"Farewell, Lord Braska"

by Lucrecia LeVrai

Author's Notes: There's no rule which says that fics need to be as accurate as possible. So please, read this little 'what if' story – I hope you'll be able to enjoy it, in spite of a few minor twists. Anyway, Final Fantasy X doesn't belong to me. Worse still, English's not my first language. :) I beg of you, just don't run away screaming as soon as you notice some… ekhem… less fortunate expressions. ;) Um, never mind.

Alright, folks, here we go!

Braska sighed, a bit frustrated, wondering whether the long, dimly illuminated corridor would ever end. Still, he kept walking. After all, one needed a lot of open space to summon Bahamut, and in Bevelle, the biggest, most crowded city in Spira, open space was a luxury. Fortunately, the Grand Temple provided many such places, and Braska knew of at least a few he could use.

Yesterday, he had finally acquired the powerful aeon, which meant that he was free to leave on a pilgrimage any time now. However, several things still kept him in Bevelle – a couple of letters to write, some old friends to visit, and most importantly… He shook his head; there was no point in thinking about Yuna right now. He had come here to practise, and so he would have to remain focused, no matter what. His lips curled in a sad, humourless smile, the summoner eventually came to a halt in front of a large, wooden door. Without a second thought, he pushed it open, stepping outside, into a bright, sunny afternoon.

It was probably one of the temple's largest terraces, even though it wasn't even half as big as the top one, situated several stories above. Braska stopped in the doorway, enjoying the fresh breeze – so different from the hot, stuffy air in the lower parts of the city – and the sight of a blue, nearly perfect sky. Besides, he had to admit that the architects of this place, whoever they were, had done a remarkably splendid job. The terrace floor, for example, was a detailed mosaic picturing the very symbol of Yevon… and to his left Braska could see a row of decorative, white columns, which formed an utterly pointless – from a practical point of view, anyway – yet beautiful, ivy-covered arcade.

Suddenly, his eyes caught a glimpse of movement among the green leaves. Braska tensed, finally realising that he was not alone.

From a distance, he could only see an outline of a person, sitting on a narrow ledge, dangerously close to the edge of the terrace, casually leaning against one of the marble pillars. As he walked closer, the dim silhouette sharpened into an image of a very young man – a boy, actually; sixteen, seventeen years old at best. The first thing Braska noticed was the youth's blue, thick hair. Tied in a loose braid, it fell down onto his back, with the exception of several short strands that framed his pale face. The lad held a lyre in his lap, one hand curled around its neck, the other resting against the strings.

For a brief second, Braska wanted to turn back and leave, but he quickly decided that it would be very impolite to walk away without at least a customary greeting. Absently straightening the sleeves of his robe – heavy as they were, the wind could still turn them into a mess – he cleared his throat and took a couple of steps in the boy's direction.

The blue-haired youth slowly turned his head, not a trace of surprise visible on his face, which clearly meant that he must have been aware of Braska's presence all this time. The summoner frowned, finally able to see the boy's eyes, which were a light shade of violet, as well as many uneven lines on his cheeks and forehead. He had never met this lad before, of course, but he was neither deaf nor ignorant. He had heard rumours about Lord Jyscal's outlook on life, his politics… and most importantly, about his only son, Seymour, the half-human child who had nearly cost Jyscal his position among the Guado.

For a long moment they both stared at each other; the silence interrupted only by seagulls' distant cries.

"Lord Braska," the boy finally said, with a slight nod of his head. It hadn't been a guess, but a direct greeting. Braska sighed inwardly, suddenly wishing he had been a slightly less infamous person.

He hesitated, wondering if it was okay to act so straightforward. "Lord Seymour," he spoke at last, bowing in a very similar, reserved manner.

Just as he had expected, the youth wasn't surprised. "It is an honour to meet you, Braska-dono," he replied, a soft smile playing on his lips. "You came here to practise, did you not?" With his eyes still fixed on the summoner's face, he stroke a couple of strings, and the instrument in his hap sang quietly.

"It is a perfect place for summoning Bahamut," the man nodded, knowing well that Seymour would understand.

"Yes, it is," the boy agreed politely.

"Yet you are not practising," Braska pointed out, walking up a bit closer.

"Oh, I just needed a quiet place to think, that's all," the boy frowned, looking down at the lute. Braska watched, a bit fascinated, as the youth's pale, slender fingers once again ran over the strings, touching it gently, forming a quiet melody; a beautiful, melancholic tune that reminded him of home, of everything he would soon have to leave behind. It wasn't before long, though, when the boy suddenly stopped, and shook his head in disapproval. "No good sound would come out of it today… I wonder why." He sighed, lowering his hand to the side.

Braska licked his dry lips; it had been a very long time since he had last cared about such things. "You are a skilled artist."

"Not at all," Seymour shrugged, no trace of false modestly in his firm voice. "Besides, music has never been my primary concern…" He paused abruptly, shoulders tensing, as if he had just said something very improper. "I am sorry, Braska-dono. You wanted to practise and I'm taking up your time for no good reason. I will leave now, if you–"

"No." Braska shook his head, smiling apologetically. "You came here first, and you have every right to stay." He paused for a moment. "I would still like to train, though, if you do not mind…"

The wind suddenly picked up, ruffling the men's hair. Seymour, who still hadn't made a single move towards the exit, absently raised a hand to tuck several blue strands behind his ears; perfectly human ears, Braska noticed with mild interest. "I'm afraid I would only disrupt your concentration, Braska-dono… as you would mine," he chuckled, meaningfully pointing at the instrument. His quiet laughter had been an eerie, strangely unpleasant sound.

Braska hesitated. "I was wondering… whether you would allow me to test my strength against yours."

"Braska-dono?" The boy's eyebrows rose, he seemed genuinely surprised. "You are not serious, are you?"

"I am serious." It was Braska's turn to chuckle. "I heard a bit about your abilities. They say you are too good for someone so young."

Seymour turned his head away, wordlessly considering the summoner's offer. "It would be a great honour," he finally spoke. He carefully put the lute aside and jumped down from the ledge, then slowly made his way towards the older man. He moved with a grace of a dancer, and for a brief moment Braska wondered if it was Seymour's deliberate attempt to look more dignified, or simply a part of his heritage – the Guado, he knew, were usually not very fast people, at least not on land.

Nevertheless, it didn't really matter. The youth finally came to a halt, about fifteen meters away. "Shall we start?" Braska asked, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Please, go on first," the boy replied. "You are the challenger."

"Very well, then…" – without wasting any more time, the older summoner spun his staff. "Bahamut, come!"

He had expected something great, extraordinary… and the fayth certainly didn't disappoint him. Braska watched, entranced, as a magnificent dragon descended from the skies, reaching his side in a few seconds. The entire terrace shook with the force of the beast's landing; the summoner nearly fell to the ground, yet somehow kept his balance.

Seymour watched the aeon's arrival as well, then straightened up, closing his eyes. Braska, finally able to tear his gaze away from the dragon, had to smile. Contrary to a popular, yet entirely false belief, summoners didn't need any rods or wands. Sure, a good staff was often a valuable asset, capable of increasing its owner's power, but it was by no means necessary. The source of magical skills lay elsewhere – a certain, minimum level of intelligence was all that mattered.

Meanwhile, several blocks of ice behind Seymour's back broke and Shiva stepped forward, surrounded by a cloud of white mist. Braska narrowed his eyes; he could sense great power radiating off the boy's aeon. It didn't scare him, though. He nodded at the black dragon. "…Go."

Many of the temple rumours clearly stated that Jyscal's son was very talented. However, Braska could see now, all too well, that these rumours actually paled in comparison to reality. Five minutes hadn't passed since the beginning of the fight, and his Bahamut was already swaying on his massive legs, with Shiva dancing around him in circles, casually striking from time to time, avoiding most of the dragon's blows, practically unscathed. Braska bit his lip. Maybe it was his inexperience with the new aeon. Maybe it was Seymour's skill.

He suspected it was both.

"Ah, this doesn't look well…" He smiled as Shiva dodged yet another round of his carefully planned attacks, instantly sending several shards of ice flying in Bahamut's direction.

"Surrender," the boy's calm, oddly authoritative voice rang, as Bahamut staggered, barely able to stay upright.

It was always a very unpleasant experience for a summoner to watch their aeon 'die' – fall miserably to the ground and then dissolve into a swirling mass of pyreflies – so Seymour's offer was a fairly reasonable one. "Alright, I surrender," Braska nodded, almost too seriously, and with a couple of gestures he dismissed the beast. Seconds later the youth did exactly the same thing, allowing Shiva to jump into the air and vanish from their plane of existence.

The match finally over, the two men simply stared at each other; both looking for any traces of mental fatigue on his opponent's face, yet finding none. Surprisingly enough, Seymour was the first one to look away. In spite of his relatively easy victory from only a couple of moments ago, he didn't seem particularly proud… almost ashamed, actually… and Braska suddenly thought he knew why.

If people were to see their fight, they would inevitably ask themselves: why, for Yevon's sake, wasn't this boy on a pilgrimage instead of this man, when it was kind of painfully obvious whose skills and potential were greater?

"You are far better than I am," Braska finally spoke, smiling slightly to show that his intentions were, in fact, nothing but peaceful.

Seymour raised his head, and the older summoner was shocked to see how much hatred and humiliation shone in the youth's lavender eyes. "Go on," he hissed angrily. "Say it!"

Braska struggled with his thoughts for a while, watching the boy's clenched fists and his trembling lips. "…No, Seymour," he said eventually, when he was sure that the lad had his temper back under control. "You are not a coward… and certainly not guilty of anything. Neither the first nor the last summoner who did not, does not, and will not face Sin." He paused. "We differ in many ways… your lordship," he frowned, clearly stressing the title. "I do not have your responsibilities."

"You know nothing about me… but… yes, I will not… I cannot leave on a pilgrimage." Seymour's expression was cold, almost indifferent, which contrasted sharply with his previous, passionate outburst.

Braska nodded. "I'm sure your father… I mean, Lord Jyscal… wouldn't accept that."

The boy's lips parted slowly, as if he were about to say something, but all of a sudden he changed his mind and only shook his head slightly. "You do have a family, you know," he spoke, some accusatory tones creeping into his voice. Braska sighed; he wasn't surprised that Seymour, just like everyone else, knew about his little daughter. After all, it was exactly because of his wife and child that he had become a public person, a subject of never-ending gossip.

"I do," he admitted, a bit reluctantly.

"Yet you will leave her… just like that…"

Braska didn't even try to hide the pain in his eyes, knowing it was futile. The mere thought of Yuna made his heart ache. He would see her tomorrow, yes, for they were both still in Bevelle… but soon, he knew, he would have to say a final goodbye, and then… He shuddered. No, it's for the best, he thought, quickly composing himself. If I can be strong, so can she. Somehow, we will both make it, I'm sure of it.

Meanwhile, Seymour's slender shoulders shook slightly. Braska blinked in surprise, it seemed as if the young summoner was… badly overreacting. Surely, he couldn't have been so terribly upset over the fact that some stranger was going to travel to Zanarkand and die, leaving his little daughter behind… or was there something else, something that Braska simply didn't know about? The man frowned, suddenly remembering a few vague rumours concerning Seymour's late mother; the story about her journey to Zanarkand, ten years ago… and the fact that she had never returned.

He sighed and walked past the silent boy, to the edge of the terrace. The city of Bevelle lay hundreds of meters below; a bustling metropolis filled with happiness, joy, laughter. Braska smiled. This was his purpose. Let people laugh, let them dream… let them enjoy their lives, free of unnecessary suffering…

"Somebody has to do it," he spoke quietly. "I don't know if I'm the right person… if I'm strong enough. But I think that I may be… so I'm going to take this challenge, no matter what." He was still looking at the city, suddenly very much aware of how fragile it was, situated so close to the ocean, easily exposed to Sin's attacks. "I don't want my little daughter to grow up in such an insecure world."

Both summoners were silent for a long while. Forgive me, Yuna, the man thought, but this is something I must do. I'm doing this for you and for everyone else… I want you all to be happy…

Suddenly, somewhere behind his back, he could hear quiet footsteps. He turned around, only to see Seymour standing but a couple of meters away. "Lord Braska, to tell you the truth…" the half-Guado spoke, lowering his eyes to the ground, "I knew very well that you would be here today, and so I came to see you. I wanted… to wish you good luck… and a safe journey."

"It is going to be a safe journey," Braska chuckled. "After all, I'm going to have Auron with me, and believe me, he's the most accomplished fighter I've even seen… and a trusty companion. I'm going to be okay."

"No, you are not going to be okay," the boy said angrily. "…You are going to die."

"We will all die… eventually." He knew how gloomy and cryptic he must have sounded, yet he didn't care. It was the truth, after all… Besides, sacrificing the life of an individual was definitely a better thing to do than having thousands suffer.

"Aren't you afraid of death…?" there was a great deal of hesitation in the boy's voice… mixed with awe and distrust, perhaps? And… jealousy…?

Braska's expression didn't change, his blue eyes shone with resolve. "I would be a fool to say that I am not," he replied calmly. "I'd love to stay here, with my friends, and watch my little girl grow up, instead of doing this. But… that's just how it is. Summoners have to lay down their lives for the people of Spira. These sacrifices are necessary."

"Until somebody is able to stop Sin… forever," Seymour nodded, turning his head away, but not before the older man could catch a glimpse of some strange determination burning in his eyes. Such intensity… it was almost frightening.

"Yes," despite himself, Braska shuddered.

Wordlessly, the boy spun on his heel, and a couple of moments later he was already by the narrow ledge, reaching for his lyre. "Lord Braska, you may practise as much as you want, undisturbed," he spoke softly, walking towards the exit with the same casual grace Braska had admired earlier; his long, braided hair shimmering in the bright, afternoon sun with every step he took. "I'm afraid I lost the will to play…" He stopped, once again turning slowly in the man's direction. Then, suddenly, he nearly dropped to his knees in an extremely respectful version of the official bow. "Farewell, Lord Braska," he said, almost melancholically, raising his head to meet the summoner's calm, patient gaze. "I will pray for your safe journey… as well as for your happiness in death."

And then, without a second glance, he walked back into the dark temple, leaving Braska alone on the terrace. "I may need that," the man whispered solemnly, suddenly realising that, at the moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to find Auron and get drunk… somewhere… together. "Yes…" he repeated, licking his dry lips, "we may all need that…"

May it be an evening star
Shines down upon you
May it be when darkness falls
Your heart will be true
You walk a lonely road
Oh, how far you are from home

Mornie utúli
Believe and you will find your way
Mornie alanti
A promise lives within you now

May it be the shadows call
Will fly away
May it be you journey on
To light the day
When the night is overcome
You may rise to find the sun

Mornie utúli
Believe and you will find your way
Mornie alanti
A promise lives within you now

A promise lives within you now

Author's Notes: Alright, I admit that, once again, I had too much of 'LotR: The Two Towers' soundtrack, which resulted in this story. Actually, LotR music is always my biggest inspiration when it comes to FFX fics.

By the way, I've just realised that, apart from Shimoa-sama, I absolutely love Braska… he's so damn charismatic! Um… right… yeah…

Well, anyway, I would also like to thank Haytham and Silver Chaotic of Randomia, the two wonderful people who read my last fic – namely Adolescence – and claimed they hadn't been bored to death… I think… O.o; Thanks for reviewing! I love you!

…And now, lads and gents… please, review this! See that shiny, little button over there? It feels sooo lonely! It needs to be clicked! C'mon, just do it. Thanks in advance. :)