Waters and Sky

The staff is held in a steady hand, feet as feathers glide over the water's surface. Her beads rattle, making sharp, cheerful noises that sound frightfully out of place as the waters part. The torches burn low, the sky is pink and the tears glow as they fall as she comes to a graceful stop. Emerald-sapphire eyes close and reopen, their owner tilting her head, letting the wind caress her face, feeling what it felt to be alive.

Yuna breathes. Tidus watches.

High arcs and low arches, the Fayth begin to sing as Yuna dances, calls, the spirits rouse. From their watery prison, every color existing and some never seen, the remnants of the fallen form a glowing circle around her as the staff slices the air. Tidus can feel them, asking for direction, asking for something from her that she can never give, asking her to silence the people's cries. He knows she feels sad, even as she is risen, her feet turning in the fouett├ęs of death, for she knows this is all she can do.

The flames are azure.

Yuna's hair whips around, and Tidus is entranced by its movement. It glints in the setting sun; she brings the staff high, high over her head, and with a beckoning hand, the souls begin to escape. They dot the horizon with splashes of color as she gives them gentle pushes, her power singing of the Last Place, telling them where to find peace.

They thank her in the only way they can, and leave for the Farplane. Tidus watches them go.

Yuna gives a small leap; she brings the staff away from her, above her head as she twirls a final time. A small foot brings her to rest on the spiral of water, the column dissipates and she is gently lowered to the surface. She walks back, her head held high and the villagers thank her profusely, some wading into the water to cut the shrouds loose.

Her cheeks and feet are wet and Tidus wonders when she will stop dancing.