blows that they may miss or backing up their swift strikes with ones of his own.
They adapt to it fairly quickly - even if they don't seem to entirely trust it.
Trust is earned, and Zveran is happy to work towards it with them.
With a little flair, he finishes off the last monster. “I’m starting to think maybe the monks were right about learning magic.”
There's an impression of a smirk. "I can see the logic."
"It would be much easier to clear the field with a shower of flames than it is with knives."
"Quite."
"Though I find knives more appropriate for a truly dramatic flair."
"Knives have a certain, direct charm."
“It’s important to see the light drain from your foe’s eyes.”
"Something like that," they agree with a slight nod.
“And of course offer them the proper respect. It wouldn’t do to have them pass from the world so cleanly.”
Yup. That mask definitely doesn't hide the impressions of the smirk Masque is giving. "Perhaps."
Zveran smirks in return. "I haven't met anyone of your ilk in a long time."
That gets a slightly confused head tilt.
“Someone worthy of the knife.”
-They look down, and it's a little...embarrassed? In the way of someone not used to compliments.
"It's nothing to be modest about, my dear Masque. The knife is not easy for most."
They snort a little. "Learn or die is a rather excellent motivator."
“True enough, but it doesn’t usually train tactics.”
"I suppose not."
"You have a keen mind. I'd like to see how we can grow your skills, now you are free."
There's the eyebrow impression again, because they didn't agree to anything more than getting to the temple.
"Right, yes, of course. I am getting ahead of myself. I do that."
Masque hums (they don't feel bad exactly, but-) "Seems something people do."
"It has been some time since there was anything besides the pilgrimage in my life."
Another hum. "Everyone seems to think a summoner's pilgrimage is...everything."
"It is how Sin is defeated, albeit temporarily. Most common folk only have the Calm to look forward to."
A shrug, and no immediate response. (Like Masque had ever had anything to look forward to.)
"You've never been somewhere that Sin had attacked?"
"Once." Their voice is tight, and they don't continue.
He doesn't pry. He doesn't need to.
He lets the silence lie for now, as they keep heading down the Highroad.
Masque seems happy enough to travel in silence.
Zveran makes no conversation, until they stop for the night.
"These ruins will do nicely for a camp."
Masque nods, but doesn't seem inclined to say anything, instead finding a perch among the ruins - still well-sheltered, but with good sight lines.
Zveran unfurls his blanket and hands it to them. "Hungry?"
Masque makes a sound that isn't really agreement, or disagreement.
Zveran smirks. “I’ll keep it simple, I swear.”
He swings his pack off and starts assembling a meal.
Masque watches him silently.
Zveran stays true to his word, and does not indulge his showmanship. He then presents Masque with food.
They're quiet for a moment, and then take it, turning away from Zveran to eat.
Zveran does not comment on this, even as much as he'd like to. Instead he turns his back to them, and eats his own portion.
Given the fact that the mask on Masque's face has always been perfectly in place, there's a fair chance this is more about Masque than Zveran.
Zveran showing his back to them was also a sign of trust. He doesn't believe they will attack him now.
Well. They prove him right, finishing their food, and then settling down in their perch, looking out past the ruins.
Zveran leans against a wall, following Masque's gaze. "From ere and there I travel, for roaming is all I know. No where shall I set down roots, my soul belongs to the ether," he quotes.
"Hm?"
"Poetry seems appropriate here."
"I suppose you aren't wrong."
“Not a poetry fan?”
"No strong feelings on it."
“Then I shall make you the gift of enjoyment! Are you an adventurous sort? Or do you enjoy romance?”
There's that eyebrow again. "I've never known enough of either to decide."
“Truly a crime. Poetry is one of the greatest forms of art we have.”
Zveran turns his head this way and that, thinking, and decides on something adventurous. He recites it, hands gesticulating with every word.
Masque listens, quietly, and relatively impassive. (There's the faintest hint of a smile.)
The poem isn't too long, but Zveran barely pauses to take a breath before reciting the next one. There is a definite grin on his lips.
Masque snorts, and settles themself a little more into their perch, still paying attention.
Zveran finishes his poem, or at least seems to, from the pause, but then looks up with a furrowed brow.
"I can't remember the ending to that one. Shit, how did it go? Yevon above, that's going to annoy me for days."
"Sometimes, that's the way of things."
"Very philosophical of you."
"I've had the time to think about this."
"How old are you? If you don't mind my asking."
Masque is quiet for a moment. "Seventeen? Around that at least."
Huh. He isn't much older than them, but he knows they both bear the scars of a hard life. Though, Masque's cut much deeper.
"At seventeen I was causing as much trouble for the monks as I could. Philosophy was pretty far from my mind."
"Cages leave a fair amount of time for thinking," they say with a shrug. "Can imagine the priests weren't all that forgiving."
"I take it you mean a literal cage, not a philosophical one."
He's suddenly regretting not killing Masque's captors slower.
"Sometimes." Pause. "Most of the time, really."
"I understand why you don't have much experience with poetry. I will make it my goal to at least show you adventure."
"Adventure has been fairly easy to find."
"Ah, but true adventure is thrilling, joyful, full of romance and excitement. Never just hardship."
That gets a quiet laugh. "Quite the optimist."
"Oh, I wasn't always. In fact, before I met you, I was quite the pessimist."
"I would've expected to have the opposite effect."
"I had lost too much, and was ready to have an unfulfilling and unadventurous pilgrimage. And then you tried to mug me. It was charming."
Another laugh. "So glad to have been of service."
"Such a fine job too! Nearly had me, a shame I had an inch of practice over you."
"Better fed too," they note archly.
"A fair point. Perhaps, should we clash again once you're fed better, you will prevail."
"Perhaps."
"I'll have us down for a sparring match one day. Soon, I hope."
Masque makes a non-committal sound.
Zveran yawns then, and settles back against the wall. "I do hope that you'll find something worth staying around for, but you have my word that no one will make you. Once we reach the temple, you are a free agent. I swear."
That gets another hum, a little less non-committal, but still neutral, still not quite believing.
He doesn’t expect them to believe him. That kind of trust is earned.
Zveran settles back against the wall again, closing his eyes.
Masque settles down to rest as well.
Zveran falls asleep easily, clearly used to sleeping rough.
Masque sleeps - light and in small bouts, still on guard.
Zveran wakes first, but is slow to actually get up, instead watching Masque out of the corner of his eye.
They seem alert, waiting on Zveran.
“Ugh. I guess I have to get up then. Awful.” Zveran peels himself from the wall and very slowly gets up.
"You can rest more if you wish."
"No, no, I shouldn't. Or rather, I couldn't. Weight of all Spira on my back and all other such nonsense."
Zveran checks his pack, pulls out some jerky for them both for breakfast, then swings the bag back on. "Here."
They accept it with no argument this time, stretching as they stand.
Zveran eats and watches, chiding himself for not doing the same. He's not so young that his knees won't crack once they get moving.
They turn away to eat again, before checking their weapons.
Zveran does the same, noting one of his knives is due for a sharpen. He'll take care of that should they get to the Moonflow tonight.
"Ready to keep going?"
They nod. "Whenever you are."
"Then let's be off."
He leads the way back onto the Highroad.
They follow him. Quiet and sure-footed.
Zveran is happy to travel in silence, lost in his own thoughts.
Masque makes no attempt to draw him out of his thoughts, but keeps a weather eye out for any dangers.
The main thing he lingers on is how Bambi would react to all of this. He misses her, deeply, and wishes she was here to guide him. Once upon a time, before he was a rebel summoner, he had stars in his eyes about how he would end Sin for good as Bambi's guardian. He wonders where that went.
The thoughts don't make him less aware, he has years of experience keeping himself safe. The though occurs that maybe Masque was doing the same thing.
Perhaps they are, perhaps they aren't, the mask makes it very hard to tell one way or another.
Zveran is content to keep silent along the path, and lets his mind keep wandering.
Well then, they will be quiet until something makes them be otherwise.
That something, many hours later, is the Moonflow.
"I've been here a few times, but it never stops to amaze me."
Masque looks out, arms folded over their chest. "It is incredible."
"The view at night is even better. Fancy staying until then?"
They shrug. "This is your Pilgrimage, not mine."
"Then we will cross in the morning! The pyreflies make the river look like the night sky."
Zveran sits close to the water's edge.
Masque finds a nearby tree to lean against.
"They glow, each soul, like a star."
He sounds sad.
Masque hums quietly, not quite agreement, but not disagreement either.
"I had a friend once, she wanted to see this most of all. The moonflow, lit up at night."
"And did she?"
"No. She cared too much to stop."
Another neutral hum.
"She...she wanted to end Sin. She...never got there."
-Masque has no idea how to respond to that.
"Ach, sorry. I get very nostalgic these days. I swear I wasn't always like this," Zveran says with a wry grin.
Masque shrugs. "You do you."
"I can be very overbearing. Be careful how you ask that," Zveran says, with a very rougish grin."
There's that impression of a smirk. "We'll see."
"We will indeed." The sun hits the horizon. "Oh, here we go."
Suddenly, the river becomes a long, stream of black, and the pyreflies upon it are like bouncing, playful stars.
Zveran, as suddenly as the change, strips his shirt and shoes, and walks into the living night sky.
Masque watches from the bank.
Zveran cups a pyrefly between his hands, cradling it gently. He then lifts it above his head, releasing it into the sky.
He looks rapturous.
He does at that.
It's pretty, but Masque has never really cared for this kind of thing.
"Not one for the water?" Zveran calls out to Masque.
They shrug. "Not particularly."
"Then I'll send you a gift." Zveran captures, and then with a soft breath, sends a pyrefly drifting towards Masque.
Masque makes a quiet sound - maybe a snort, maybe half-a-laugh - at Zveran's antics.
Zveran laughs too. "Oh, I know it is foolish, but I have a foolish heart."
"Your words."
More than they know.
"Luckily for us, I do not have a foolish brain."
Eyebrows.
"I can be intelligent! I swear it on my mother's grave."
A snort of laughter. "I suppose on that I should take your word."
"I have nothing more than my word, so I suppose you must!" Zveran grins.
"Perhaps I shall see the evidence."
That makes Zveran somewhat sad, though he hides it well. "I suppose you will."
Zveran looks at the edge of the bank. "We should set up camp."
"Mm," Masque agrees, and sets about doing so.
Zveran wades back to shore, and helps Masque while also avoids getting them wet.
They move easily enough around them, and get a fire set up fairly quickly.
Zveran, once slightly drier, re-dresses and starts on making food. "Once we cross over, we will have access to better food. Campfire stuff is all right, but always tastes slightly of smoke."
Masque shrugs. "Food is food."
"No, there you are wrong, dear Masque. Sometimes food is a religious experience. The Al Bhed do amazing things with spices, and the Guado? Oh, the ways they remake a simple mushroom, I would give up Yevon for such delights."
"Perhaps," Masque sounds almost amused. "But at the end of the day, food is sustenance."
Zveran is silent for a long moment. "Oh, Masque. I hope you continue journeying with me so I can show you how wrong that is."
He sounds almost gleeful at the idea.
"We'll see."
"Will we?" Zveran tries to chide himself not to get attached, but the idea of showing Masque the better things in life was invigorating.
"Yes. We will."
Zveran finds himself somewhat speechless at that. Are they considering actually staying?
He shakes off his uncharacteristic quiet, going back to cooking. He rattles off the history of the Moonflow, free hand gesticulating as he does so.
Masque listens quietly, watching both Zveran and the Moonflow.
It’s a lovely, peaceful night. Even fiends seem to know not to disturb the gentleness of the river.
Zveran realises after a time that he had stopped talking to join Masque in admiring the Moonflow, and a small part of his brain wondered what Masque would look like under the...well, mask.
Masque doesn't seem inclined to break the silence. Or take the mask off to let Zveran know the answer to that question.
"Right!" Zveran says suddenly, tugging a book from his pack. "Poetry."
Head tilt, eyebrow.
"I said I would provide you with something adventurous. I believe I have something suitable, give me a moment."
He flips through the book with single minded determination. "Ah-ha!" He exclaims, slapping a hand down on a page. "Here we are. The First Summoning. Adventure, tragic romance, a bitter war, everything a good poem needs."
"Sure," Masque shrugs.
With that enthusiastic response, Zveran smirks, and then starts reading.
A calm settles over him, noticeably. This is clearly a realm he loves.
They listen, and watch. There's a faintly indulgent smile, a contentness.
The poem is long, and Zveran has to pause a few times to wet his throat, but his calm aura does not fade for a moment.
And then, the poem is done, the lovers parted forever, and Sin unleashed on the world.
Masque is not overly affected by the ending. Although they are quiet.
"Gil for your thoughts?"
"Life sucks? I don't know."
Not the reply he was expecting, but there is something to be said about beginnings.
"Very true, and aptly put, but the broader stretch of the poem is beyond the awful things that happen. It is also about the things worth fighting for."
"Guess I haven't found anything worth it yet."
"Life may not have given you a chance before, and for that I would happily throttle it. But it means you are owed something great. Something worthy of you."
Masque hums.
"Perhaps a tragic love affair of your own!"
"Sounds more trouble than it's worth."
"The rewards far outweigh the risks, I assure you."
Snort. "As you say."
"You don't believe me, for shame. Trust that some of the mightiest of beings would fall at their feet for a chance at true, complete, and binding love."
"Perhaps. That doesn't mean I don't think they're fools."
"Oh, to be a fool in love once more. I do miss it."
That gets an eye roll.
"I can't see, but that was very much a scornful rejection. I would be insulted, were I not such a romantic."
"I would never dream of insulting you."
"Oh, I very much doubt that," Zveran says, laughing. "I wouldn't dream of letting you hold yourself back from accurately calling me a fool."
Masque gives a quiet laugh as well.
Zveran laughs with them, a brightness to his eyes-
-and then he remembers why he is doing this, and his countenance sobers.
"We should get some sleep. The temple awaits in the morning."
"-Quite."
Zveran settles against his pack, and is asleep in moments.
Masque settles down as well. Whether they sleep is harder to tell.
Zveran wakes before sunrise, maybe because something subconscious knew this would be his only chance, and he sees the pyreflies dance in the early morning light, becoming like balls of fire.
He's silent and still, with one hand reaching out.
If Masque is awake, they don't interrupt the moment.
"You're welcome to join my morning worship, Masque."
"I'm fine."
"Of course, the non-romantic wouldn't see the joy in the Moonflow." This is all said in light-hearted jest, with no pressure to be anything that they aren't.
Another eye roll. "It's pretty, I can see that. I'm not blind."
"Pretty? Pretty!? My god, you are unromantic soul." He leans back to give them a devillish grin.
"One of us needs to be."
"If only to temper me. I understand, even if my heart aches to hear it."
He starts gathering up supplies and stomping out the fire. "Then let us be off!"
Masque helps where needed, and is ready when Zveran is.
He leads the way to the crossing, and then looks over his shoulder to grin at Masque.
"I can't wait for you too see this."
Masque stares up at it, a little stunned.
"This, my dear Masque, is a shoopuf. Magnificent, aren't they?"
He is thrilled at their reaction.
"They're big."
"And their noses are so curly!"
"Very curly."
"So they can eat the creatures at the bottom of the Moonflow. For us, we only have to relax upon their backs."
"Small mercies."
"Come on."
He leads the way onto the beast's back. Upon it, there is a comfortable set of seats, with only a few other passengers. Zveran takes over a corner, already looking hopefully at the other side of the bank.
Masque is thankful they're in a corner, but keeps an eye on everyone else.
No one seems to be paying them much attention, especially since Zveran doesn't look like much of a summoner. There are a few curious glances at the masked person, but no one comes near them.
Zveran takes the time to take out his knives and sharpen them.
Well. Masque will take care of weapons maintenance as well.
The journey across the Moonflow is slow, but the waters are peaceful and then sun isn't too hot. Soon the other passengers have settled down with their own pastimes.
Masque tucks their daggers away, and settles in to watch.
The Moonflow swish-swishes around the shoopuf's legs, the pyreflies dance and glow, and the other bank gets closer and closer.
Zveran realises after some time that he has been staring at Masque, like he was waiting for them to continue a conversation they never started. Or maybe waiting to see some small reaction to something.
He finds himself wishing to find that elusive thing that would make them smile.
After a little, they tilt their head towards him. They've obviously been aware of him watching.
"Peaceful, isn't it?" He tries to appear nonchalant.
"Yes. Quite."
"Not quite the adventure I promised, but all adventures need some downtime. It can't be all scrapping and fighting for breath."
That gets a faint smirk. "Adventure can be overrated."
"True. Sometimes life is better for the peaceful moments."
"Mm. Strange. The difference between peace and boredom."
"Quite! The difference is both small and monumental."
Masque nods.
"To be bored around you would be near impossible."
-That startles Masque, and they don't seem to know what to do with that information.
"You're quite the hero, in your own way. Literary hero. I wouldn't doubt that poems will be written about you someday."
Masque shakes their head. "I doubt that. I am...just another anonymous person."
"You are far more than that, Masque. No matter what anyone tried to make you believe."
"Perhaps. But you're the summoner. I'm fairly sure of the two of us, it'll be you who's immortalised in verse."
Zveran chuckles, ducking his head. "I doubt that. I don't think I'll even make it to Zanarkand."
Masque tilts their head in silent question.
"I'm not much of a summoner. Bambi, she was the one who should've made it. I'm simply trying to make her death worth something."
"And yet you're trying anyway."
"Well, it wouldn't be a dramatic adventure tale without someone doing something." Zveran flashes a rougish grin.
A quiet laugh. "Quite."
"And this adventure led me to you, so I cannot claim that it is entirely pointless."
-Yup. Masque once more doesn't know what to do with that. (Perhaps they are blushing? They've certainly glanced out to the Moonflow again.)
Zveran smiles, but lets the moment go. He looks out across the Moonflow as well, his smile staying on with ease.
Well then. They can settle into a surprisingly comfortable silence.
The Moonflow crossing is long, and soon enough Zveran's head lolls off to one side as he naps.
Masque stays awake and alert, too many people around, no matter the peacefulness.
The shoopuf begins to mount the bank an hour later, and Zveran stirs.
"Ugh...remind me never to nap on a bench again," he moans, trying to uncrick his neck.
Masque reaches out and puts pressure just so on his neck.
"Ooooh," Zveran moans. "Yes, that's the spot."
"Better?"
"Much. I'd think you were a white mage, had I not known you."
A faint smile. "I have experience with cricked necks."
Now is not the time for a foul joke, Zveran, control yourself!
"You do get into a lot of fights. Cramped muscles must be the norm."
"Something like that," Masque agrees.
"Whatever the reason, I'm very glad you have that certain skill. You keep endearing yourself to me, it's almost like you staying is a possibility."
Masque hums, a sound that is neither positive or negative.
Zveran smiles.
The rest of the passengers disembark, and Zveran stands to follow them.
Masque trails him quietly.
Zveran leads the way, away from the shoopuf station and heading towards Guadosalam.
Masque continues to watch their surroundings carefully.
"We've got a few days travel before we get to Guadosalam. Ready?"
They nod. "Of course."
Zveran waits for Masque to fall into step, and then starts along the path.
A few days later, after nothing more eventful than a few fiend attacks, Zveran stands before the underground path leading into Guadosalam.
"Ugh," he says, screwing up his face. "I don't like being underneath all that earth."
Masque doesn't look any more comfortable than Zveran sounds. "-Sooner we start, sooner we get it over with?"
"Right. It's just the one night, restocking, what could possibly go wrong?" He takes a first cautious step. "Guados, why can't they live in trees?"
"That would be...better."
"Right? Nobody would be able to reach them, and it's far more defensible. You can go anywhere from a tree. Underground you're just...stuck."
Zveran keeps one hand on the wall as he starts down, frowning the whole way.
Masque doesn't touch the wall, does in fact seem to have their eyes fixed on the ground.
Not that they aren't usually quiet, but this time Masque seems...unusually so. Zveran can't blame them, the air is still and the chamber is claustrophobic.
"After I defeat Sin, you should go somewhere sunny. Maybe a nice beach. Or even just a field. Somewhere with the sun directly overheard always."
"Never been a fan of sand. Could get behind a field though."
"A golden field of wheat, surrounded by rich green fields. Maybe a few ponds."
"I'd just go for a green field on the edge of a forest."
"Macalania. That's where you need to be."
"Convenient that that is where we already are," Masque comments.
"Well, in a way. We have to go much farther west yet."
Masque hums again, and they're not exactly relaxed now, but they're less tense than they just had been.
Zveran grins, but falls silent as they go deeper.
Eventually, there lies a bright gateway, and a Guado to greet them. "Welcome to Guadosalam! May I ask your business?"
"I am a summoner. This is my guardian," Zveran says. The Guado gasps.
"We are honoured! I assume you will be visiting the Farplane before your journey to the temple?"
Masque is a silent figure at Zveran's shoulder.
"Not us. We would appreciate replenishing of our supplies."
The Guado nods sagely. "After a demonstration of the summoner's abilities, I am sure your request will be no issue."
"Well, then. To the nearest free space." Zveran brushes past the Guado, not sure where he is going, but certainly going with confidence.
Masque trails quietly again, hard to tell with the mask, but they're probably watching everything.
Zveran, once they reached the space, closes his eyes.
And then...he starts dancing-
Masque watches, silent, and a little entranced.
-Ixion bursts forth in a cloud of electricity, neighing.
Sweat has broken out across Zveran's forehead, and his breathing is heavier.
Masque is watching him carefully, but does not, in the immediate, move forward.
The aeon dances around, neighing happily, before dissipating.
"Beautiful! That aeon is stunning, please come into the hall!" The Guado leads the way, not looking behind him.
Zveran falls to his knees, panting.
Masque practically materialises at his side, offering a hand.
Zveran can barely focus, until Masque's hand comes into view.
"Thank you," he says, practically on a breath, using Masque's strength to haul himself up.
"Hm," Masque shifts so they're discreetly supporting Zveran's weight.
Zveran leans heavily on Masque. "I'm sorry...I...I'm not too good at summoning."
"You're fine," Masque says, and as dismissive as they try to make their tone, there's a faint sliver of concern. "Better at it than I am."
Zveran laughs. "Oh, I don't know. You might be!"
The Guado they've been following throws open the doors to a hall. "Please, wait in here. We will bring forth a mighty feast!"
"Ah, please, just some basic supplies," Zveran tries. The Guado shakes his head.
"A feast fit for a summoner!"
Zveran's knees give out, and he dips slightly.
Masque catches him carefully, still subtle. They're not all that interested in staying, but...
"Sorry, sorry, I-" Zveran staggers onto the nearest stool. "Sorry."
"It's fine," Masque says with a shrug.
"At least there will be food."
Zveran leans into the table, his breath still sharp.
"Always a bonus."
The Guado returns with many others, loading the table with food. A few stay behind to serve them, while a few other Guados walk in, clearly high ranking persons.
Zveran stays slumped against a table, not eating.
Masque pokes him discreetly.
They get a limp response, as Zveran opens one eye, then closes it.
"You need to eat."
"Mmmph. Yes, just...just give me a moment."
Zveran's arms are shaking as he tries to right himself.
Masque continues to provide subtle assistance. "I'm not feeding you," they murmur so only Zveran will hear.
Zveran snorts. “Wouldn’t dream of asking that much.”
He grabs a cup of whatever is nearby and downs it.
Well. Let's hope it isn't something that's going to make him choke.
Masque considers the food before them, but hasn't started eating yet.
It’s certainly...alcohol. Of some variety. Zveran isn’t even sure which of the cups are water.
He pulls a few pieces of food onto a plate and starts picking at it, hungry but still shaky enough to be cautious.
Once Zveran's started eating, Masque does as well.
Zveran notes that, but doesn’t bring attention to it.
Not long after he feels better enough to sit up properly, a few Guado in beautifully elaborate clothes drift close to him, already questioning him on his journey. Zveran does his best to answer in his usual charming fashion, but he’s still half recovering from the drain of energy.
Masque stays quiet, but will step in if it seems like it's needed.
After a easy, light, and even enjoyable conversation, Zveran feels a little more refreshed.
Of course things couldn’t last that long.
“Will you be visiting the Farplane while you are here?” Comes the innocent question.
Zveran’s smile slips off his face. “I...I don’t- I don’t think so.” The words are quiet. Too quiet.
"-We should get on our way."
“No, no! You must stay the night. Never let it be said that the Guado aren’t welcoming.” One of the Guado is already motioning to a servant to prepare a room for them.
Zveran runs a hand through his hair. He’s tireder now than he’s been in weeks. “That would be appreciated. We could use some quiet. Not that this hasn’t been wonderful.” He smiles at them.
A different servant offers to show them the way, and Zveran hauls his body up from the table.
Masque doesn't really want to stay, but can't see an easy way of leaving, and does their best to hide their discomfiture as they continue to be a steady, supporting presence at Zveran's side.
Zveran leans a little on Masque as he goes, and as soon as they're alone, he drops onto the bed.
A moment of quiet passes, and then Zveran looks up at Masque. "I must seem quite the pathetic summoner to you."
"I wouldn't know. I haven't met any others."
"The others can hold their summons for longer than a few moments."
Masque shrugs. "Stamina. Like any muscle. If you don't use it it wastes."
"Probably where I'm going wrong, then."
Masque is entirely correct. Zevran was never much of a summoner, even from the beginning, and his refusal to learn has led to this: someone who will definitely die, unable to kill Sin. The thought stings harder when he remembers how close Bambi is right now, with the Farplane such a short walk.
"So practice."
“It’s not as easy as that.”
"-Isn't it?"
“No, it’s- I started too late.”
Enquiring chirp?
“It was never supposed to be me. Bambi, she was supposed to be the one. She was supposed to succeed.”
"-Fair. But- how do you know practice won't help?"
“Because I- (can’t. I can’t. It was never supposed to be me) Because I’m only so strong. This is it.”
"-Is that you or Yevon's priests talking?"
“The priests?” Zveran looks up, confused frown on his face. “I...I had never even considered that.”
Had he really internalised what they told him?
"Perhaps you should."
“Truly, I didn’t think they even cared enough to make me think that.”
"People don't have to care to fuck up people's heads."
“True enough. Though they cared about Bambi enough to make sure I wouldn’t ruin her chances.”
"I imagine that would suffice to make you think you couldn't improve."
“Perhaps not.”
Masque hums and falls silent.
Zveran leans back onto the bed. He feels off. His world seems shifted off centre.
Masque settles on the floor, cross-legged, now trying to ignore the fact they're in an enclosed space.
Zveran manages to fall asleep, mind still raging.
Masque does not sleep. They know they should, and they do try, but it's too tight, too enclosed...
Zveran wakes for much the same reason. The air feels tight and still here. He sits up quickly and gathers his belongings.
He sees Masque, and a note of guilt strikes him. "I'm sorry. Let's get out of here."
Masque's only response is to rise swiftly to their feet, ready to leave.
It takes a momentary stop at the door to thank the Guado for their hospitality, one more to stock up on supplies, and then Zveran is leading the way out, his eye drawn constantly back to look at the entrance to the Farplane.
As much as his heart aches, he wants to get Masque out as quickly as possible.
"-You want to go. Don't you?"
“Not as much as I want to get out of here,” Zveran says, trademark smirk in place.
Not that he feels it much.
"Hn." Masque doesn't press.
And Zveran doesn’t admit they’re right.
He leads the way through winding tunnels, following signs and wind flow where he can.
Masque seems very attuned to the wind flow, and can in fact take the lead.
Zveran is happy to let them do so, and smiles.
And eventually: they are outside again. And the calmness and relief that comes over Masque is immense.
Not just outside, but right in the thick of the crystal Macalania Forest.
“By all the...” Zveran says on a breath, taking in the splendour.
Even Masque isn't unmoved by the glory.
"It's as if diamonds grew jealous of forests," Zveran says on a breath, gently touching a treetrunk.
"Quite," Masque says quietly, as though scared to speak too loudly.
That gets a laugh from Zveran, albeit a quite one. “It does feel like a breath would shatter the whole thing, doesn’t it?”
"Something like that."
Zveran grins. “We’d better keep moving, the Thunder Plains await-“
Something pulls in his gut.
Masque may or may not be sensing something as well. But doesn't say anything either way.
“Can you feel that? It’s like...something calling.” Zveran walks in the direction the feeling is pulling him in, not waiting for an answer.
"Hm."
It's not a yes, it's not a no, and Masque isn't exactly following, even though they're moving in the same direction.
“It feels...sad.”
Zveran barely takes in the beauty around him as he walks.
Masque hums again. "Scared."
“They do feel scared, almost as if...they’re expecting pain.”
Zveran walks out into an opening, with a crystalline lake sprawling between them and...whatever is calling them.
...the very on fire lake.
"-That is not normal.'
“No...no it isn’t.”
Zveran reaches forward, towards the fire, and something catches his eye behind it.
...Is that a boy in that tree?
"Is that...?" Zveran peers closer, even going as far to try and wade through the flames.
The flames rally against him. They're trying to force him back, but they aren't touching him.
Masque pulls Zveran back. "Around," they suggest.
"Right...yes, that would be the sensible option."
He lets Masque tug him back, and backs his way around the fire to the boy...who looks not unlike a fayth.
Masque leads the way around the lake.
The flames on the lake seem displeased, but never seem close to hurting Zveran or Masque.
Strange, that. One would think that fire burns no matter what is in it's path...though, from the way it sits on the water, this was no ordinary fire.
Once they get closer to the boy, Zveran inspects the crystal over him. "He's a fayth. What's he doing outside a temple?"
"...are all fayth in temples?"
"As far as I was aware, though perhaps I wasn't paying attention."
When Zevran places his hand on the glass, the feeling in his gut intensifies. "He was calling to us."
Masque is less sure about that, looks to the lake, the flames surging anxiously.
"Or trying to warn us away."
"Setting a lake on fire could be interpreted that way, true."
He takes a deep breath, and tries to form a connection with the fayth. "Hello."
Go away go away go away.
"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a summoner."
...That doesn't seem to be reassuring.
The fire on the water surges.
"Hey! Hey, hey, woah. If that's you doing the whole lake-on-fire thing, please stop."
Why should he? They're here to taketaketake.
"Uuhh...take what? Are you guarding treasure?"
...Wait. What?
Yeah, that's seconded.
"Who is taking what from you? Because I don't mean to take anything."
"But summoners always do."
He's still not sure what he's taking, but he won't push the fayth on it. He's not even sure how to comfort someone who made that sacrifice.
"I'm not much of a summoner. Masque can tell you, I can barely stand up afterwards."
"Not wrong," Masque confirms. "But that might be a practice thing. Apparently someone told him he wouldn't amount to anything. Or something like that."
-Yup. The fayth is very confused.
Yeah, Zveran's right there with him.
"I take it- Sorry, bad wording. I mean, I guess summoners just ripped your aeon out without asking?"
Always. Yes. There was never- They just tooktooktook. Everything he was. Everything he is. And it always hurt.
He can feel it, and it's like a punch to the gut.
"I don't want to do that. You are a surprise, I never expected to find a fayth out here, on his own. I only knew about the ones in the temples. If you don't want to come with me, I won't force you. I wish I knew some spell that could keep you hidden."
It makes him angry at himself, again, that he knows no white magic.
Still more confusion. Because people aren't like that.
"I'm not people. I'm Zveran. None else like me, that I can assure you."
"He is very peculiar. I attempted to rob him and he turned around, having thoroughly beaten me in the fight, and gave me supplies anyway."
...Confused blink.
"And I take peculiar as a very kind compliment, Masque."
To the fayth: "Is there anything I can do to make you safer? What am I saying. You've got an entire lake on fire right next to you."
"It's not- always helped."
"That may be because people are still getting to your fayth, despite the fire. I wonder if there's a way to extend it further."
"It wouldn't work."
"You've tried before?"
"Not much I haven't."
"Maybe you're just not strong enough yet. Is there a way to enhance a fayth's magic? Or maybe we could set up a Cloister of Trials around you..."
"-That doesn't stop people."
"No. No, it doesn't."
Zveran frowns, frustrated. "There must be something. There has to be."
"This place isn't the most defensible," Masque says quietly. Doesn't add that it seems like this fayth was just abandoned out here.
"Yes, but- There has to be something. We can't just leave him here!"
"No. I don't suppose we can."
Zveran thinks for a moment. "...what are the logistics for moving a fayth?"
"Nothing you can manage."
"Try me!"
And the fayth explains - the fayth wasn't lying, it'll take more than the resources Zveran and Masque have available to them.
Maybe not now, but he could rally some people from the temple and-
No. No, they'll probably expect the fayth to let himself be taken from, like it's an honour.
Zveran makes a noise out of frustration.
"That," Masque agrees. Pauses. "The Al Bhed? They'd protect him?"
“Perhaps. But I wouldn’t know how to find them. Or convince them to help. Yevon hates them, I imagine the feeling is mutual.”
"Perhaps you'll find them on your journey."
Zveran sighs. "It's a lot to put on maybe."
Over the lake, the fire seems to have calmed a little.
"You're going to need to make a choice."
“Then I choose to sit here and be the vetting process for summoners!”
He takes a breath in, calming himself. He smiles ruefully at Masque. “My apologies.”
"There are worse choices to make."
“Except any summoner who could actually summon would best me. And I promised that I would finish the pilgrimage for Bambi.”
Zveran sighs. He touches his forehead to the fayth. “I promise, if I find anything, anyway to help, I will return.”
"You need...help?"
“Ah!” Zveran jumps back.
He stares at the fire elemental. Then at the fayth. Back to the fire.
“Is that...you?”
"Yes."
The voice comes from the fayth, and the fire-being.
"H-how? We didn't...I mean, I didn't feel the bond taking place?"
"I don't know. But-"
But something in Zveran had spoken to the fayth.
"I've never known anything like this. This is....truly unique. And that elemental, that's your aeon?"
"Yes." It's the aeon who speaks, or seems to.
"You're beautiful."
-Now they have an aeon who doesn't seem to know how to respond to that.
"Sorry, I realise that was...much. I-"
He realises something, and looks down at himself like his body would reveal the answer. "I'm...not currently collapsing with fatigue...how?"
"I don't know. Not exactly. But this- I can do this."
"I can sense you, but you're not draining me. That is incredible."
He smiles at Masque. "Well, I guess I don't have to train anymore, do I?"
"It still wouldn't hurt to."
Pout.
"What should we call you?" He asks the aeon.
"I- Aten."
"It's nice to meet you, Aten. And thank you. It can't have been easy letting yourself be summoned again."
"You need the help."
"You aren't incorrect in that," Zveran admits, somewhat ruefully.
"And I can help. So."
"Thank you, Aten. I'm honoured you chose to come with me."
...The aeon flickers shyly.
"Well, I suppose we should keep moving? We have the entire Thunder Plains to traverse."
"That will be a trial in and of itself."
"Ah, it won't be so bad. I've heard there's a Rin's in the middle."
"Hm," Masque says, neither agreeing or disagreeing.
Zveran smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way, and stands, brushing off his knees.
He spares a look for the boy in the fayth, his heart aching a little, and then heads back the way they came.
This time, he has two people following him.
They pick their way through the forest, Zveran trying to commit the path to memory for when they return, and soon the Thunder Plains are visible in the near distance.
"Well. Doesn't that just look inviting."
"Incredibly," Masque says dryly.
"Times like these I wish there were a faster, safer way to travel between temples."
Masque hums.
"-Would it be a pilgrimmage then?"
"True, but that would really only matter if I were actually devout. I'm possibly the most blasphemous non-Al Bhed there is."
"You say that like I'm any more devout."
"I doubt you had much chance to even consider it. I was raised in it."
"I find that familiarity tends to breed contempt."
Zveran laughs. "On that, dear Masque, you are correct."
He braces himself. "Onwards."
Onwards indeed. At least there's the lightning rods to move between?
Yes, and Zveran is very confident in moving between them, though he does search about between flashes of lightning for fiends.
Aten seems to be watching as well, and immolates a handful of fiends before they're ever a threat.
To say he's impressed by that would be a severe understatement.
Eventually, despite the progress they've made, Zveran does call for a stop. He sits next to the lightning rod, slumping against it. "Ugh."
Masque stands to the side, squinting ahead of them.
"I think I can see Rin's," they say. "But it might be an illusion."
"And here I thought mirages only happened in deserts."
"You'd be surprised where mirages might happen."
"You know? I would. If you hadn't tried to rob me back in Luca, I would've thought you were a mirage."
-Curious, confused headtilt.
"The- you know, the..." He gestures at his face.
Good one, Zveran. He mentally slaps himself.
"-Ah. My mask."
"Yes. It's quite fantastical."
"It serves its purpose."
He does not press for further clarification of what that purpose is.
He instead closes his eyes, and tries to connect with his aeons.
Masque leans against the lightning rod, keeping watch.
Aten is right there, a warm, constant presence. (Yet shy, withdrawn, concerned.)
They all feel very far away, like he's reaching for something he only just can't touch.
The feeling actually hurts.
Aten seems perplexed somehow - he's never encountered a summoner like this.
Zveran can feel his concern, and that makes the hurt worse somehow. He's so connected to Aten, why can't he do that with the others?
He tries again, but the feeling is like pulling a piece of fabric near to ripping.
"Stop," Aten says quietly. "You'll hurt yourself. Hurt them."
The shocks Zveran into stopping. "I didn't realise I would- of course. Yes, anything I do compounds on them."
-Aten pretty clearly wasn't expecting Zveran to actually stop.
"I'm not good at this, Aten. I need more help than you might realise, but I thank you for any insight you can give me."
...Oh.
"I- I'll try."
Zveran gives the aeon a rueful smile. "I won't blame you if you feel you can't."
He stands, finally, shaking off his tiredness. "Let's see if that Rin's is indeed a mirage."
Masque offers a hand to help him to his feet.
Zveran takes it, and hesitates to let go once he's up.
Masque hesitates, and then carefully extracts their hand.
Zveran's hand drops back to his side.
"Right. Yes. Onwards."
Masque leads the way towards the building they'd seen.
Zveran hurries behind them, flinching a little at the lightning. He does feel rather exposed out here.
If Masque notices the flinching, they don't make mention of it - but have they adjusted their pace so that Zveran won't be isolated?
Masque has been leading the way for some time, so it is strange that they have dropped back to walk beside him, but it is not unwelcome.
Nontheless, they reach the inn without getting struck by lightning.
Which is a relief for all involved.
Zveran pushes open the door, sighing in relief. "A room for two- ah. Well. Three?"
The innkeeper smiles, and opens up the ledger on the desk.
Aten stays small, and close.
Masque flits around the front room.
The innkeeper does look worriedly at the small fireball, but doesn't say anything. Perhaps people around here have pet fiends?
Zveran finishes signing into the guestbook, and accepts the key given. "Thank you."
He turns to Aten and Masque. "Shall we?"
Masque nods silently.
Zveran leads the way through to the back, into the small room. There is a bed, a couch, and a table. Not much else.
Zveran sinks onto the couch, throwing his pack down.
Masque considers the room for a moment and then settles down on the floor next to a wall.
Zveran isn't sure he likes that, but doesn't say anything. Isn't sure if it's something worth pushing.
"Another day's journey and we'll be at the temple. I guess then you'll be going?"
Masque hums, which isn't really an answer at all.
“I-“ hope you won’t? Want you to stay? Have become reliant on your steady presence?
Zveran won’t force them to do anything, and if they need to go, he’ll let them. Doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it in the slightest.
“I hope you’ll find safety.”
"Safety is an illusion."
Yeah, he should’ve expected that response.
“Then I hope you find adventure? Thrills?”
"I'm sure I'll find something."
“Will you go back to robbery?”
"I don't know."
Zveran sits back. What was all this for, if they go back to life they had before?
"You'll be more careful this time?"
There's a moment of silence. "As I can."
"That's all I ask."
Masque seems confused by that response, but doesn't say anything else.
They're confused, Zveran feels bereft, all in all it is not going to be a happy night for them.
Zveran sighs, and attempts to draw out his usually more light-hearted self, even if it's only a...mask...
Masks are the theme of the moment, aren't they?
"It may be...foolish. Or perhaps merely unwise, but I do care for you, Masque. I may not have long on Spira, but should you need me, I will be there. I swear."
They're quiet for a moment, looking down. "I appreciate the sentiment. But you have more important things to consider."
"Sentiment? I bear my heart to you, and you call it sentiment? I would be insulted!" Zveran laughs, and it's clear in his eyes that he's joking.
"Is there another name for baring your heart? T'is your sentiments you show."
"There are many words for bearing your heart, dear Masque."
Love, for one.
They concede the point with a gracious head nod.
"Thank you for the easy surrender, I do not get many of those," Zveran laughs.
"I imagine you wouldn't." Pause. "You should rest."
"You aren't incorrect. Though I would like to savour these last moments, if there are all I get."
The faintest impression of a smile. "Nevertheless. Rest you must."
"Of course, Masque," Zveran says finally, with an impossibly fond smile at the being, before he succumbs to sleep.
If Masque sleeps, it's fitful and in small bursts.
Zveran sleeps for a long period of time, but no one could call it a 'deep sleep'. It is certainly the sleep of someone used to waiting for surprises.
Nontheless, once day has risen, he greets Aten, and calls for breakfast.
Aten flickers a little in surprise at being greeted.
Zveran spares a big, bright smile for Aten, upon feeling that.
He still keeps to a schedule, getting them all on track to keep moving.
Masque is easy enough to get moving, eager to be back outside and on the road.
Once they are back outside, and heading down the road, it becomes clear it's going to be a little rougher to traverse. What with all the snow and ice.
"Regretting more and more not learning some magic," Zveran grumbles, wishing he could shoot fire from his fists.
Masque hums.
Well. He does now have an aeon that is literally made of fire.
...that he does.
"Aten? Would you- Could you clear the path a little?"
Yes, yes he can, gladly.
Zveran grins at Aten. "You are entirely singular, my friend."
He forges forward, following the newly-melted path.
...Can fire blush?
Masque follows, sure footed.
Soon, the path starts titled, ugh, underground. Zveran looks back, worried for Masque.
They don't look happy, but they also don't seem inclined to avoid.
"We're not staying. I'll get the aeon and get out. Quick as I can."
"Logical."
"I thought so." He grins sunnily at her.
Then steels himself and starts heading down.
And Masque follows, a silent, steady presence.
Aten burns a little brighter.
The tunnel isn't dark and small for long. Soon, very soon, it opens into a huge, cavernous space, sparkling with ice and crystals. A long path floats in the space, leading to the temple suspended in the middle.
Zveran stops short, staring. "Yevon above," he murmurs, wide eyed.
"-I think that's exactly what they were aiming for."
"This...cannot have happened naturally. How did they do it? How is that path staying up? How is the temple staying up?" Zveran says, temporarily forgetting about magic.
Masque snorts quietly. "Magic? Machina? Who knows?"
"Perhaps the power of prayer?"
"If prayer is that powerful, we'd have heard more about it."
"Yes, Yevon is known for being particularly shy about it," Zveran laughs.
Then, with a small amount of nervousness, starts across the suspended bridge.
Masque continues to follow after him, not completely without concern.
The crystal-and-ice bridge is not slippery at all. In fact, it seems all too easy to keep to the path.
There are two smiling Guado priests at the temple doors, and they bow low as Zveran passes them. Zveran does his best not to shudder.
Masque twitches noticeably.
Aten seems to fade somehow.
Inside are more priests, and Zveran catches the attention of one. "My guardian will need a pack of fresh supplies. Whatever you can gather."
"Of course, my lord summoner," the Guado bows lowly (Zveran grimaces), and disappears into a side room.
Zveran avoids looking at Masque until he's sure he can get his ridiculous sad puppy-dog-eyes under control.
Masque is silent, arms tucked neatly behind their back, staring impassively at a statue.
The Guado priest returns with a pack, and hands it to Zveran. Zveran hands over his own with the same instructions. "I'll retrieve it once I have the aeon." The Guado nods, and goes back into the same side room.
Zveran sighs, and turns to Masque. "Here. As promised."
Masque hums, taking the pack. They don't leave immediately.
"Well. Uh. Thank you. For accompanying me. You've been wonderful...company. Yes."
Yevon above, Zveran.
"They'll be suspicious if I leave now. I have no desire to fight a guado."
"Don't worry about that. I can cover for you."
"I'm sure you can. And yet."
"And yet?"
There's the impression of a smirk, and Masque continues to fail to leave.
He wills himself, desperately, to not pin all his hopes on this. And also not to gather Masque into his arms. That would be dramatic.
"Then I suppose you'd like to see the inside of a Cloister of Trials, guardian?"
"I suppose I would."
Zveran waits until his back is turned to let out the far-too-pleased grin, and leads the way through the temple.
Masque, once more, a silent shadow at his heel.
Zveran stops at an ornate door, and touches a small panel on the side.
With a groan, it opens, revealing a lift. "Shall we?"
"No use standing around staring."
"True enough." He steps onto the lift, and once Masque is on, it shudders down.
Zveran bounces a little, ostensibly in preparation, but also a little because this will be the first time he's had someone to do this with.
Masque is quiet and still, watching the walls around them.
Aten spirals lazily around the lift.
"Aten, just a word to be wise, generally a summoner cannot call on a summon to help with the Trials. You'll have to just observe."
He bobs up and down in something resembling a nod.
The lift grinds to a halt, and the doors open onto a crystal and snow room.
"Well. Let's see what we can find." Zveran heads out, poking around the room.
Masque looks around curiously - they might not be particularly devout, but the Cloisters are a closely guarded secret.
It is beautiful, and the magic in the air can be felt like a tingle on the skin.
Zveran doesn't admire it for too long, especially once he starts attempting to solve the puzzles. Really. Who in Yevon decided that worthiness of summoners and guardians should be decided through puzzles?
Masque makes some pretty scathing commentary along those lines as well - foolishness to think mazes and puzzles were the way to go. Easy enough to solve them through trial and error.
Zveran starts to mumble something about how if he were to use machina it would still make him just as worthy as being able to summon an aeon, but then the last sphere locks into place, and the Chamber of the Fayth opens.
"Well. There's that then."
Masque hums.
Zveran leads the way into a round, featureless room. Pretty, but clearly a waiting room.
A soft pink curtain bars the way to the fayth itself. Zveran gestures at it. "I'll be out as soon as I can."
Masque nods and sits against one wall, legs crossed, hands on their knees.
Zevran offers a reassuring smile, and then takes a deep breath.
He heads into the chamber.
Time passes. Masque leans their head against the wall, does lightly.
For Masque, nothing changes.
For Aten, Zveran’s presence in his mind is suddenly gone.
Aten jerks, and spirals out, a mass of flames, unsettled and unnerved. "He's-"
Masque jerks to their feet, ignores any propriety that might exist and surges through the curtain, knife in hand.
Zevran is slumped over the crystal of the fayth. There is a shadow of a young, beautiful woman hovering over him. She stares at him impassively.
Masque would mutter something sour, but even they have some sense of respect. Instead, they wrap an arm around Zveran's waist, pull one of his arms around their shoulders, and takes them out into the waiting area.
Zveran is a deadweight. His skin feels sweaty.
Masque grimaces and sheds their jacket, balling it up to give Zveran a pillow. They want to get him out of here, but they aren't sure they can carry him out.
Aten hovers worriedly.
Zveran’s breath seems a little shallow, but he doesn’t seem to be injured in anyway.
Probably just exhausted then. Masque sighs, and searches through the pack for a rag and a waterskin. They dampen the rag and wipe down Zveran's face, leaving it on his forehead.
"He'll be fine," they say to Aten.
Aten drifts closer. Doesn't say anything.
Some time passes, but eventually, Zveran groans.
His conciousness floods back into Aten.
Who makes a sound that could be relief.
"Welcome back," Masque says dryly.
“Uuuugggghhhhhh. I think a shoopuf somehow got it in there and stomped me to death,” he groaned.
He feels Aten’s relief. He looks up to offer him a tired smile. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
"S'okay. Just...startled me. You're okay."
“I’m afraid it’s a very vague okay,” Zveran says, smiling at the aeon.
He looks over at Masque. “Help me up? I need to see that I actually got the aeon.”
"You sure you're up for that?" Masque asks even as they stand and offer Zveran a hand.
“Almost definitely not,” Zveran laughs. He may hold onto Masque slightly longer than he should, but once he lets go, he takes a deep breath.
He focuses.
And summons.
Shiva bursts forth, twirling with her ice-coloured scarf.
Her face is as impassive as her fayth’s.
Aten flinches, and slips behind Zveran.
"That sure is an aeon."
Something like recognition crosses over Shiva’s face, when she sees Aten-
-before Zveran yanks her back, falling onto his knees.
“What were you saying? About practice, Masque?”
"That it might build your stamina."
“Don’t joke about stamina while I wheeze on the floor,” Zveran laughs. Wheezily.
He looks behind him to the little fire ball. “Are you all right, Aten? I felt your fear.”
"I- no. It's fine. Just...echoes."
Zveran holds up his hand, as if wanting to coax Aten into it.
He shifts a little closer, close enough that Zveran can feel the heat off him.
Zveran strokes a thumb through Aten’s flames. “My poor little fireball.”
He flickers a little, shy.
"We should probably leave before they try to send anyone after us."
"Don't be too shocked when I tell you this, but they don't usually do that. I've heard of summoners flat out dying during the prayer and the only reason they get found is the next summoner trips over them."
Zveran stands, a little shaky, but intact.
"Regardless." Masque shifts a little closer, half an offer of a steadying arm.
Zveran takes it gratefully, leaning into them. “Thankfully no puzzles on this side.”
"Small mercies." And so: leaving?
Leaving.
Zveran manages to remain upright all the way back into the main room, but his knees are shaking a little. Okay, a lot. He flags down one of the Guado priests. "I'll need to stay, recover my energy."
"Of course, my lord summoner. This way!" The Guado directs them into a room set up like a barracks, rows and rows of beds.
Masque regards the room suspiciously, and then guides Zveran to the bed furthest from the door.
Zveran collapses onto the bed, groaning. His hand slips down to catch around Masque’s wrist.
“We won’t...be long...”
"Just rest."
“Okay,” Zveran mumbles, and his head drops to the side.
His hand loosens around Masque’s wrist, but doesn’t actually let go.
Well then. Masque settles down next to Zveran, keeping watch.
They are undisturbed, and weirdly true to his word, Zveran only sleeps a few hours, less time than he spent unconscious in the Chamber.
He sits up, and rubs his eyes. "Right. Okay. We should get moving. Retracing our steps through the snow and Thunder Plains isn't going to be fun."
"We've done it once. We can do it again."
“True. And once we get to Bevelle, we’ll be back living in comfort. No camping for a bit. Won’t that be nice!”
He stands and stretches. He does note to himself, that he was making the assumption Masque was staying, but he felt almost secure that they were.
They certainly don't seem to be leaving.
Zveran smiles softly, then turns a proper grin on Masque. “Let’s go.”
He leads the way out, collecting his pack on the way out.
Masque shoulders their own and follows, back to being a silent shadow.
As they make their way across the ice bridge, Zveran notes their silence. He doesn't even know what to say to fill it. How to say thank you for staying.
So he says nothing, and tries to fall back in step with them, rather than actually leading.
They let him, although tilts their head at him.
He smiles, warm, at them.
He gets the impression of a slightly perplexed smile in return.
“Are you? My guardian now?”
Masque hums. "We seem to be going in the same direction."
“That we do. And I suppose, you have been protecting me. In a way.”
"You've needed it."
“Yes, I am quite pathetic. It was your strong hand that has guided me through these past few weeks.”
They snort. "You'd have managed."
Zveran waves an airy hand. “I was managing. But I didn’t have any one challenging me, forcing me to reconsider what was right in front of me.”
"It's obvious from the outside."
"Then you know that I see you differently than you see yourself."
Masque hums, a little unnerved, but doesn't seem inclined to continue the conversation.
Zveran understands that, has lived it himself, but cannot help the fact it makes him sad.
Nonetheless, he simply leads the group out in the snow-covered lands, to begin the trek to the Thunder Plains.
Masque seems to find the trek back easier somehow. Perhaps it's just time actually eating regularly. Perhaps it's the company. Either way.
Over the next week, Zveran does not let up on his gentle coaxing. At every opportunity he asks after her being his guardian, that same hopeful smile on his face.
They continue to be somewhat evasive on the matter - almost as if saying something will curse this situation - but they also seem fairly settled in that apparent role.
The teasing, even light flirting, continues all the way up until they reach Bevelle outskirts.
"Fuck," he says, the first day they catch sight of the city.
Masque tilts their head at him, silent, staring at the city as well.
"They're going to think I'm Al Bhed on sight. I have green eyes," Zveran says bitterly.
Masque snorts quietly. "How incredibly short-sighted. It isn't just the Al Bhed who have green eyes."
Zveran turns an incredulous look on Masque. "You've seen my pupils, yes?"
"From close up, yes. From a distance, they should hardly be able to tell. Do they require eye-contact to enter the city?"
"They will see the spirals my irises have, and deny me. No doubt."
"Keep your head down, just another pilgrim seeking absolution after all."
"Will you vouch for me?"
He seems actually desperate.
"I'll get you through."
He wraps himself around them, fingers digging into their shoulders.
"I'm scared," he says, finally.
-They hesitate before hugging back. "Don't be. You have every right to be here."
"They killed my mother, Masque. They killed my Bambi," Zveran says, in the manner of coughing something toxic out.
"They won't kill you."
Zveran laughs hollowly. "Maybe not with a spell, or a sword."
He pulls back, but drops his head on their shoulder, just for a moment, before straightening.
Masque is waiting for him to be ready, and doesn't waste words on platitudes that they doubt Zveran will find reassuring.
"Right. Temple is the largest building in the city. Unmissable. Let's go."
Zveran sets out, calling back to Aten. "Stay close!"
Both Aten and Masque follow that instruction.
Zveran is stopped at the first gate. He sighs.
“Al Bhed aren’t welcome here,” the man hisses.
Zveran glares up at him. “I’m a summoner.”
Masque tilts their head slightly, ready to step in.
"Right, you're a summoner and I'm a Maester," the man snarls.
Zveran raises one eyebrow, and then raises his arms.
Valefor bursts out, crowing.
"Yevon damned!" The guard yelps, and stumbles back.
Masque cackles. "T'is hardly your place to question Yevon's will."
Zveran shoots them a grin, before turning back to the guard. "I assume that is proof enough?"
The guard grumbles, but allows them to pass.
Zveran does hear him spit as they go, but doesn't do anything more than bristle.
Masque hums quietly, and makes a rude gesture back towards the gates.
"Bracing. All right, you," he says to Valefor, soaring above. "Come back now."
Valefor disappears in a flurry of pyreflies, and Zveran noticeably slumps.
Masque nudges their shoulders together, a firm support.
Zveran wraps an arm around their shoulders, partly because any excuse to get close to them, but mostly because he was worried that his knees would forget to be knees.
"There," he said, pointing. The building was huge, ornate, and ridiculous. "I have no idea what part of it houses the fayth."
Masque wraps their arm around his waist. They stare at the building, looking more than a little intimidated by it.
Zveran feels much the same way.
"Probably going to get the same treatment here as I did at the gates. You ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
Once they get close enough, it's clear the main street is more like a red carpet right up to the temple's door. Zveran scoffs at the ridiculous ornateness of the whole set up.
He only lets Masque go once they're about to head into the temple. Two priests, dressed as warriors, stand guard at the doors. They glare down at Zveran.
Zveran, however, doesn't care about that. His heart goes cold at the sight of Al Bhed weapons in their hands. Machina.
"Hypocrites," Masque murmurs out of the corner of their mouth.
Aten shifts smoothly into his more human form.
"That's not an elemental," one of the guards says, raising his gun to point at Aten.
"Never you fucking mind what he is," Zveran growls. His fear at them killing him is far outweighed by his fury. "Where did you get Al Bhed weapons?"
"You should move on, blasphemer," the other guard snarls back at him.
"Says the priest holding a forbidden machina. If anyone's blaspheming, it's you."
"Our weapons have been blessed by Yevon!" The guard spits back.
"No, they haven't. They've been stolen from Al Bhed hands, hands that you condemn for holding them!" Zveran walks up close to one of the guards, getting right into his face.
He feels the press of a barrel in his stomach. "I'm a summoner. I'd suggest you not shoot," he says, cooly.
"It would seem a bad idea when there appears to be a shortage of summoners."
"An Al Bhed summoner? Yevon would never bless one of those blasphemers," the guard snarls.
"I am. And if you give me just one second, I can pro-" Zveran doesn't get another word out before the butt of a gun is slammed across his head.
He stumbles to the ground, feeling blood drip down his face. "Leave. We won't ask again," the guard commands.
"Yes. We're leaving."
-And they do appear to be. Apart from the part where they're not actually going anywhere. But there's definitely what appears to be Masque, Zveran and Aten leaving, even as Masque reaches down to help Zveran to his feet.
Zveran does not question what is happening, but lets Masque haul him upright, and follows them inside.
Once he's convinced they're safely out of earshot, he turns to Masque. "What- How did you do that?"
Masque slumps a little once they're out of sight. "I don't-" they say tiredly. "I just can."
"It's incredible," he says on a breath.
And then blood drips into his eye. "Well. We make quite the trio. The boy made of fire, the bleeding Al Bhed, and the exhausted illusionist," he said, with a grin.
They duck there head, a quiet laugh escaping them. "We should find the Cloisters before anyone else tries anything."
"Are you strong enough to do that illusion again?"
"If I need to," Masque confirms. "If we can avoid it, it would be preferable."
"All right then. Sneaking. My speciality. Just try to look like you know where you're going, and I will, somehow, keep looking down."
Masque nods.
And so: sneaking?
Zveran proves to be very, very good at avoiding attention. It does beg the question as to why he attracted so much before, but he would chalk it up to his innate theatricality.
Unfortunately, someone does get to close at one point, and so, without thinking, Zveran backs Masque up into an alcove, hands resting either side of their chest, listening for when the priest passes.
...That gets the very strong impression of an eyebrow, but Masque doesn't argue the point.
Once they’re clear, Zveran turns back to look at Masque. “Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t particularly sound it.
The grin on his face rather spoils the effect.
They shake their head at him and push him to continue down the corridor. "No you aren't."
He laughs, but steps out next to them, leading the way.
Judging from the two priests not carrying weapons, the door behind them is the way to the Cloister.
“I think that’s us.” He points.
"...I can probably illusion us, but I doubt I'll be much use in the trial-"
...or Aten could set fire to a drape in the opposite direction from the one they're approaching from.
Zveran catches Aten’s idea, and looks over at the drape. He quirks a lip at the aeon. “Good idea. Go for it.”
It's a simple matter, and the curtain catches light easily.
The commontion is immediate and chaotic.
However, the door to the Cloister is now free.
“All right. Let’s go.”
Zveran tears off across the room.
Masque and Aten close on his heels.
The commotion was enough that they got in, and down the steps, without anyone noticing them.
Zveran looked back to check on Masque, while also pushing blood-matted hair out of his eyes.
Masque is perfectly fine. "We should sort your head."
“We’ll get to Cloister first. Then we should probably take a breather anyway.”
He heads further down the steps.
Masque is mildly discontent about that, but doesn't argue.
The door to the Cloister is at the very bottom, and is made of pure light. A machina sits next to it, writing scrolling down a flat surface.
Zevran snarls at it. “I agree, Masque. Hypocrites.”
"I think burning Yevon to the ground seems like it might be an all around good idea."
“Please do. In fact, dedicate the burning remains of Yevon to my honour, and I will applaud you from the Farplane.”
Zveran pokes at the machina, trying to figure out what will trigger the door.
"Have we considers: kicking it, punching it, stabbing it, setting it on fire?"
Zveran pulls out a knife, spins it easily between his fingers, then slices at something in the machina.
It sparks, whirs sadly, and then the light-door blinks away. “Truly, you have an eye for machina, Masque. We will make a blasphemer of you yet.”
"You say that like I wasn't one already."
He turns around to smile at them, impossibly fond. "True."
The smile drops as they step into the lift. "Aten, remember how I said you're not supposed to interfere?"
Aten bobs up and down in a nod.
"Ignore it. If they're not following rules, then either am I."
Masque laughs, even as Aten bobs again.
He smiles.
The lift shudders to a halt, and he exits, scoffing incredulously.
“What the fuck is this?”
Seems to be an infinite-looking room of light-platforms.
"Oh joy. Even more perplexing than the last."
"I vote we just sit here for a minute, and maybe we'll discover this whole thing is a nightmare." Zveran swings his pack off, and slumps against the nearest wall, holding a hand to his head.
Masque drops their own pack, rummages through it to find medical supplies, and then pushes Zveran's hand out of the way to look at his head.
Zveran drops his hand, and gives them a lazy smile. "Worse than it feels? Better than it looks?"
"It's a head wound. They bleed a lot regardless of how bad they are." They poke at it for a bit. "It doesn't actually look too bad."
"They should've realised how hard my head is."
"Not hard enough," Masque states as they finish clearing the blood away, and fixing a dressing to the wound.
"Am I going to live, White Mage Masque?"
"If you don't it'll because one of us gets tired of your constant quips and decides to finish the job." (Their tone is more teasing than anything else.)
"I'll go out with a quip too, just to really annoy you."
"I don't doubt it."
Zveran waves an airy hand in a kind-of salute.
He turns his attention back to the complicated light-puzzle. "There has got to be a way to cheat this."
"-Could go and see if there's a switch on the other side?"
"I seriously doubt they'd let it be that simple, but why not? Go ahead!"
And off Aten goes to try that.
...Apparently it is, in fact, that simple.
Zveran feels that through the bond, and laughs. Sarcastically, and maybe a little bitterly, but laughs.
"Wow. There is apparently nothing genuine about Yevon," he says, mock-surprised, to Masque.
"Are we actually surprised by that?"
"Considering the events of today, definitely not."
Through the bond, he sends an affirmative to Aten to hit the switch.
And he does.
He swings his pack on, and stands, maybe a little wobbly but mostly okay. He heads out onto the now solid, unmoving path.
"-I can't even blaspheme without it feeling wrong. Yet another thing stolen from me."
Masque follows. "We can figure out some other satisfying way to swear."
"Perhaps I'll just stick with the classics. 'Fuck' has never let me down."
"I've found that occasionally people take that as an invitation, but you aren't wrong."
He looks back over his shoulder at them, and winks.
He then jumps onto the last platform, and crosses it, heading into the opulent Chamber of the Fayth.
Yup, there's definitely eye-rolling going on as Masque follows him.
Also some sneering at the opulence.
"Is there a tenant of Yevon that says the Bevelle temple must be gaudy to the point of ridiculousness?" He sneers.
He then regards the swaying pink feather/curtain. "Right. Well. See you in a few. If I don't die."
He slips his pack off and makes his way in.
"I think we'd all rather you didn't die."
Zveran looks back, smiling at them. "I love you too, Masque."
He disappears behind the curtain.
-What?
Masque shakes themself, and settles in to wait.
A long time passes, and there's a worrying flicker in Aten's mind-
-but then Zveran's consciousness comes back, feeling a little bit stronger than before.
Unfortunately, there is a sound from the Cloister beyond. A lot of feet.
"We have trouble coming!" Masque calls.
The priests come into the room, pointing machina at Masque.
A couple of Black Mages walk to the front and prepare ice spells, glaring Aten down.
-He's definitely not happy about the ice spells, but he's doing his best not to show it.
Masque rises to their feet, calm, collected (ignoring the panic in their gut). They've faced death before with far less in their favour.
"You would interrupt a summoner's prayer to the fayth?"
"He is not a-"
Bahamut bursts out of the small door, roaring.
Zveran steps out behind him, looking tired and furious.
"Yevon above-" The priests scatter back, most looking in shock, some disgusted.
...Yup, Masque is cackling again. "You were about to apologise."
"My lord summoner, our deepest apologies, we truly-"
Zveran pulls Bahamut back with a tired sigh. "Do shut up."
"We truly had no idea, please be aware that the guards who denied you will be punished-"
"Sure they will."
Masque contains their laughter, and shifts so they're stood at Zveran's shoulder, a definitely smirking, but still somewhat intimidating presence.
"I don't want your apologies, or really anything from you, except to walk past you," Zveran says, dry as Home.
The priest who was talking bows deeply. "We will not deny your passage."
The priests step back and form a gap between them.
Zveran wraps his hand around Masque's arm (it was taking a lot to remain standing, but he would not fall in front of them), and heads towards the door.
Masque continues to be a steady presence, head tilted back in a surprisingly arrogant display.
Aten floats after them.
"Wait! Wait, before you go-"
Zveran looks over his shoulder.
"The...fire-being. It is an aeon?"
Aten holds his form, barely, not quite flinching, but very close.
Masque goes tense at Zveran's side, ready to do...something.
"It is, isn't it? How are you sustaining it?"
Zveran turns back around, and keeps moving.
He holds out his hand to Aten.
"Where- wait! Where is its fayth?"
Aten shifts forms, into a more birdlike form, and swoops to Zveran's hand.
"Such power should not be hidden."
"It will be hidden. It will remain hidden. I will take that secret to my grave, and Yevon help the man who tries to get it out of me. You'll find me short on patience and very good with knives."
"Having an aeon of that power would grant the summoners strength beyond what they can-"
A knife flew past the priest's ear, and embedded itself in the wall.
"Next one is going through your eye," Zveran spat, then kept walking.
"Besides. The summoners are supposed to prove themselves," Masque comments blithely, apparently to Zveran, but volume just loud enough that it'll carry back to the priests.
"They- the pilgrimmage-"
Zveran keeps walking, going back the way they came.
"The- the absolute arrogance," he mutters, and brings Aten closer to his chest. "Absolutely no way. They are not getting their hands on you."
Aten relaxes some at that.
Zveran strokes his thumb through Aten's flames. "I'm going to need to punch something very, very hard."
"I'm sure we can find something," Masque says with confidence.
"Priest-shaped would be best."
"Not going to argue."
Zveran was quiet as they made their way out of the temple, the guards now just not paying attention to them, rather than actively blocking them.
He clenched his jaw, and held Aten closer. "Do you think we can get out of the city before night fall?"
"I'm fairly sure we can manage it, yes."
As they passed an inn, patrons turned suspicious eyes on the group.
"I don't think we'd be welcome anywhere."
Masque laughs. "Fools. But the open sky is more a friend."
"I'd much rather the open sky any day," he agreed.
"You and me both..."
Zveran wraps a hand in Masque's elbow. "Stay close. We don't want to get ganged up on."
"I think we can take them."
"I love your confidence, I do, but I am running on fumes," Zveran says, grinning.
Masque nods.
It does take them the rest of the day, and into the sunset, to emerge on the other side of Bevelle city.
After that, it's another few minutes walk to find a secluded, protected spot, hopefully far enough from the road that any enterprising Yevonites looking to spill Al Bhed blood shouldn't spot them.
"Get some rest," Masque says firmly.
"Mmm," Zveran agrees, slumping against his pack, using it as a pillow.
"Watch out for them, Aten," he says, and his head tips to the side.
Always.
An huge burst of deep affection comes through the bond.
And Masque settles in to keep watch.
The next day, Zveran is positively bouncing with an idea.
"The sea. It's not too far, and I have not been swimming since the Moonflow."
"Sure," Masque shrugs. "Why not?"
Zveran swings his pack on, grinning brightly. He leans over and presses a kiss to their mask.
"I think I know the way. We just follow the river down." He sets off, reaching his hand out to tempt Aten over.
Masque freezes when Zveran kisses the mask, but follows after him swiftly enough.
Aten moves closer, although not quite into touching distance, but close enough.
It's probably the easiest journey they've had so far, with very little monsters and even fewer sinspawn. After a few nights camping, they finally reach the sprawl of the sea.
Masque seems perhaps a little on edge with the sea in front of them, but perhaps they're just anxious from the lack of monster attacks.
Zveran notices the anxiousness, but doesn't comment on it. Instead he strips down, and flings himself into the sea.
Masque settles down on the sand, keeping watch.
Zveran is happy to swim on his own, occasionally looking back to grin toothily at Masque.
There's a ripple across the water, and a sick, strange feeling.
Masque jerks to their feet. "Get out of the water!"
"Masque! What's wrong!?" Zveran starts to wade back to the shore.
The sick, dark feeling intensifies, and projectiles start hurtling towards the beach, shining like oil slick.
"Sin," Masque snarls.
The beast itself rises from the ocean, debris spiralling around its horns.
Masque can feel a tug in their core, summoning them back.
They can feel it, but they refuse to let their body betray them, preparing, instead, to fight.
The small sinspawn hit the beach, their wings unfurling, glittering in the sunlight.
Zveran finally reaches the shore, racing for his clothes to retrieve his knives, while desperately summoning as he goes.
Ixion bursts forth, and immediately gores the nearest sinspawn.
Aten surges out as well.
There's a familiarity to the flickering of the wings, and that call is still deep in Masque's stomach.
Masque can't help the inhuman noise they give in response, although they bite it off quickly.
"We need to end this. Fast."
Not that they're sure they're going to be that much help, they feel rooted to the spot, the call fighting with what they actually want.
Ixion stamps, and threads of lightning surge into the sinspawn, paralysing them.
Leaving them open for Zveran to go from spawn to spawn, cutting them into pyreflies.
Some of the sinspawn turn to attack Zveran, Aten and Ixion, the others simply gather around Masque and flicker.
None of them attack them.
-Masque flickers. Something not quite human surging through their skin.
"...Masque?"
His distraction is the sinspawn's gain, and they launch spines at him.
Masque moves, disjointed, inhuman, throwing themself between Zveran and the spines.
The spines collect in Masque, and are absorbed entirely. It’s like they were never there.
“Masque?!”
"Fight now," they snarl, whatever had held them still gone now as they surge forward.
“The spines! Are you hurt?!”
He does as she says, returning to fighting.
"I'm fine."
They don't want to get into this, hadn't wanted to. But they're going to have to. Later.
Zveran worries, but he doesn’t push.
“They’re just going to keep coming! We need to go!”
They know their illusions won't be as effective, but it'll buy them time to retreat. They spin them out, a dozen different versions of them, stretched across the sand.
The spawn flutter, almost curiously, and gather around each illusion.
Zveran wastes no time drawing Ixion back, gasping as exhaustion hits him, but pushes through it to grab his pack and start running.
Masque is close on his heels.
Aten follows over their heads.
Zveran stumbles a few times, breathing hard, but doesn’t let up the pace until they’re back in the forest, putting enough distance between them and the beach.
Not that anywhere is safe from Sin.
Well. As safe as they can get. Masque is silent.
Zveran collapses against a tree, breathing hard.
He doesn’t care, however, how much his stamina is drained, as he turns to look at Masque. “Are...you...okay?”
Masque is quiet for a moment. "I'm fine."
“Masque...talk to me...”
"Do you understand why I can't be your guardian now?"
“No.”
Masque lets the form under their skin flicker through again. "I'm Sinspawn."
Zveran stands up shakily, walking to Masque on fawn-like knees. He stands in front of Masque, and raises his hands to try and cup their face.
They flinch away, forcing themself back to something resembling human.
Zveran lets his hands drop.
“You’ve been Sinspawn the whole time, yes?”
They shrug.
"Then why would my opinion of you change? You clearly don't follow Sin."
"That doesn't mean I won't."
"I don't believe that you would. And I don't think you believe it either."
"You make no sense."
"I wasn't aware I ever had."
Masque sighs. "You won't be dissuaded will you?"
"Masque, if I have ever given you the impression that I wouldn't be your friend, I heartily apologise. I am utterly devoted to you."
"That is not-" Masque stops. "That is, this is...a peculiar state of affairs."
"We are a peculiar set of people."
"I'm not human. I never will be again."
"Either is Aten."
"Yes. But he's an aeon. I'm the thing you're supposed to destroy. Part of it at least."
Zveran flinches back. "I...I can't do that. I won't destroy you."
"You're a Summoner. It's your calling."
Zveran wants to say 'I'd rather die'. But dying is rather the point of a summoner, isn't it?
He makes a frustrated noise, kicking at the nearest whatever, impotent.
Masque twitches, not quite flinches. "There's no point in being angry about the way things are."
"I accepted that I'm going to die. I'm passed being frightened of that. But I-"
He looks over to them, his heart aching. "I can't kill you."
"-I'm already dead."
"Don't say it like that."
"...I don't say it to upset. I say it because it is factually correct."
"Factually correct? You're saying it like it doesn't matter if I kill you because you're already dead. That is factually what you said."
They watch him, a little blankly, a little confused, a little 'well, yes?'.
Zveran gestures at Masque. "You're alive. You have a life."
They shrug carelessly. "Many things have life. It doesn't mean people value it."
"I value yours! I want you to live after I'm gone!"
"You're the first."
...They probably didn't mean to say that.
Zveran blinks. His heart feels like its squeezing too small, too tight to contain everything he feels. His stomach is full of stones.
"I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner."
"Ah- It's- you couldn't have done anything."
"You deserve better than what they did to you. You deserve better than what this world has given to you."
Masque sighs quietly. "Perhaps. But in this: we cannot change what had been."
"No. But I can assure it will never be that again. No matter what-"
Masque tilts their head at him, querying.
"Do you know? For certain? That if I defeat Sin, you will die with it?"
"Does anyone know anything about Sin for certain?"
"I can't finish my pilgrimage if your death is at the end."
"-Why not?"
"Because I love you, and I won't kill you!" Zveran shouts.
...Masque has no idea how to respond to that. Stammers, tries to say something, can't.
Sits down heavily.
He breathes heavily through his nose, trying to calm himself, so that he doesn't frighten Masque further.
He sits opposite them. "I'm sorry."
They manage to find their words. "It's...okay."
"It's not really. You don't have to say that." He smiles somewhat ruefully. "I didn't mean to use it like a weapon."
Masque sighs, looks at their hands. "I- don't think I know. How to love you back."
“That’s fine too. You never had a chance to learn.”
Zveran looks at them sadly for a moment. “Could I ask something selfish?”
"Sure."
"Don't leave me?"
Masque is quiet, isn't sure how to respond to that.
Zveran's gut turns with dread. "I know what you are now, and I'm not afraid of you. Things don't have to change, at all. I just- I-"
"I have no where else to go."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"No. It's- fine. It's- I'm not good with words."
"It's all right. It's- it's all right."
He leans back on his hands. He feels a little lost, and perhaps there is some uneasiness, knowing Sin is still closer than he'd like.
"That was- I'm staying?
Zveran's smile is small, but genuine. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"All right." Zveran smile grows bigger. "That's, that's good."
Masque waves a finger at him. "No sense."
Zveran waves a hand at them. "I don't make sense. Perk of being me," he says, grinning.
They shake their head, lean it back against the tree behind them.
Zveran watches them, and eventually settles back himself. "We should probably keep moving."
"Yes."
"Not particularly safe here."
"Not particularly safe anywhere."
"So, we should take safety where we find it?"
"Basically."
Zveran moves to sit next to them, keeping a small bit of space. He leans back against the tree.
"All right then."
"Rest," they say quietly.
"Okay," he says.
He drifts off, and eventually, his head slumps onto Masque's shoulder.
They stay still, letting him sleep against them.
He wakes up as the sun starts to go down, and blinks blearily, until he realises where his head has landed.
It takes him a minute to will up the urge to sit back up.
Masque doesn't seem to mind.
Then he will lie there for a bit longer, before making something of a show about sitting up and stretching.
Masque watches quietly.
Zveran rubs his face. "We should head back to the road. Try and get some distance from...the beach."
Masque nods. "If you're ready."
"As I can be, I suppose."
Zveran stands up, and grabs his pack. "Aten? You mind lighting the way?"
The answer appears to be 'not at all'.
"Let's go?" Zveran says, holding out a hand to Masque.
They take it to help them to their feet.
He doesn't really want to let their hand go, but doesn't want to push anything.
So he drops their hand with a smile, and follows after Aten.
Masque follows beside him.
They head through the forest, eventually hitting the road, and Zveran walks along it, the direction of the Calm Plains, before he knows what he's doing.
Well. Masque isn't going to question it.
Zveran could keep them walking through the night, but doesn't fancy the idea of fighting sins- uh, fiends, in the dark, so as soon as they come across a sheltered area, he gestures to it.
"I think we're far enough away. And this is close enough to the road that we won't lose it tomorrow."
Masque nods. "Quite," they agree.
Zveran builds a fire, then sits down, resting his elbows on his knees.
Masque watches him quietly, sitting down cross-legged opposite him.
It's a little while before he speaks.
"Do you think I should finish?"
"Hm?"
"My pilgrimage. Do you think I should keep going to Zanarkand?"
"You had good reason to be doing it. Has that changed?"
Zveran regards them sadly. "I do have good reason. And something has changed. But I was asking if you think I should."
"I can't answer that for you."
"You don't have an opinion? At all?"
Masque shrugs. "Sin exists. Sin always comes back. That's all I know. I don't know how to have an opinion about that."
"I meant about me. Finishing it. Personally."
Masque is definitely confused by that question.
"If I go to the end, I will definitely die, and you will maybe die. Or...stop existing. If I stop, we can...I don't know. Decide on something else. I just wanted to know if you would...prefer one of them."
...That doesn't seem to have cleared up any of the confusion.
"Okay. That's okay. Can I just- Can I hold you?"
They shrug. "As you will."
Zveran curls into them, tucking his head into their shoulder.
They hum quietly, and then wrap an arm around him in turn.
Zveran is quiet for a long moment. And then-
"I don't want to say goodbye. Not to you."
Masque hums again, doesn't seem to know what to say.
Zveran doesn't seem to know what to say either. And usually, he knows exactly what to. It's a new field for him.
Even with Bambi...
He simply nestles into Masque a little more, and closes his eyes.
Well then, they can rest in quiet then.
And if in the night, Zveran crawls closer, clings a little tighter, well. He's sleeping, isn't he?
Well, Masque doesn't pull away.
Even when he wakes up the next morning, Zveran keeps close contact with Masque, for as long as he can get away with.
Masque does not seem incined to pull away immediately.
Eventually he does pull away, and stands. After a while, he speaks. "The next temple isn't until Mount Gagazet. We still have to cross the whole of the Calm Plains."
Masque rises, stretching easily. "An easy enough journey, all things considered."
"True. We have had it significantly worse. And the Maesters have very little to do out here."
"Not many people to call to arms."
"No need to fear the blasphemous Al Bhed."
"Well then. We had better get on the road again."
"True. Plenty of time to turn around. Consider a blitzball career."
"You'd probably make a good blitzball player You're agile enough."
"I suppose I have tried to drag you into various bodies of water enough times."
"Among other reasons."
“I’m not sure how legal taking knives into a match is, but that is truly an advantage I have.”
Masque laughs quietly.
It's several days of crossing the plains, until they reach the foot of Mt Gagazet. It's intimidating, to say the least.
"I'm rather pleased we've a fire aeon hanging about. Going to be colder than a maester's heart up there."
"I think you underestimate how cold a maester's heart is."
"Masque, you're absolutely right. There is nothing to rival that level of cold."
Zveran shoulders his bag again, rolling one back. "I wonder if I'm going to burst into flame, the second I touch sacred ground." He slides a toe close to the bridge, grinning at Masque.
They laugh. "I think Aten can probably help us if the ground tries to set us alight."
"Promise, Aten?"
Aten bobs up and down. "Mhmm."
"Ah. Guess I have to trust you then."
With a huge exaggerated movement, Zveran steps onto the bridge, squeezing his eyes shut. He then opens them, one by one, and finding himself unburnt, turns and raises his arms. "I live!"
"We're all very glad," Masque says with wry amusement and steps after him, equally unscathed.
Watching them walk across the bridge, his somewhat actual fear alleviated, he happily falls into step beside them, and they mount the steps, the air getting colder.
Masque doesn't precisely seem to feel the cold.
Aten stays a little closer to Zveran, sharing his warmth.
Zveran lets a hand pet Aten's flames, enjoying having both of them close.
Soon they are on the Ronso village, some of them looking at Zveran with frowns.
Not a lot of Al Bhed making the trek.
Masque is probably confusing them as well, vibrant mask and practical clothes.
And a flaming bird floating beside them.
A Ronso steps before them, in priest's robes. "Who walks Sacred Mount Gagazet?"
"Summoner Zveran."
"An Al Bhed summoner?"
Zveran nods. "This is my guardian, Masque. Aten is an aeon."
Aten takes that as a cue to make himself a little grander.
Masque settles themself a little more firmly, resting a hand lightly on one of their daggers.
The Ronso bows. "I will not defy the will of Spira, I merely meant to praise you for rejecting the ways of your kind."
Zveran does everything in his power not to scoff.
"Of course, you have passage. The temple is open to you."
Zveran frowns. "Temple?"
"...Can't you feel it?" Aten asks quietly.
"No..." Zveran looks ashamed. "I...I can't feel things as strongly."
Hello, little one. We meet yet again.
Aten drifts towards the feeling. ...I know you?
If you only knew how many times we had spoken, little flame. Lead your summoner to me. I will try and guide him true.
"Aten, I can feel...something. What's wrong?"
"...I don't...know. This way."
He leads the way towards the temple, almost in a daze.
Zveran follows Aten, casting worried looks back at Masque.
Masque gives a slight shrug, following after Zveran.
Here, here Aten. Tell him to lay his hand on the stone inside.
Ahead of them, a stone wall moves aside, the wall surrounded by pulsing red lines.
"I- you need to-" He flickers, steels himself. "It'll- hurt? But you need to...put your hand on the stone?"
"Okay..." Zveran does so, and then-
"AH!" He pulls his hand back, blood staining the stone. "Fucking- It bit me!"
Masque startles, reaching for a dagger, although what they're going to do against a wall is anyone's guess.
Aten twitches and flinches. "I- I said it might- hurt."
He's weak, Aten. He won't make it.
The wall slides open, blood-red veins pulsing sickly.
He will. He will. Aten's trying to convince himself as much as Natassa.
Oh, little flame. He won't. Send him through anyway.
"Aten? Are you all right?"
"I- yes. The- the fayth. Is through there."
"All right. As long as you're sure."
Zveran threads his fingers through Aten's fire, and walks into the chamber.
The fayth is beautiful, and terrible. Her face caught in a perpetual scream, torn in pain.
Aten drifts after him, he's not leaving Zveran alone. He...recognises her, a little, he thinks.
Of course you do, little flame. I tore you from her arms, when she pressed you into that fayth. You were too powerful, and she too hungry. The bitch was never a fit mother.
It hurts to remember, feels like everything isn't quite right in his mind but-
...Yes. I- Yes.
She's taken the memories from you before. Every time. You cannot let her find you, Aten.
Zveran kneels, and places one hand on the fayth.
...I don't know how to stop her.
The summoner bond, little flame. It's stronger than her tie to you. You have to find someone strong enough.
Sweat starts breaking out along Zveran's forehead.
...He wants that to be Zveran. But-
But he knows what awaits them. Knows what lies at the end of this journey. Knows Natassa isn't wrong.
I wish I wasn't, little flame. I can feel how he cares for you. How much you care for him. But he has denied his powers his whole life. The Pilgrimmage is not enough.
Zveran gasps in pain, his hand spasming against the glass of the fayth.
Masque shifts uneasily in the doorway.
Regardless. Aten's going to protect Zveran as long as he can.
Oh, guard your heart, Aten. It leads you wrong so much.
A burst of light explodes around Zveran, and he collapses.
Masque lunges forward, catching Zveran, and lowering them both to the ground. "Zveran!"
He flops limply in their arms, but is breathing.
When he fails, Aten, run. Don't stop. Run.
He doesn't know how to respond to that, not really, so he doesn't, just- hovers near Zveran and Masque, concerned.
Masque hugs Zveran closer, and waits. They want to get him out of here, but they aren't sure they can manage that.
Natassa says nothing else.
It is some time, but eventually, Zveran stirs.
"She...she takes up a lot of energy," he murmurs.
Aten continues to hover anxiously.
"Hey," Masque says, brushing Zveran's hair back from his face. "Think you can move?"
"I can try."
His voice is breathless and weak.
"I've got you," Masque promises. "But we'll be better away from here."
"All right. I'll try."
He has to rest heavily on Masque, but he does get upright.
Masque doesn't seem to mind, and guides him carefully from the room and then from the 'temple', Aten close on their heels.
He leans heavily on them as they leave the temple.
The Ronso regard him with suspicious eyes once again.
Even the elder who gave him passage.
Masque watches them warily, and as much as they'd like to give Zveran time to rest, they don't think staying is an option.
Zveran isn't getting any stronger. Masque has a choice to make.
...Fuck it.
"The summoner needs time to rest," Masque states firmly, defying the ronso to defy Yevon.
The elder looks at the barely-conscious man in their arms, but says nothing.
He simply points to a hut, emblazoned with the Yevon symbol.
Masque does not bother to thank him, just guides Zveran inside, hoping there's a bed.
There's a few small cots. Clearly, this used to be a Crusader's tent.
Masque lowers Zveran down onto one of them. They're not in a position to be fussy.
Zveran flops onto one, clearly this latest aeon taking more energy out of him than he could take
It's worrying. But all they can do now is wait and hope that Zveran recovers with some rest.
A Ronso woman comes inside, holding a plate of food. "For you. And the summoner."
Masque regards her for a moment, and then accepts it. "My thanks." It's said a little grudgingly, but genuinely.
The Ronso nods, and then looks down at Zveran, almost sadly.
"They're supposed to be at the height of their power when they get here. Summoners."
"Perhaps. And sometimes life hasn't given them that opportunity."
"The Pilgrimage is so they can grow in strength, to be able to fight Sin."
The Ronso says nothing else, but the pity is clear in her eyes. She is clearly certain of Zveran's failure.
"We did not ask for your opinion."
The Ronso looks outside, like she was checking for eavesdroppers, and then turns to Masque, lowering her voice.
"You could convince him to turn away. It would be a pointless waste of life."
Masque is quiet for a moment, confusion perhaps obvious at the statement that it's a waste of a life. "Is it not his decision to make?"
The Ronso nods, but her eyes are rueful. "It is, but I- you see summoners come through here, and some of them you know aren't- Not a lot, only very few, you know. You can tell they won't succeed. And I would rather have someone with his determination live for something better."
"I'll talk to him."
The Ronso nods, and leaves, taking Masque's words as a dismissal.
It's some time before Zveran stirs.
Masque squeezes his hand as he does.
Zveran slowly shuffles closer to them. "How long have I been out?"
"A while," Masque says, not quite evasive.
"Long enough to make you very worried, hm?"
Masque hums, brushing Zveran's hair out of his face again, fingers careful and tender.
Zveran's hand gently rests on the edge of Masque's mask...and draws them inwards.
They let themself be drawn, confused.
Zveran presses his lips, gently, to their mask.
-They have no idea how to respond to that.
Zveran holds them close for a moment, then lets them go.
"Sorry." He gathers his things together. "We should probably get moving."
"It's fine," Masque assures. "If you...think you're well enough?"
"I'll..." He sighs. "I'll be all right."
He sits himself upright, and rubs his face, then stands. He looks a little shaky, but well enough.
Masque is quiet. "A Ronso wanted me to talk you out of continuing. Said it was a pointless waste of life."
"A Ronso said that? They're some of the most truly devoted people in Spira! I must've looked pretty terrible, yes?" His tone is joking, but he looks genuinely worried.
Masque nods, and it's perhaps apparent that they're still somewhat confused. "I just. Don't understand?"
"Why the Ronso said that?"
"Yes. Yes you looked bad. But."
"But?"
"But I don't know why they're so certain you're going to die?"
Zveran hangs his head. Sighs. He knows exactly why.
"It's not important. Come. We've got a little ways to go before Zanarkand."
"...I think it is. What aren't you telling me?"
"You already knew I was going to die at the end of this. Whether I succeed or not, doesn't matter. Either way, I'm dying."
Zveran shoulders his bag and makes for the pass.
Masque follows silently, but with the air of someone who has just had the rug pulled out from under them.
Zveran is not unsympathetic to that. He feels it keenly, Masque's confusion, their uncertainty.
He just doesn't know what to do. He was really never going to stop his Pilgrimage. Living up to Bambi...that meant the world to him.
"I just don't-" Masque starts eventually. "I don't understand. I don't-"
"I know you don't. You don't have to. I'm very glad to have met you, Masque. I hope the world treats you kindly when I'm gone."
He sounds resigned.
"But why are you gone? That's what I don't understand?!" Masque voice is strained, like they're trying very hard not to shout it.
"The Final Summoning. No summoner has ever returned. It is said to be so powerful that you must give your life for it."
-Dead silence.
"...Masque?"
"I didn't-- You never- I don't-"
Zveran stops, and turns to face them. "I told you that it would end this way."
"You think I know anything about this? I know summoners exist. I know Yevon exists. But that's it. No-one bothered to tell me anything else."
"At the end of this, I will die, and I don't know if killing Sin will kill you too. I hate this not knowing, but I- God, Masque, I've fought against their wants my whole life, but then Bambi died and this was all I had!"
Masque goes silent again, stops, bows their head to stare at the ground.
"I-" Zveran hugs his arms to himself. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to leave you on the Highroad, and...I don't regret telling you how I feel. But I'm...I'm selfish. I have been for some time."
"What if I don't let you. You have m- You have Aten."
Zveran looks sadly at Aten. "I promised to protect you. I'm afraid I cannot keep it. I'm sorry."
Aten flickers, almost shrugs. "I knew."
"I suppose you're used to your summoners disappointing you."
"This isn't--this is different."
"It is?"
"You...try. You care. Not...not many do."
“Maybe...maybe after I’m...well. Maybe Masque can check in on you sometime?”
He offers both of them a rueful smile.
"-Ah. I- suppose."
Masque doesn't say anything.
Zveran tries a few times to say something, but words died in his throat. He couldn’t think of anything to say that was either comforting or wasn’t a promise he was going to break.
So instead, he went back to following the path.
Masque slips back to following him, a silent shadow.
It takes most of the afternoon, but eventually, from a vantage spot high on the path, Zanarkand sprawls beneath them.
Zveran can’t feel anything from it.
Aten, on the other hand, can feel what's down there. And he's terrified.
Zveran feels a flash of it, that terror-
"Aten? Aten, what's wrong? What's going on?"
"This is- She's- I can't- she'll- I don't-"
"Masque, is there anywhere we can take shelter for now?"
To Aten: "Aten, darling thing, talk to me, what is calling you?"
"Over here," Masque says, pointing towards what looks like the mouth of a cave.
"I don't. She's going to- she'll she'll kill you and-"
Zveran heads for the cave, coaxing Aten along. "Who? Who's going to kill me?"
"Ah. It's-" Aten stops for a moment, doing whatever his equivalent of a calming breath is. Then, whisper quiet and almost lost in the crackle of his fire: "Yunalesca."
At first, Zveran thinks he's misheard. Or perhaps Aten is confused. Or-
"Yunalesca? Truly?"
"She- doesn't want to die. She never wanted to."
"Well, not many truly wish to die, but I suppose you mean something else entirely."
Zveran runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck. The first summoner herself."
"I'm going to assume that isn't good."
"You're Sinspawn. You know what happens to dead things who will not die."
"Ouch. But yes."
Zveran goes back to stroking through Aten's flames. "I suppose Yevon knew of this. Knew of her lingering soul. I wonder why they go against that most very basic of tenants."
"Because Yevon have proven so good at following their own rules."
"But this? This goes against everything the summoners are for! Our purpose is to send souls on, to the Farplane, and they're just letting her live?"
"Hard to. Make her go."
"Wait, Aten, the other summoners who..." Zveran grimaces. "The ones who made it this far. Did they know? She...hurts you?"
"Don't know. Wouldn't have cared."
Zveran looks back, as if he can see the pool in Macalania where he found Aten's fayth. Like he could go back there in that instant, to every instant someone unworthy took him, and kill them.
He slumps against the cave wall. "I suppose I should've expected things to be more complicated."
"As if anything in life is ever simple."
Zveran laughs, bitterly. "Right. Yevon forgive me for wanting one thing to make sense."
"Yevon forgive us for wanting Yevon to make sense."
Zveran laughs again, then drops his head between his knees.
"And all of us, playing into their trap."
"They want peace. But they want other people to pay the cost. How very them."
"How very them indeed."
Zveran leans back, and his head thuds against the wall. "And Bambi died still believing that. Believing in them."
"They don't give people much other choice."
"And Bambi believed the best in people." Zveran runs a hand through his hair. "Even if she knew, she would still want to try. For them."
"That's just the way some people are."
"True. I always thought she was the best of us, but maybe she was just that naive."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"Or maybe there was a part of me that wanted to believe that Yevon at least believed in their own tenants."
Masque does not, in fact, have a response to that. Just a slight shrug.
Zveran huffs once. "Well. Same here."
He wraps his arms around his knees, looking for all the world like a lost boy.
Masque sighs and shuffles close enough to knock their shoulders together.
Zveran drops his head onto their shoulder immediately, tucking his head in close.
They wrap their arms around him and hold him close.
Zveran takes in slow, deep breaths. It's hard to corral the thoughts waging for dominance in his head. Aten's pain, what he now knows is lying in wait, the dogged determination he felt but an hour ago-
It hurts, a deep physical ache, right next to the place Bambi once was.
Aten tries, somewhat, to be comforting, as best he is able.
"Aten, it's all right. Don't try and comfort me, when you need comfort yourself. Come here."
Aten moves closer. "But you need it too?"
"I'll take comfort from you being here."
He gathers Aten as close to him as he can.
Aten presses as close as he can in turn, his flames strangely cool.
Zveran cuddles him and Masque as close to him as he can, just trying to think. To decide.
Well, Masque doesn't seem inclined to move.
Which is very good. Zveran has his people, that's a comfort.
Yeah. Having your people is good. But Masque can't help here. Their instinct is to grab Zveran and run hard and fast. But that has to be a mutual decision.
Zveran doesn't speak again for some time.
And then, finally, he stands, walks a small distance from them, and hangs his head.
"You should go. Back to Macalania."
Aten flickers uncertainly.
Masque makes an inelegant sound. "When did I give you the impression that I gave up."
"I'm not asking you to give up. I'm asking you to leave."
He doesn't want them to. His shoulders hunch.
"You say that like I have anywhere else to go."
"You have the whole of Spira. Pick a place."
"No. I don't."
"Yes, you do. Masque-" He steps closer to them, takes their hands. "You're free. Better yet, you can protect Aten. He needs you."
"I guess I should've expected this." Masque practically hisses it.
"Probably." Zveran's heart absolutely shatters in his chest. If it gets Masque away, and safe, so be it.
"Everyone just uses. One way or another. You had me fooled. You made me think you were different."
"Turns out I'm not. I'm just like everyone else."
"Then I owe you nothing." It's spat out. "So why you think I'd do a task you promised to do yourself I don't know."
"I guess I'm hoping you'll do it anyway. Because Aten deserves it. But I ask for nothing."
Zveran shoulders his pack, and makes for the cave mouth.
"You're crueler than Yevon ever was."
Zveran turns back, and his face is blank.
"Then they taught me well."
"At least they never made me think I was worth anything."
"You're worth everything, Masque. And I'm sorry that I fooled you."
Zveran turns away, and heads out of the cave.
"...Yevon never made me love him. You did."
Zveran's shoulders hitch up around his ears-
And then he disappears around the corner of the cave.
And Masque drops their face into their hands.
They won't cry. Not for this, not for him.
(They will.)
Zveran lets his tears fall freely, every step closer to Zanarkand.
Death will be a sweet release.
(This hurts, so much, and Aten doesn't know how to stop either of them hurting.)
It takes Zveran some time to reach the first task of Yevon in Zanarkand. He keeps stopping, falling to his knees, screaming at his own incompetence. He should've protected them. He should've kept them close.
He hasn't loved anyone the way he loved Masque since Bambi, and yet he still spurned them. And maybe it was to protect them, and to protect Aten, but lies don't promote love. And he loves them. Yevon, it burns in him, the way he loves them, and-
I can dampen that pain. That love. Come to me, summoner.
-And he can still feel Aten, the fear, the concern. (Zveran shouldn't be doing this. Not alone, not like this.)
There's something nagging at the back of his head, like something he had forgotten, but-
"What do you mean?" The words echo off the ruins around him.
Once your pilgrimmage is done, brave soul, no pain will touch you.
No pain. Well, he knew he was to die. It is only fitting he feels nothing of Masque's touch.
He just...to kiss them, one last time, to tell them that he loved them, that he only wanted them to live-
-for a moment he cannot breathe-
Your life before will mean nothing, summoner. Come to me. Bring your pain. We will end Spira's sorrow with it.
Lies, lies, lies.
Zveran feels the pain of Aten's words, and falls-
A soft gasp, and then-
My son. You found him!
"No-!"
No.
Zveran feels Aten's fire thrill through his veins, and tries desperately to tamp it down.
"Aten, no!"
You would deny me my son, summoner?
"N-no, Lady Yunalesca. I would ask you judge me without his aid."
He's bullshitting, as he desperately pushes Aten from his mind.
It hurts. It hurts. But he's so scared, and he doesn't know what to do, and he doesn't want to go back.
He forces himself not to feel, to block Aten, as much as he loves him.
He's the summoner. He dies, not his beloved.
Oh, Zveran. How little you know.
The door to the final Aeon slides open.