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The waking came to him like an unexpected punch to the gut.

Auron sat up suddenly with a harsh gasp, his left eye wide but not seeing as black dotted his vision. The urging of air into his lungs caused a searing pain and a hand flew to his bare chest, unintentionally scratching his scarred skin.

What … ?

Gradually, the darkness left the edges of his vision, allowing the swordsman to take in his surroundings. He was slow to process it all, overwhelmed by all the sensations under his skin, every neuron suddenly letting him know that he was awake. No, it wasn’t just that. Auron clenched his jaw as he forced his breathing to slow, closing his eye after recognizing there was no immediate threat before him. The breaths became more even, measured even as his heart hammered hard in his chest.

The hand that had gone to his skin in that quick panic pressed flat against his chest, his heartbeat easily detectable under his palm.

No wonder everything felt so overwhelming.

His skin was warm underneath his hand, warmer than he’d felt it in a long time. The sheets at his waist were soft and somewhat scratchy. The ambient temperature was cool. There was noise nearby, outside of a window and down a hallway. Auron dared to open his eye once more, squinting at the brightness but slowly relaxing as everything came into focus. He swallowed, mouth dry, huffing a breath through his nose. The air smelled of incense.

He was alive. But … why? No, more importantly, how? Auron had been a dead man parading as a living one for ten years. One didn’t simply wake up one day and decide to have his dead heart beat once more. His hand moved from his chest, rubbing at his head as the impending ache began. Every sensation was overwhelming; information overload. The dead had their senses dulled, unable to experience the world exactly as the living had. To see everything in its full color, to feel the air so easily against his skin, it was all so strange now.

A sound startled Auron from his thoughts – a rustling as the small body of a boy appeared from a nearby doorway blocked only with a curtain. The kid looked just as shocked as he felt, almost dropping the pitcher in his hands, fumbling with it as he spilled a little bit of water.

“You’re awake!” the child exclaimed, hurrying over with the pitcher as he set it on a nearby table. Auron didn’t say anything immediately, gaze lingering on the water pitcher for a moment before switching back to the boy. He looked to be around 12 or so, a mop of dark blonde hair tied into a messy bun on top of his head, a dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks, with a set of wide blue eyes. He was skinny and gangly, his limbs too long as he was suddenly caught at the edge of childhood with his teenage years on the horizon.

It reminded Auron of someone. How could it not?

“How are you feeling? Are you hungry? Thirsty?” the boy continued quickly, hurriedly pouring a glass of water and forcing it into the confused swordsman’s hands, “The priests are gonna be surprised you’re up already. They thought you might sleep for a week.”

“Where–,” Auron began, his voice hoarse and gravelly with disuse. Speaking irritated his throat, causing him to pause and cough into his elbow before taking a sip of the offered water, “Where am I?”

The boy pat his back unhelpfully, “You’re in the monastery. They told me the Ritualists found you last night in the Holy Lands. How’d you walk out there without waking up Titan?”

Out of all the words the child spoke, very few of them made any sense. Auron furrowed his brow, confused, attempting to reason out if he actually knew any of these things and had simply taken a too-hard hit to the head, or if they truly didn’t make sense.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted after a moment of reflection, his voice low and quiet, “You say this is a monastery? In what town?”

The boy frowned, suddenly fiddling with a string of rosary beads in his hand, “You’re in the Fractured City. Didn’t you know?”

Auron pressed the heel of his hand into his damaged right eye, staving off the dull pounding of a headache. The Fractured City? He’d never heard of such a place … from what he could remember. Though, nothing here seemed to make much sense, and the name of a city was the least immediately alarming thing he was going through.

“There is no place by that name on Spira,” the swordsman finally managed, taking another sip of lukewarm water from his clay cup.

“Spira?” The boy repeated, confused.

They shared a long, unsure staring contest.

“Are you … an otherworlder?” the child asked, a genuine curiosity in his eyes.

Auron finished the water, holding the empty cup back out to the boy, “I don’t know the term.”

“This world is called Zephon,” the boy took the cup, setting it on the table with the pitcher, “They … The priest that was with the Ritualists last night. He said you might be an otherworlder. I’ve never met one before.”

The swordsman stifled the chuckle that threatened to make its way past his lips. So here he was, a man from another world once more. However this time, instead of awakening on the shores of a dream Zanarkand, he was alive and in a world and city he had never heard of. It was strange, and it should have alarmed him more than it was, but to Auron it was almost old hat. Why he was here, why he was alive, those were the mysteries – but solving ridiculous riddles felt almost comforting.

“I don’t believe I’m from this world,” Auron confirmed to the boy with a nod, “However, I am nothing but a man, much as I assume you to be.”

That seemed to resonate with the boy, who then vigorously nodded his head, “I’m Abraham, by the way! But everyone just calls me Abe.”

Abe.
Zanarkand Abes.

Fate was taunting him.

“Auron,” the swordsman replied, moving his gaze from the boy to take in his surroundings once more. The room was small and modest, mostly bare aside from a few personal effects and immaculately taken care of. The colors were fairly drab and neutral. The bed he was lying on was stiff but comfortable, the only thing messy in the room now other than some dark clothes hanging on the back of a chair nearby. Auron blinked, staring at them.

Those were his clothes.

So, he’d been found unconscious in some Holy Land area and brought to a monastery in a place called the Fractured City. Unsure of how he got there, nor how he was a living, breathing person again. The words Holy Land and priests and Ritualists bothered him more than he would admit while in their presence, but there was no sense in allowing panic to take hold. He would simply have to solve things one at a time.

“You said this is a monastery,” Auron started again suddenly, turning his gaze back to the boy and gesturing at the cup and pitcher, “Are you a monk-in-training?”

Abe looked surprised, but poured another glass of water, handing it over to Auron carefully, “Yes, sir. How’d you know?”

“Reasonable guess,” Auron lied, taking another long drink of water to ease the dryness on his tongue, “The priests put you in charge of watching over me; a job fit for a boy on the verge of becoming a man. My clothes, my weapon – you and the other monks washed them, didn’t you?”

Long ago, that had been one of Auron’s many responsibilities as a monk of Bevelle. Taking in the poor and destitute as they suffered on the street, feeding them, bathing them, praying with them. A sacred duty to help out those who needed it without expecting anything in return. Memories of a time long gone, but an instinct that was hard to fight off.

How different his life would have been if the Church had actually behaved the way it expected of its monks, rather than being corrupt to its very core.

“Y-Yeah,” Abe nodded, looking at the chair that Auron’s dark clothing hung on the back of, “Are you feeling okay, Mister Auron? If you are, I can let you get dressed and take you to the Father. I still have some chores to finish before the festival starts later..”.

There was some sadness in the boy’s voice as he spoke of the festival, almost wistful.

“I feel fine,” another lie, but the child was unlikely to pick up on it, “Where are the rest of my effects?”

Abe gestured to the window, before crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to look bigger than he was, “Your big coat is drying out in the courtyard. I think everything else should be with the Father. I’ll wait outside for you, so you better not be lying and fall down Mister Auron. I’m not strong enough to pick you up.”

Auron cracked a small smile, before pointing at the curtained doorway.

Abe darted out without another word, and Auron carefully removed himself from the sheets. The floor beneath his bare feet was cool, and the chill from the nearby window finally began to creep into his skin. Moving felt a little awkward, limbs feeling heavier than they certainly should have, but the swordsman kept himself steady as he began to dress himself. He caught his reflection in a small mirror nearby – his skin was still scarred, his hair still a mix of black and gray, lines of exhaustion under his only functioning eye.

Fate couldn’t have been bothered to put a beating heart in his younger body, he supposed.

Once he was dressed, Auron tied his hair back, slipping on his glasses and met the young Abe out in the hall. The boy immediately began pointing out everything around them and stating what it was, but the swordsman struggled to retain it all as the world suddenly bloomed to life around them. The room had been quiet and secluded, but a mere hallway trip away everything was bustling. There were people moving quickly around them (occasionally stopping to gawk at Auron for a moment), their hands filled with cloth, plates, buckets, you name it. They all were in a hurry, making their way in one direction or another with purpose.

“They’re prepping for the festival,” Abe supplied an answer, having noticed Auron’s silence, “It’ll take place later this afternoon. C’mon, the courtyard is just up ahead.”

The two stepped out into a vast, open area lit with sunshine. Ahead of them was a grand building that reminded Auron of a temple. On either side of them were high, stone walls, blocking the view of what lay beyond. Behind them was a smaller building; the monastery. The courtyard was brimming with activity as well as people of all ages moved about the land. There was one large sidewalk that led from the side of the Temple to the Monastery, but another smaller sidewalk that paved the way from the edge of the courtyard out to the city beyond. People were coming up this pathway, looking around curiously.

The courtyard area close to the temple had been set up as part of the festival. There were people getting ready to offer up what appeared to be intricate body paintings, another table stringing together flower crowns, some offering goods from a recent harvest. There were others still getting things set up, helped by the monks.

Abe led Auron to the part of the courtyard that was just in front of the monastery, where there were lines of clothes hanging in the breeze. The red haori stuck out like a sore thumb among the various neutral browns and grays. Auron plucked it from the line, relieved that it was dry rather than cold and wet, settling it in place before buckling it against his waist.

“My sword?” he inquired to Abe, adjusting his high collar. There were still a few other things missing, but Auron felt the loss of his blade more than anything else.

Abe shrugged, “We’ll have to ask the Father. It was too heavy for all of us to deal with.”

They bypassed the other monks on that side of the courtyard busy with chores, and headed the other way. There, among the people was a man dressed more intricately than the others. His robes were still more of a drab color, a mixture of gray and black, but with designs in gold thread. A tall hat was upon his head and a staff with a golden orb in his hand. He was quite aged, having to be 70 or older. His long white beard was braided, and a set of round spectacles perched on his nose. He was speaking with a few monks quietly, but broke away from them as he noticed Auron and Abe approach.

“Glory be to Titan,” the Priest smiled and laughed, “For this wondrous day, and for the safety and health of our guest! I trust Abraham has treated you well?”

Auron glanced to the boy, who was now performing some sort of bow before the Priest. The cynicism was immediately loud in his head. In another day, in another time, he was that very same boy, bowing before Maester Mika – eagerly seeking approval from the head of Yevon on his quest to become a monk worthy of their grace. He ignored the angry twisting of his gut.

“He has,” Auron confirmed, keeping his voice level and hiding well his true feelings, “He’ll make a fine monk someday, should that be what he desires.”

The priest smiled and pat Abe on the head, “I am glad to hear it. Now, Abraham, you have some chores to finish before the celebration tonight, yes?”

The boy nodded quickly, before scurrying off back toward the monastery.

“I think he wishes to avoid our celebration tonight if he can,” the Father continued, watching wistfully as Abe disappeared into the other building, “He has gotten too old for the dance. It’s hard, saying farewell to our childhood as we grow older.”

Auron allowed the man to have his moment of reflection without interruption.

“Ah, but where are my manners,” the priest turned his attention back to the swordsman, “I am Father Lior, head priest of this temple. And what may we call you?”

“Auron.”

“Auron, then,” Father Lior waved down one of the nearby older monks, muttering something to him quickly before the younger man departed, “We’ll have your things brought to you post-haste. But, I encourage you to take some time perhaps to speak to our people here in the courtyard. You are one of the otherworlders, are you not?”

“If that is your term for it,” Auron agreed, shifting on one foot as he observed those around them. Many of them turned their gazes to the ground as they met his, whispering to each other, stealing glances when they thought he wasn’t watching.

“We do not get many of your kind here,” the Father stated kindly, fondly watching his people, “And this is a wondrous day for our people. One of the few where they are eager to share our world with strangers. I am hoping to perhaps greet more otherworlders today as well.”

Auron frowned beneath his collar, “I am not a caged beast to be gawked at.”

“Nor do I believe you one!” the Priest laughed heartily again, leading Auron toward the temple, where people conversed among one another, showing off their goods for the festival; bundles of wheat, baskets of gourds, shining gems, colorful flowers, beautiful artworks. “This is simply a day where our people are of a more open mind. I hope the presence of strangers will perhaps inspire them.”

The crowds grew larger in the courtyard as more people collected there from the city itself. Most were dressed similarly in simple garments of earthy tones, chatting animatedly amongst themselves as they perused the area and admired the works of their fellow townspeople. However, despite the Priest’s word that Auron was not meant to be something to be stared at in shock, it was happening … quite a bit.

He turned to tell the Father that he would rather take his things and depart, but his gaze fell on an empty space. For an older man, he certainly moved quickly and quietly. Grumbling, Auron ducked his head down and searched for a place where he could stay out of view while he waited. Unfortunately, there was no such thing in the open courtyard.

Forced to remain in the open, Auron scanned the crowd. It seemed unlikely, but there was a slim chance he could potentially find a familiar face. Or, if not, the sure sign of another “otherworlder”.