The chill was piercing and still could not overcome the burn of pain, of loss, of failure. Zanarkand lay behind - a dead city at the centre of the never-ending spiral. Gagazet lay ahead.
To Bevelle, Besaid, Zanarkand. A chant repeated endlessly pushed his heavy feet forward. One slow step after another. Where feet failed hands sufficed.
“When this is over… could you bring Yuna here? I want her to lead a life far away from this conflict.”
“Take care of my son. My son, in Zanarkand.”
Promises to fill. How didn’t matter.
The sight of a marker filled his vision. They stopped here. They paid their respects while a quiet dread grew. This was only one of many fallen summoners. Another battle won by Gagazet. It wouldn’t win this one.
“But I have come to kill grief itself. I will defeat Sin, and lift the veil of sorrow covering Spira.”
They all fell in the end and for what? One dies and the other starts the cycle anew