wintersday (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wintersday) wrote2017-12-03 06:30 pm
wintersday) wrote2017-12-03 06:30 pm
Fic: For the Fallen
Title: For The Fallen
Fandom: Final Fantasy X
Major Characters/Pairings: Auron
Wordcount: 250 words
Rating: PG
POV: Third person
Summary: Auron during the assault on Bevelle, facing down the order that he used to belong to.
It’s time.
Yuna stands at the altar with hands clenched around the haft of her summoner’s staff, afraid and trying not to show it. She seems terribly young, in her wedding white, and it’s startling to think that he can remember being her age, younger, and feeling old. Zanarkand has changed him, or dying has – but this is no place for an old ghost’s reminiscences.
Kinoc’s warrior monks line the Highbridge, arrayed in precise formation. They look weak, despite their machina weapons, and fragile, just boys in their shells of silk and armor. Auron is used to killing fiends, shearing through plated armor, muscle and bone in one heavy blow. Not cutting down soldiers barely past childhood. For Braska’s daughter, though, for her sake – what difference between a man and a fiend?
The soldiers ready their guns. Auron charges, blade heavy in his hands, and the line breaks before him. Some soldiers scatter, others stand their ground, and before he can think, Auron is facing a stranger in a uniform he once wore himself, and lifting his sword one-handed to spin and strike.
It is for Braska’s daughter that he does this – as he has done before. As he has done a thousand times before. And for Braska’s memory, suddenly close in this unholy place.
Auron turns the blade aside. Blood blooms in a bright line across the man’s midsection, but the cut is shallow and clean. With healing, he’ll live.
What difference? Not much, in the end, but enough.
Fandom: Final Fantasy X
Major Characters/Pairings: Auron
Wordcount: 250 words
Rating: PG
POV: Third person
Summary: Auron during the assault on Bevelle, facing down the order that he used to belong to.
It’s time.
Yuna stands at the altar with hands clenched around the haft of her summoner’s staff, afraid and trying not to show it. She seems terribly young, in her wedding white, and it’s startling to think that he can remember being her age, younger, and feeling old. Zanarkand has changed him, or dying has – but this is no place for an old ghost’s reminiscences.
Kinoc’s warrior monks line the Highbridge, arrayed in precise formation. They look weak, despite their machina weapons, and fragile, just boys in their shells of silk and armor. Auron is used to killing fiends, shearing through plated armor, muscle and bone in one heavy blow. Not cutting down soldiers barely past childhood. For Braska’s daughter, though, for her sake – what difference between a man and a fiend?
The soldiers ready their guns. Auron charges, blade heavy in his hands, and the line breaks before him. Some soldiers scatter, others stand their ground, and before he can think, Auron is facing a stranger in a uniform he once wore himself, and lifting his sword one-handed to spin and strike.
It is for Braska’s daughter that he does this – as he has done before. As he has done a thousand times before. And for Braska’s memory, suddenly close in this unholy place.
Auron turns the blade aside. Blood blooms in a bright line across the man’s midsection, but the cut is shallow and clean. With healing, he’ll live.
What difference? Not much, in the end, but enough.