[#073] Autumn Fire (Final Fantasy X-2)

[danko_kaji]

Theme Prompt: #073 – Burning Bridges
Title: Autumn Fire
Fandom: Final Fantasy X-2
Rating/Warnings: PG-13
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 989
Summary: They call it an ill omen. First the Beckoning epidemic, now the Monastery Isle Massacre. That such a tragedy would occur right before the third anniversary of the Eternal Calm, four months into his term as Chancellor, Baralai must steel himself against the threat of rising terrorism. Pre-FFX -Will-.

Baralai feared he arrived too late.

He blinked, his eyes stung bloodshot from the sight of utter devastation. A skeleton monastery put to the torch. Unarmed civilians fleeing from bloodstained weapons until they fell, one after the other. Their screams and their pleas burned his eardrums raw. Their assailants gave chase, jumping over corpses and charred debris, their cries of exultation electrifying the air. Baralai struggled to breathe, his head pounding from rage and horror and revulsion.

'What is happening?'

Flames roared in the fierce seasalt breeze, polluting the blue sky above in a shroud of gray so heavy that it eclipsed daylight. He swallowed, nauseous, sweat beading his brow. Shock paralyzed him for a heartbeat, until someone dared to confront him at full speed, brandishing his trident. A fisherman…? He stayed his hand, a split moment of fatal hesitation. This person wore the clothes of a civilian, his tunic and pants bleached by the sun, wearing the face of a man you would sit down and share a drink at the pub with, yet he moved like a beast possessed, raising his weapon. The man bellowed, bloodlust curdling his voice, and Baralai braced himself, parrying his thrust with the steel rings of his sheathed razor rod, his hands aching from the blow.

A narrow slip from death. ‘How foolish of me, to be distracted in a place like this–’

Throwing him off balance, Baralai stole the chance to assemble his weapon. He struck first in two quick swings, disarming him before stabbing him in the chest, shoving him forward to fall on the ground. With the press of his boot, he ripped his rod free and slashed his throat, checking his pulse before straightening in place.

The Warrior Monks awaited his direction, similarly frozen in varying degrees of shock. He must not lose face in the presence of such indescribable tragedy. He must act now and grieve later, for the sake of his city and his people.

“Protect the Yevoners at all costs! Allow no quarter!”

Baralai employed a gravity spell to immobilize the hunters charging at them, allowing his Warrior Monks to sweep the field and execute them all, relishing their last words, their chorus of short-lived curses. Gunfire trilled all around them, from both sides even, startling him to think fast.

“Cover me. I shall produce Protect spells to bolster us.”

“Yes sir!”

Those closest to him flanked him in a trifecta formation, providing assist shots for those in the frontline as he began to cast, conjuring the symbol in his mind’s eye – of hexagonal shapes that bind together and form a series of iridescent walls. Like a beehive that sheltered the worker bees. Within fifteen seconds, the spell wrapped around them all, chipping beneath rapid bullets and pointed steel.

Baralai traded maximum output for minimal casting speed, taking a calculated risk. This ought to last them long enough to sweep the field and gain the upper hand. ‘Now… I must assess the situation.’

Those who wielded the weapons lacked coordination and uniformity, yet they shared a single goal. The monastery that the Yevoners toiled to build now lay in ash and ruin. The body count of the Yevoners surpassed the hunters twofold.

Laborists, ex-soldiers, able-bodied men and young women. Those were the attackers. Liberal youth and passionate workers. On the other hand, the majority of Yevoners were retired folk, such as housewives, washed-out Crusaders, ex-clergymen and acolytes, even sympathetic, hopeful youth. Those were the people cast aside after the Church’s collapse and New Yevon’s dissolution, struggling to reorient themselves in a brave, new world.

Pacifists. They were lost, until they found purpose.

Now, they were dead. Because of a horde of drunken, hot-blooded naysayers.

His Warrior Monks outnumbered them by force and experience, equipped with superior models and flame throwers. Even so, they must not grow arrogant, lest they underestimate them. Baralai refused to suffer any casualties on his watch. Yet the thought of sparing a few to imprison them for interrogation never crossed his mind until questions bubbled through the depths of his tempered rage and desire for retribution.

His blood boiled hotter the farther he forged ahead, forcing himself to survey the faces of each corpse while praying not to find her face among them. ‘Mi’ira, please be safe, please don’t be among the dead, please please please – Where are you? Please be alive –’

Who organized this rabble? What led these people to slaughter a minority of innocent people? Would they attack again? Would they grow in force and become a legitimate group of terrorists? Why–?

A lone scream tore through the air, hoarse and incessant, chilling his bones.

He spotted a girl crouching over the body of an impaled woman. Upon recognizing her twin chestnut braids and burgundy frock coat, his face paled. ‘No– Why are you here? Don’t tell me you’re hurt– don’t tell me she’s dead, please be both okay– please please please–’

He quickened his strides, desperate to eliminate the distance.

“Chuami–! CHUAMI!!”

She fought off the Warrior Monk who strove to pry her off her limp mother’s body, deaf to everything else but her anguish. Baralai slid to her side, wrenching her into his fierce embrace. He overpowered her violent attempts to push him away, squeezing her close, cradling her ruddy wet face to his shoulder.

“Mother's dead! She's dead, and I– I couldn't protect her! I wasn't strong enough–!”

Chuami sobbed and screamed and dug her vicious nails into his body, compounding the cracks already fracturing his resolve. Heartbreak threatened to consume him, yet he continued to rock her, embracing her grief as his own.

“You’re alive… You’re alive!” He could offer her no words of comfort, only effusive, selfish relief. “I'm so glad you're still alive–! I can’t lose you. I can’t lose you, too. I am here. I am right here–”

Baralai made a vow, a vengeful pledge – ‘their cruel deed shall not go unpunished.’