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year 5, quarter 3
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Moonlight fell like liquid glass upon rocky cliffs and swaying grasses. The night was silent. There was none of the temple's usual bustling now, nor were there voices, footsteps, or the hum of insects. There was only the single moon which gazed down upon the planet like a great, silver eye. There was no shadow behind it -- no crimson-washed parasite which would consume the world with time. There was only the moon and the vast realms of space. Perhaps there was something more beyond that, but it was impossible to say.
The answers wouldn't come. The rest was shrouded in black.
It had been several weeks since these thoughts began. Kuja had come to this temple as a means of research and perhaps the eventual acquisition of power. He had done no such thing, however, and yet he had not left. As he'd passed the hushed voices of archaeologists and scholars, their hurry had calmed the darkness lurking in the back of his mind. It reminded him greatly of Daguerreo. The scholars there had oozed pretension and their beliefs had been laughable at best, but there was something familiar in them which he had always admired. Here were those who had forsaken the world for the futile pursuit of knowledge. Perhaps had his life gone differently, Kuja would have counted himself among them. Perhaps if he'd been born Gaian, he might have taken up a pen rather than the fires of magic. Or indeed, if he'd been born at all.
But that was a useless sentiment suitable only for the pained and downtrodden. And Kuja was no longer so weak.
Alone among the tall grasses and the silver veils of moonlight, Kuja closed his eyes to the quiet stirrings of wind. It was strange how much he'd grown to love the weather. Rain, snow, heat, wind -- everything which caused others complaint gave him a deep sense of peace. Perhaps it was the vast scale of it or the hint of something greater than himself. This wind touched all equally -- Gaian and otherwise -- and it would continue long past his own existence. If Kuja closed his eyes, he could feel it still -- this natural pull of the planet. With the wind in his hair, he knew that he was not home and that he never would be again.
Down the winding mountain road, there was a quiet shuffle of movement and the sound of carriage wheels. Kuja paid it no mind. No one would question him now, or at least, no more than usual. Strangers had always noted his striking eyes, the finely sculpted tilts of his face, and his hair like rivulets of silver moonlight, and they had known somehow that he did not belong among them. In recent years, Kuja had embraced that difference and enhanced it in every conceivable way. He had decorated himself in deep purples, trims of gold, and tight angles of coral red. He had taken to accenting his curves, to highlighting the feminine draw of his cheeks, and lavishing in the whispers of ridicule and scandal. If only Garland could see him now. He would say...
He would say that Kuja's drive for self-expression was nothing but a defect of his cerebral cortex, an over-activity in his frontal lobes which stemmed from a residual spiritual imprint unaffected from the Cycle. His need for rebellion was the result of improperly firing synapses and an irregular absorption of the chemical dopamine.
Even in his own daydreams, Kuja couldn't win. But Garland was nowhere to be found here (where-ever here was), and indeed, hadn't been for some time. It seemed that this planet was not within Terra's reach, and yet, Kuja could not bring himself to happiness. Since arriving in this forsaken land, Kuja had done nothing with his new-found freedom for the simple fact that he had nothing to do. There was no plotting, he had no orders, and his goals could only be summarized as "trying not to die." It didn't suit him, but then, he had no idea what had brought him here in the first place.
Maybe if Kuja had remembered, then he would have known who to properly take revenge upon. As it was, he could only recall that he'd taunted Zidane and waited for his idiot crew to open the way to Terra. After that, Kuja had the feeling that something terrible had happened and he might have done something he'd regretted. Then there was nothing but a heavy haze of frustration and uncertainty. He knew nothing about what happened then -- only that it had involved Zidane and it had gone on for far, far too long.
He'd wanted it to stop. He didn't know whether he'd achieved his wish.
In the silver flickerings of moonlight, Kuja thought that maybe he had. This planet was not a prison to him nor was it a dying husk that he might long to leave behind. With the wind snatching at his hair and sleeves, Kuja thought that he would never grow tired of this planet. Only of its people, its conflicts, and its over-arching sense of nothing.
His soul stirred with a restless wrath and sharpened claws. Soon this world would know him, but not yet. Not until he had his reason to strike.
OOC: ((Oh Jesus Christ, that was a lot of angst. I apologize to everyone for my self-indulgence. I couldn't help it. I felt it in my soul.))
The hustle and bustle of the temple had been a very welcome distraction for the wandering Warrior. After spending days and days alone, wandering the woods, the sands, following rivers and green, it had been nice to actually open his mouth and speak to another living being. The people in the area were kind, and though they gave him quite the odd looks for all his armor, they had been somewhat helpful as far as information about the world went. Completing some small tasks had earned him a soft place to lay his head to rest, and warm food for his grumbling stomach. Though he couldn’t stay long, the nameless man was very thankful for the generosity these scholars had shown him.
It was tiring, however, to be around people for such large swaths of time. The Warrior was not much of a talkative man, and the scholars that hung around the temple, always writing in books, digging … He didn’t much understand their work, but they didn’t seem to care. They were curious about him. Where he was from, what he did, what his world was like. Men of knowledge were interesting, but quite taxing as well. The Warrior, however, was a patient man. He didn’t mind speaking with them, going places with them. After all, they had shown him a great kindness.
As the sun set, and the moon bathed the world in a silky light, the Warrior found his peace. Leaving his warm quarters, he set out for the desolate silence of the nearby cliffs. He found it helpful to get out and about, on his own, in order to keep his head clear and ask himself important questions that had no answers.
He needed time for reflection, lest he continue to forget.
It had only been a few things so far, that the nameless man had managed to forget. A name or a face here or there. Details on certain subjects were beginning to become hazy, fuzzy. Each day, it was harder to place when certain events of his past happened, or if they happened at all. That was why he’d made it a point, each night, to reflect in silence. Nothing but the wind, the stars, and his fragmented memories. If he didn’t try to recollect them all, all these important moments of his life, would they be lost, forever? Lost, like his other memories … Memories he knew existed, but had been taken from him, by the gods, by the cycles of war.
And if they vanished, would they ever come back?
The Warrior slowly made his way off of the trail and up the cliffside, the lantern swinging in his hand as he went. He’d become familiar enough with the area in the last couple of days that he felt safe exploring it semi casually. While he kept his armor on, safely with him, he’d tied his helmet to his waist, and kept his sword sheathed and shield off of his wrist. The people here, he was comforted by them, but not enough so to walk around without all of his precious, few possessions on his person. After all, this armor, the helmet, his sword … It was all that he had. The only thing he could remember choosing himself.
He was most comfortable, when the Light armor was with him.
As the nameless Warrior made his way to his usual reflection spot, something caught his eye. There was someone else in the area. It surprised, nearly spooked him that he’d gotten so close before noticing them. It was the way their splendid hair twinkled in the moonlight that grabbed his attention so quickly, and while he instinctively thought it a terrible idea to be so easily visible, the Warrior had to remind himself that he was in civil territory. And, humorously, that he probably stood out just as much.
From the looks of the garments, it appeared to be a young woman. Perhaps she, too, needed a break from the hustle and bustle of the Temple? The Warrior considered, for a moment, not engaging her in anyway, and to simply let her be and move on to another area. Someone in a solitary area likely expected to be left alone.
Yet, before he could catch himself, he found his mouth opening for a soft greeting.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” the Warrior apologized, softly, “I’d no idea there would be another living soul here, on this night.”
… Odd. There was a strange feeling in his gut, a scratching at the back of his mind. Though he had yet to see her face, he felt this young woman was familiar, in some way.
The Warrior elected to ignore the feeling, for the moment. He’d likely seen her in passing in the temple, and merely hadn’t introduced himself yet.
Kuja had always held a certain fascination with night. While he was known to enjoy the activities of daily events and to relish in the heat of the sun, it was this latter half of the day that beckoned him on silver wings. Perhaps it was the cool quiet of it that most allowed his thoughts life or perhaps it was the shadows that he so enjoyed losing himself in. As the sky faded to fiery dusk and the planet cooled in its daily cycle, Kuja found a certain excitement come over him. Soon, he would walk this world alone. He would feel the spray of water and wind and know that it was reserved only for him. It was why the dark city Treno had held such allure to him, and it was why, even now, he could not help but feel a flurry of exhilaration musing upon these lonely clifftops. It felt lonely, secure, and more than anything else indulgent to grant himself such time.
It was not time that he was particularly keen to have interrupted.
Yet, of course, it was. As Kuja gazed down at the great, arching temple below his feet, the sound of clanking metal marked the approach of another on his lonely mountain path. Kuja did not turn to address it (hoping perhaps that the intruder would politely leave him un-harassed), but such displays of apathy could only get one so far. When those clinking footsteps came to a halt, he knew what was about to occur before he heard the dreaded call.
“I beg your pardon, miss. I’d no idea there would be another living soul here, on this night."
If he had been alone, Kuja would have laughed out-loud. So predictable. The general populace had a marked habit of assuming not only that he wished to be bothered, but also that he was in undeniable need of aid wherever dangerous place his travels might take him. That he might be capable (even dangerous) never occurred to these idiots on first glance, but he preferred it that way. It made them easier to manipulate when they had no idea that they should place themselves on guard.
If Kuja had been in a better mood, he might have flipped his hair, sent the traveler a charming smile, and thanked him oh so graciously for his good will. People were stupid. They saw a smile and thought it meant 'yes.' But Kuja was not in that kind of mood. In fact, alone upon that quiet cliff-side full of ever-brooding thoughts, Kuja might have told the intruder exactly what business he had here (particularly none of it). Yet as Kuja tilted his head to snap at the man, he was given pause. This was not a mere traveler in a dangerous domain.
No, this was a hero. Kuja saw it all over him from shining armor to pointed pauldrons to a rather irregularly shaped helm. This was a hero, a classic do-gooder, a white knight as it were. From the seriously furrowed eyebrows to the deadpan stare, he looked every bit the protagonist of some cliched young children's fable. Here was the warrior ready to slay the dragon, spare the damsel, and set off with his reward.
Oh, how very quaint.
The thought of it made him laugh, just a little behind the back of his hand. Kuja turned to face the white knight fully and then appraised him from pointed steel toe to horn-rimmed head. Kuja crossed his arms and touched his chin thoughtfully. There was something familiar about this man, though he couldn't for the life of him say as to why. Whatever it was, Kuja felt a certain disdain for it which he opted to ignore. He had likely seen a similar visage in the illustrations of a fairy tale. And he had always loathed the righteous.
"My, what a surprise. But then, it seems the type of night for surprises." Kuja gave a vague gesture to the sky, head tilted in unspecific interest. "Ancient legends speak that when the full moon rises, a kind of gate opens. The Shimmering Island -- a Pathway of Souls upon the icy slopes of the Esto Gaza. Rumor states that should one wander inside, they might never return." Kuja lowered his hand gave a slow, sultry look to the hero before him. "And what brings you out on such a night? Have you come to drive away evil with your tempered blade?" He laughed again, a hollow laugh which held neither joy nor malice. His lips turned in a bitter smirk. "Won't you save me, sir knight, from what lurks upon us on these unholy heights?"
The Warrior felt, as the young woman turned around and addressed him, that this night would indeed be full of many more surprises that he hadn’t bargained for.
And immediately, he silently cursed himself for opening his mouth in the first place.
First, there was the issue with this person.. She was not a she. She was a he. The nameless man furrowed his brows, a miniscule, annoyed frown having the audacity to grace his face. Why he was so miffed at the simple mistake, instead of embarrassed, he wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps, it was the terrible way he’d been addressed, something he clearly hadn’t asked for, or maybe it was something else entirely. The more this strange, dazzling young man spoke, the more the Warrior was able to discern from his appearance, the truly more bothered he felt.
Second, was this familiar stranger’s attitude. While the silver-haired young man was certainly just in his annoyance for being interrupted, his demeanor was simply uncalled for. The Warrior huffed, though it was hardly noticeable, and he was overtaken by the urge to roll his eyes. It was a useful way to express such emotion, the nameless man’s friends had taught him, and he desired nothing more than to -- how did the saying go? Roll his eyes straight out of his head?
Visibly, however, the light Warrior merely appeared moderately annoyed, and after a quick eye roll he was overwhelmed with the urge to leave. But why, why were these urges so great? And why did this man seem so familiar that it would yank such disgust to the surface.
Something fell into place in his mind. Just the right stone was turned over, the right memory had sprung forth.
Could he be so sure, though? His eyes widened with surprise as he held the lantern out further from his body, towards the young man’s face. There was absolutely no mistaking it.
”Kuja,” he stated incredulously, the memories of the cycles rolling back, bit by bit. Kuja, an agent of Chaos that had opposed them, a powerful being of magic, who took pleasure in ridiculing his opponents.
Something was wrong, however. It didn’t appear that, as Kuja had spoken to him, that he recognized him. The Warrior, while thoughtful, still did not take the situation lightly. His right hand gripped the handle of the sword at his waist, and he narrowed his eyes at the known enemy before him. It was entirely possible that Kuja’s memory had been wiped clean after the events of the thirteenth cycle, as happened to his own memory several times before that. However, the man was a bit of an actor with a flair for the dramatic, that the Warrior could recall, and he did not want to be caught off guard.
Long ago, back in those early days that he didn't like to think about, Kuja had learned to take note of the slightest signs of irritation. There was a shortness to the breaths, a mild tension behind the eyebrows, a stiffness of the shoulders, and a certain hardness of the eyes that spoke to Kuja as clearly as poetry. They were warnings -- hold your tongue and try not to attract attention.
Or at least, it had been, back in the time that Kuja would have mockingly called "his childhood." He had since learned to take pleasure in such signs. He could change another's mood using nothing but words, gestures, and well-controlled expressions. There was power in that, and Kuja had always loved to exploit his power.
This fairy-tale knight did not prove immune to Kuja's taunting. His eyebrows lowered. He gave a short sigh of frustration. And, most damning of all, the knight actually rolled his eyes in disdain. Kuja had sought to mock the knight, yes, but even he hardly thought his poetic musing worthy of an eye roll. From the man's previous demeanor, Kuja would have thought such expressions beyond him.
'The man hardly knows what sarcasm is.' But where had that thought come from? Kuja had never met the man before. He most certainly would have remember such a unique -- and rather stereotypical -- image.
But then the man's expression changed. As quickly as the irritation had come, it dissipated into something else -- a slight widening of the eyes, a forward lean, an undeniable spark of recognition. The knight held out his lantern so that the yellow light splashed against Kuja's hair, sleeves, and armor. Kuja smiled back at him uncertainly. There was something in the man's expression that unsettled him. It bespoke a change of heart and a sudden, undeniable realization followed by-
"Kuja."
Kuja blinked in surprise. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't that. "Do I know you?" Kuja echoed, but no. He couldn't place it. Perhaps the knight had heard rumors of him passing through this new world. Kuja had left his mark on the people here, and his look was certainly distinctive enough to be recognized by hear-say alone. So far, Kuja had saved the life of a teenage boy stranded in the Reikinto Sands, had fraternized with the populations of Torensten, and had intimidated every scholar of the Metaia Temple. The possibility of hear-say was not outside the realm of possibility.
But no. The knight's eyes had filled with such hatred, such darkness, and such caution that it could not have been spawned from rumors alone. And then the knight reached for his sword.
My, well it seemed that the knight truly did know him after all. How troublesome.
“What has brought you to this place?”
"Blunt, aren't we?" Kuja's tone had changed. He no longer dipped it in poetic pretension and the echoing musing of moonlight. Now his voice came as sharp as the tips of his nails. He recrossed his arms and tossed a careless glance in the knight's direction. "But I'm afraid the question itself is flawed. Do you mean to ask for my intentions? My mode of transportation? And whatever do you mean by 'this place?'"
Kuja raised a hand and eyed the glossy lacquer of his nails. He'd filed them into points -- all the better to strike should he feel his magic not insult enough. "But if you insist -- Some powerful means of fate sent me hurdling into this world against my will. I came to this temple with the intention of researching the ancient magic said to lurk beneath. And as for this particular cliff, I merely thought to admire the moon." Kuja gave another vague wave towards the sky. "Now, if you wouldn't mind telling me how you know my name? It's rude to greet a stranger with a blade." Kuja gave the knight a cool smile. "Let us start this again. My name is Kuja. And you are...?"
OOC: ((It's not my best, but oh well. xD I got tired of waiting for Garland so here. Have more Kuja snarking.))
The Warrior stood in awe for a moment, at this realization. Kuja did not know who the Warrior was. He didn’t know where they’d met, he didn’t know what had transpired in the cycles of war between Chaos and Harmony. He simply had no idea.
Well, this was a high ground that the nameless knight had yet to ever experience. He knew something that someone else didn’t.
Thankfully, he had no idea how to feel or behave smugly. Instead, he merely watched Kuja carefully through his cool gaze, his hand still carefully set on the hilt of his blade. He was aware that, obviously, what side of the cycles of war one was on did not totally reflect that person’s own spirit. It could be very possible that Kuja was, in fact, not inherently evil. Perhaps something in Kuja’s past, or future, would cause him to become overly chaotic someday, but today did not seem to be that day.
However, that didn’t stop him from being an insufferable, mouthy cretin.
Kuja’s mouth never seemed to shut, the Warrior noticed, especially if he appeared to be bothered in some way. The talkative types, the nameless man simply couldn’t understand. He was efficient with his speech, at least, he liked to believe he was. Kuja, on the other hand, was giving him the run around. It was clear what his question had intended; he knew Kuja likely got on top of this cliffside with his own two feet, and by here he clearly meant this strange world you know we do not belong to.
Having finally got one tidbit of decent information, the Warrior relaxed his shoulders and removed his hand from his blade. Though he still felt the urge to knock Kuja off of the cliff rather than speak to him, he brushed those strong feelings of annoyance aside in order to learn a bit more. After all, this was the first time he’d encountered another person with missing memories that he was aware of. All of their shared history, albeit there wasn’t much, was something he could dangle over Kuja’s head for a moment while he deciphered what may have happened.
The Warrior exhaled a calming sigh, “I am the Warrior of Light. My apologies, for coming off as rude.”
At least one of them would apologize.
He quickly became pensive again, unsure how to next proceed. He shifted his weight from one leg to another, resisting the itch of his hands to grab his blade and defend himself against someone who was once an enemy. How, exactly, could the nameless knight express his knowledge of the cycles? Perhaps dropping some key words would jog Kuja’s memory? Or, if not, then the spellcaster may honestly not know anything at all of them.
“We met in a previous engagement that you seem to have forgotten,” the Warrior began, his voice carrying his natural, leading tone, but betraying an obvious net of curiosity, “Do you not recall a being known as Chaos? An endless cycle of war?”
When he put it that way, the nameless knight wouldn’t be surprised to get another lashing of extreme sarcasm and wit. The issue was, there was no other decent way to put it. Kuja had been an agent of Chaos. He had been trapped in a cycle of war. Cycle after Cycle repeated, and as far as the Warrior was aware, the spellcaster before him had helped ensure victory for Chaos time and time again.
The only other bomb left to drop was Zidane. The Warrior knew Zidane, at least moderately well, as they had been companions, brothers in arms for a time. Friends. Zidane and Kuja had a history together -- he wasn’t clear on the details -- but, it would be worth mentioning, if nothing else rang a bell.
He’d just remember to grab his shield before saying so.
“I am the Warrior of Light. My apologies, for coming off as rude.”
Had Kuja's mood been better, he would have smirked, tossed his hair, and chimed, 'Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?' He started the routine as an instinctive response born from years of upkeeping his persona. There was the smirk, the slight touch of his hair, and then the words on the tip of his tongue. But as his lips parted, the man's response fully registered with some higher part of his brain.
"I am the Warrior of Light."
It was such an unexpected response that suddenly Kuja was laughing. It was like every stereotypical children's tale come true. The brave young warrior gifted with the holy powers of Light sent off to combat the forces of evil. It was so blunt, so unassuming, and so outrageously cliche that it was all Kuja could do to keep himself from lifting his chin and laughing into the night like a hyena. "Warrior of Light? My, how pretentious of you. Has your Goddess deemed your soul too pure to be sullied by a proper name? Or are you merely-"
'-upholding your beloved honor as a holy paladin?' He had said this before. Sometime. Somewhere. Deep in the fog which he couldn't recall. And what exactly had he meant by a 'Goddess?' It could merely have been poetic waxing, but the way that he had said it...And the way it had slipped from his tongue...
Kuja's eyebrows tilted into a slight furrow. His lips closed tightly.
The knight had removed his hand from his sword. Though he looked no less cautious, some of the hostility had cleared from his expression. He stood now almost professionally with his head back and his arms at his side. There was something authoritative in his eyes. They watched him like blue reflections off of still water.
Where had he seen it before? Those eyes had always unnerved him. But why couldn't he remember?
“We met in a previous engagement that you seem to have forgotten,” the knight said, and had Kuja's frustrations overcome his sense of unease he might he might have snapped back, 'As though that was not clearly apparent. Thank you so much for that clarification.' But Kuja didn't have long to wait before the knight continued, and he'd lost his chance to reply.
“Do you not recall a being known as Chaos? An endless cycle of war?”
"What on all of Gaia are you talking about?" Kuja said. "'Chaos?' Well, if that isn't the most cliched-" But no. That word did mean something when sneered from his own lips. It held some kind of primal anger, an overwhelming feeling of disgust, and an indignity which he couldn't explain. "Chaos," he said again. And there was that response, like a dark wave inside of him. "Chaos..."
And suddenly he was scowling.
"I don't want anything to do with it, whatever it is." The words came harsh now -- all pretense gone. "But you know something. Something I've forgotten." Kuja looked up at the knight, and he felt the fire behind his eyes. They were narrowed in serpentine focus. "Tell me."
The Warrior was a careful, observant man. Even as he spoke, his sharp eyes watched for anything and everything; any small movements of the hands that may indicate an incoming attack, a held breath, a twitch of the eye. Kuja may have been a fantastic actor, but this was getting under his skin. The Warrior had gotten under his skin with mere words. That typically only happened with a sword.
The spellcaster laughed at his name. Mocked Cosmos. But even as he did so, he betrayed those signs of recognition. There was no denying that the memories of the cycles existed somewhere inside of Kuja’s mind, and that they were likely just suppressed, or even forgotten after he was defeated in the final cycle. It begged the question, would anyone else remember?
But the true surprise was how Kuja reacted to Chaos. His eyes widened in surprised, his voice filled with disgust, he scowled. The Warrior raised an eyebrow, curious. Had Kuja’s experience as an agent of Chaos been based on a one-sided agreement? If that were the case, why did he play the part as well as he had? Was he an entirely unwilling pawn in that game of fate, or..?
The nameless knight wanted to assure Kuja that he, too, honestly wanted nothing to do with the war between Harmony and Discord. But, considering their current predicament, it seemed a more wise choice to remind the spellcaster about their shared past.
The Warrior took a few steps to his right and placed the lantern down on the ground, amidst the grass and dirt. He seemed unsure where to start, or how to start, pacing away for a moment, pacing back, restless. He sighed, and finally stopped back in front of the lantern, purposefully yards away from the spellcaster with the short, emotional fuse. The nameless man slowly crouched, sitting on the ground, his pointed stare making it clear that he was still on guard, still expecting Kuja to lash out at any moment.
“It is a long, confusing tale,” he warned, “And I do not have all of the details of what you experienced personally. Needless to say, your feelings of disgust towards Chaos perplex me, as you fought for his purpose so seemingly willingly.”
Well, kind of. The agents of Chaos were planning on turning on the God of Discord, after all.
The Warrior sighed, his features lit by the amber glow of the lantern light, and he suddenly appeared much more worn, in his face, his eyes. Like a soldier reliving a disastrous war in his mind.
“I will try to sum it up as best I can.”
“There was once an endless cycle of war, between the goddess of Harmony, Cosmos, and the god of Discord, Chaos, said to have gone on for eternity. Each respective god summoned warriors from different worlds to fight for their cause,” the nameless Knight gestured to Kuja with an open palm, “Chaos summoned you to that world to fight for him, but at which point in the cycle of War, I cannot be sure. You may have only experienced one or two cycles of war. You may have experienced a hundred battles, a hundred deaths and rebirths.”
That seemed hard to believe, the Warrior realized. He knew the feeling of disbelief and rejection of the notion all too well. Garland had taunted him with that information during the final cycle, and he now had to wonder, how many times had he heard it? How many times had he been told that he’d been destroyed and reborn time and time again? If it weren’t for the constant dreams of meeting his end time and time again, he would still try to deny it. Yet, there was no denying the pain in his body, the way he naturally gasped for a breath that felt like his last, the way he couldn’t calm down until he felt his own heart beating under his hand.
No. Those cycles definitely happened, even if he could not remember them.
“I can only recall the final cycle with any clarity.” the Warrior admitted, “That is where I recall you from. As an agent of Chaos. You seemed intent on destroying someone you knew.”
That much he could clearly remember, but again, he avoided dropping a name. The rivalries between warriors in that place, in that cycle, there were so many feelings of anger and distrust, violence at the drop of a hat. It wasn’t always just a clash of light versus dark, but some actual history between the combatants, even though they could not recall what it was.
If Kuja knew who Zidane was, at this point, the Warrior wasn’t keen to draw out whatever feelings he held towards the strange, tailed young man.
“You, and everyone else Chaos chose to fight for him, were defeated and returned to your worlds. Chaos was eventually defeated as well, and with both he and Cosmos gone, the cycle was ended. Everyone faded away, back to their own worlds.”
Having cut it down best he could, the Warrior still realized it was a long tale. A long, unbelievable tale. Yet he knew, if mentioning something as simple as his own name was enough to tug at some deep, buried memory of Kuja’s, surely that information dump was draw out something. Something aside from feelings of rage. No one liked being used as a puppet. After the war between Harmony and Discord was finished, even the Warrior had time to reflect. To decide how he felt, as a puppet of war.
The feelings were conflicted.
“I realize you could have lived peacefully without any of this knowledge, whether you believe it or not. However,” the Warrior glanced toward the sky, and then towards the temple, frustration evident in his furrowed brows, “You deserve to know the truth, even as a man that once tried to destroy me. We were both pawns in that deadly game.”
The Light Warrior appeared lost in thought, as he stared out over the horizon. Ever since he’d been yanked from Cornelia, this very thought had plagued him. It itched in the back of his mind, constantly reminding him that, as it seemed, that battle may be far from over.
“Strong warriors from different worlds, all suddenly transported to the same place, with hardly a recollection of how, or why...”
Finally, his cool, blue eyes found Kuja once more. There was a fire, hidden in those eyes, so typically void of much emotion. A worry, an anger.
Oddly enough, the fairy-tale knight didn't question Kuja's order. He did not resist, attack, or even hesitate. Instead, he placed his lantern down between them and began pacing thoughtfully. Kuja tapped a steel-toed boot impatiently, but as the knight did not seem to have hostility on the mind, Kuja let him think without mockery. The man stopped some several feet away -- out of traditional spell-casting range, it seemed. The man truly did know him, after all, and perhaps had even fought him if he knew the limits of Kuja's magic. Kuja's spells were not the kind that he generally liked to display at full-force (he always preferred to be under-estimated unless the situation proved dire or it was time to seize victory). In fact, Kuja could not think of anyone who had fought him at this range, or at least no one who had lived to tell of it. Even so, the knight watched him with those piercing eyes. Caution was in them as he lowered himself to the ground. A display of submission? Or perhaps an offering of peace?
Kuja couldn't care less. He kept his arms haughtily crossed and refused to look at him.
“It is a long, confusing tale, and I do not have all of the details of what you experienced personally."
'Well then why should I bother with you?' Kuja thought, but restrained himself. No. No matter what his mood, lashing out was the irrational option here. Not when he was about to learn something. Not when there were so many questions unanswered. If he could handle that boor of a queen, then he could bite back his irritation now So long as he avoided those eyes.
"Needless to say, your feelings of disgust towards Chaos perplex me, as you fought for his purpose so seemingly willingly.”
"Fought for his purpose?" Kuja repeated. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, but I have fought for many who have disgusted me. Far too often."
'And they usually end up dead,' Kuja thought, but didn't say aloud. He assumed this knight knew enough that such sentiment wouldn't surprise him, but it wasn't Kuja's mode of operation to let such bloody details see the light of day. There was no need to call attention to his sadistic hobbies, after all. Not yet.
But the knight was not done. He sighed, and by the lantern's weak firelight, he looked older somehow. Though his face held no wrinkles and no particular scars, there was a kind of shadow in the man's eyes that darkened his heroic expression.
Perhaps the knight had cracked his shining armor.
“I will try to sum it up as best I can," the knight said, and then he began into what Kuja could only reasonably call "absolute gibberish."
The man spoke of great gods of good and evil. He spoke of light and harmony battling the forces of darkness and discord. He spoke of summoned warriors from different worlds set to do battle for eternity. He spoke of death and of rebirth, and it here that Kuja had to stop him with a harsh, incredulous laugh.
"You're saying that I've died?" Kuja said, "I asked for truth, and you're clearly mocking me."
Yet that oh-so-battle-worn expression had not faded from the knight's face. He looked as serious as always, and not even Kuja could find a hint of sarcasm within him. "You wish me to believe that -- what? Gods called us forth to some other world? That they forced armies of hapless victims into violent battle? That is madness, and I'll have you know that I don't believe in gods."
The words came faster now, harsher and unstoppable. "I know everything of life and death, and I can assure you there is no true rebirth beyond that path. What fools take for the work of gods is nothing but the systematic workings of a living planet. All life is drawn forth into a great, continuous Cycle of Souls, and so, as one spirit leaves a physical body it is called back into the heart of the planet. The planet is revitalized, the soul's memories are collected in the ethereal plane of Memoria, and a new soul forms in the body of a fitting vessel. Or at least, that's the natural way of things when Soul Dividers are not involved."
Kuja stopped himself. Such knowledge was usually restricted to his own research (kept recorded entirely in Terran, of course, so that it would never fall into the wrong hands), and to unwilling conversations with Garland. But he had to remind himself that this was not Gaia and his unfitting knowledge would not draw so much attention here. After all, he was no enemy of this planet, and he was already considered something of an alien...
“I can only recall the final cycle with any clarity,” the knight continued, "That is where I recall you from. As an agent of Chaos. You seemed intent on destroying someone you knew.”
"Destroying someone I know?" Kuja repeated. Well, that could have been anyone. He certainly had no shortage of "people he'd be better off without," but the phrasing felt odd to him. There was only one whom he had ever actively sought to destroy. And had this knight truly seen such wrath, he doubtlessly would have remembered it.
“You, and everyone else Chaos chose to fight for him, were defeated and returned to your worlds. Chaos was eventually defeated as well, and with both he and Cosmos gone, the cycle was ended. Everyone faded away, back to their own worlds.”
The knight looked at him with an air of finality. Kuja looked back incredulously. "That's it?" he said, "That's the end?" When the knight offered no more, Kuja let out a single, derisive "Ha!" and turned away from him. "So the forces of evil fell to the great, enlightened hands of good? My, how cliched of you. If you were going to make up stories, then I'd at least wish for a better one. Why not add in some tragic irony? A late-act twist? Could the forces of evil not have been right all along? Or perhaps the Goddess turned out to be a false priestess leading the heroes on? To name only a few ideas." Kuja gave an irritable wave of his hand. "Not to mention that your story is full of inconsistencies. After all, if the actors returned to their own worlds, then why would they be here now? Or do you mean to say that this has truly been Gaia all along? Have I mistaken the colors of the moon?"
But the knight was not listening. One glance proved that the 'Warrior' had looked up to the sky and the violet horizon. His eyes had lost their focus. His voice came with the soft intensity of a dying flame. “Strong warriors from different worlds, all suddenly transported to the same place, with hardly a recollection of how, or why...” As his words faded, the knight looked again to Kuja, and there in those hated eyes, Kuja found something honest, pained, and perhaps a little heated. “It’s too familiar.”
And for the first time since the knight had spoken, Kuja listened.
Because this, for once, made all too much sense. Kuja had no recollection of where he was or how he'd come here. He had no recollections of the recent past at all, and that was a phenomena that Kuja could not explain. The Warrior had granted him the hint of an explanation. They were being toyed with by gods. Gods of an eternal war...
"But why?" Kuja frowned, and for once, his brows did not prickle with irritation. "Even if you speak the truth -- even if there are gods who could play us like puppets -- why pick us? Or...me?" The thought of it seemed bizarre. Unreal. Yes, Kuja had wreaked havoc on Gaia. Yes, he had sought to take control of the Cycle of Souls for himself and rule over whatever life remained after Gaia's assimilation. But his quest had always been personal. Kuja was not some story-book villain who would call upon dark forces of chaos and seek eternal destruction. No, if Kuja had to play the villain, he was the type from one of Lord Avon's plays. Motivated by flawed goals and hubris, but ultimately, well, human for lack of a better term.
Kuja knew well of other planets, but this he could not comprehend. Kuja belonged in that world he had never truly belonged in. He deserved to play out that conflict to its fullest -- to finally reap the victory of his lifetime of work or to fall victim to the products of his own ill deeds. Yet he was not there, and perhaps never would be again.
Kuja felt a throbbing behind his eyes. He rubbed away the beginnings of a headache.
"Warrior of Light." The strange not-name felt stiff on his tongue. "You must know that this is insanity." His mind flashed to the silence of his Desert Palace, to its marble pillars and deathly statues. Suddenly, he longed for those long nights of stress, for the isolation, for that barely concealed panic that had risen steadily to the forefront of his mind. If this man's story was true, then none of it had ever mattered.
The Warrior was grateful that, at least, Kuja had the decency to only fill in the spaces between his tale. It was a lot, no, more than a lot to take in. If he couldn’t recall living through it, he may have named it nothing but a fairy tale he may have read in a book in Cornelia’s dusted library. The spellcaster’s doubts over the story were expected, grounded even. Kuja probably seemed much more sane than the nameless knight did. After all, Kuja had another world, another life to reference this all back to.
It was unprecedented. The Light Warrior never once thought that being able to recall the events of the cycles would ever become this much of a burden. Was it possible, then, that everyone else had forgotten them? He was the only one that remembered his brother’s in arms, the friends he made during that nightmare. He was the only one to recall the Gods of Harmony and Discord. Would he be met with this much hostility, confusion, and defiance each time he would recall what happened?
If he got to tell the story to anyone else, anyway. So far, Kuja was the only person from the cycles, as far as he could remember, that he’d run into. And, if it weren’t for the mysterious circumstances of how they came to this new world, he would have thought Kuja might be the only one.
There weren’t many other details worth sharing to the spellcaster that would matter much. He could opt to try and explain some things out further, but it was too likely that it wouldn’t matter much. This world was much more different than the one the cycles took place in. This world was full of people, full of life … They were strangers on this world, ones who didn’t belong. If this was another cycle of war, ready to begin, things were likely to be different.
It was a relief, though, that to hear, after all his complaints, mocking, and explanations, that Kuja almost sounded convinced. Yet, here was another question he couldn’t quite answer. There was no rhyme or reason, it seemed, as to who was chosen for each side. Just that they naturally leaned towards light or darkness, and could fight with immense power.
The Warrior asked that question, as well. Why. Why him, again? Had he not fought and died for enough senseless causes?
Too much of that, and he’d fall into a pit of despair so deep, not even the light would reach him.
Finally, he moved. The nameless knight shifted his gaze away from Kuja, and back to the lantern, it’s small, steady flame, so simple captivating him for just a moment.
“I do realize that this is insanity,” the nameless Knight spoke true, absentmindedly thumbing over the hilt of his blade, “However, as to why you should believe me? The answer is before you.”
Again, the Warrior looked Kuja in the eyes, focused and determined. It was clear, if not from his demeanor already, that he did not come here to spread false rumors, to try and play mind games. Though he was typically terrible at reading others, the paragon could recognize that the plethora of shocking, hardly believable information was stressing the spellcaster. Rightfully so, no man in their right mind wouldn’t take such a tale lightly.
“Why else would I, knowing full well what destructive magic you are capable of,” the nameless Knight nodded towards Kuja, silently acknowledging him as an able opponent, “Knowing who you are, knowing what you could do to me, what other reason could there be that I would remain here?”
He narrowed his eyes, leaning forward over the lantern, “I have fought you before. I have spoken to you before, and you do not remember. You have been forced to forget that abominable, bloody cycle of war that you were once trapped in.”
With each breath, with each word the Warrior seemed to become more passionate, more animated. A flurry of emotion was trapped inside; frustration, anger, anguish, “Though you were my enemy, and you may yet still be, I refuse to keep the truth from you, as it was once kept from me. I will not leave you in the dark about your own past.”
Feeling his blood beginning to boil, the way it tended to do when he thought back to his lacking past, the Warrior pushed himself to his feet. He moved away from Kuja, clearly agitated, though his face remained mostly expressionless, save for a small frown and tilted eyebrows. He paced, back and forth for a moment, allowing his words to sink in for the spellcaster. After a few moments passed, the nameless knight sighed, and looked back to Kuja.
“If that is not enough for you,” he spoke, his eyes haunted, by the ghosts of this mysterious, painful past, “Then wait. You will see another being, and your mind will whisper that you know of them. Your gut will recall fearing them, adoring them, hating them. You will dream of it. It will lurk in the back of your mind, until you embrace it.”
He was nearly shaking. The Warrior hardly realized it, during his bit of a passionate rant. Slowly, he forced himself to relax, to breathe. His head was swimming -- perhaps a sign that it was time to stop pushing away his true feelings, how he felt about being summoned to another potential cycle, tied down to fate once more.
Another time, though. The Warrior had a feeling he wouldn’t be welcome in Kuja’s company much longer, as it was.
