Welcome to Adventu, your final fantasy rp haven. adventu focuses on both canon and original characters from different worlds and timelines that have all been pulled to the world of zephon: a familiar final fantasy-styled land where all adventurers will fight, explore, and make new personal connections.
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year 5, quarter 3
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It was no surprise. The walls of the once-elaborate catacombs had crumbled. Limestone laid in pebbles across a path that was half dirt and half cracked cobble-stone. Here and there, arches still stood but most were incomplete while the rest were barely recognizable for the dust and cobwebs. Kuja had not imagined the magic here -- its power beat beneath his feet in strengthening pulses. The air hung heavy with a weight like static electricity.
Kuja raised his hand and the magical flame leaped higher from his fingertips.
The light flickered across ruined pillars, tattered tapestries, and a chipped pedestal inset along the right wall. Outside the four foot sphere of his flame, the darkness was absolute. The rustling sound had strengthened into a rhythm of its own -- step, step, drag / step, step, drag -- like a macabre waltz edging closer. The footsteps were muffled by earth, but in the absolute silence of the catacombs, they came almost deafening.
Kuja had some experience with the exploration of subterranean ruins. The Earth Shrine, too, had been a place of rot and crumbling stone. He had side-stepped trip-wires, magical barriers, and far too many trapped panels before the labyrinth had given way to the temple's core -- a single, arching shrine and an energy that corroded at fetid air. From the depths of that darkness came a soft rustling and then the sounds of movement. The guardian had emerged as though born from the shadows themselves -- hollowed eyes and a wide, skeletal grin.
Kuja had expected something like that to approach them now. His magic burned ready for lunging teeth or the flash of an undead spirit. What he found instead was a man.
The man did not need a candle. He slipped easily from the darkness and stood at the fringes of their fire-lit refuge. The light caught at the brown and gray bristles of a tattered wolf's pelt. His eyes were shadowed beneath a long muzzle that sloped over his head like a hood. He carried only a thick staff of knotched wood with feathers tied about the top in all exotic colors.
"My, what have I here? Wandered from the flock, did you not?"
The voice groaned like dying wood. When the man spoke, it was as though the words carried with them a ghastly wind. The woman beside him flinched and then stiffened. Kuja himself felt an odd tingling at the base of his neck. Instincts, he supposed, or perhaps his natural sensitivity to spiritual fluctuation. The magic beneath them had strengthened to an almost tangible hum.
Despite her fear, the woman snapped back with a sarcastic tongue. "The shepherd left me, I fear. Have you had your fill of amusement, sir?” The last word echoed with emphasis against empty walls.
The man froze -- a monstrous shadow in flickering candlelight -- and then turned. Kuja felt the weight of the man's unseen gaze. "To think, you were momentarily blessed with a savior. Yet, not all is what it seems."
Kuja blinked once in surprise. "Pardon?" The word came innocently, but his eyes flashed with warning. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." For once, he was not lying.
The man had spoken as though he somehow knew. 'A savior who is not what he seems.' It was far too accurate for coincidence. Either the man was a mind-reader or Kuja's reputation had leaked ahead of him. Yet the man did not seem surprised or even confused to find him here. There was no flash of recognition, just that mocking tone and a moment of piercing attention. Kuja's soul itched with an odd sense of exposure.
Had the man seen his wrong-doings somehow? But no. Only Garland had ever been able to read Kuja's soul.
The two spoke for some time. The man untouchable and wheezing, the woman horrified and offended. The man referred to Sarah as a princess, and the woman's bristling shock was enough to confirm the title. She was far too engulfed in her own indignity to notice how Kuja's eyes flashed and his head tilted in interest. A princess meant not only nobility, but also a level of social power. This woman had intrigued him from the start with her batted eyelashes and far too confident words. She had struck him as a willing player in his game, and he had relished her sense of strategy.
The ground shook beneath them. The air seethed with magic. Below, Kuja heard the sounds of footsteps -- some dragging, some scampering, others clicking, and all of it punctuated by deep, throaty cries. Some spark of the temple's power had awoken under their feet. Kuja could only barely identify its element -- not fire, ice, water, or thunder, but something entirely alien to this planet of life and change. It brought with it a sense of dread -- a kind of caustic eternity that would swallow the living whole.
Kuja could not classify it for certain, but he had never encountered magic more stained with the blood of the dead.
The princess stiffened at the sound and then pulled a sharpened rapier from her belt. ”I believe our game is over, Kuja," she said, "If it’s any consolation, I favor breathing. We'd best act.”
Her words were cut short by a sudden movement in the darkness. Kuja dodged the strike on instinct, but the princess was not so nimble. The snarling face of a wolf cut through their dim lantern-light and lunged. Even as it moved, the princess whirled about to bring the sword to its neck. The wolf's own momentum skewered it on the end of her sword. Kuja's eyebrows raised in interest.
"My, but Princess Sarah, could it be that you have offered me false impressions?" Despite the chilling darkness and the scent of rot, Kuja could not restrain a small laugh. "It seems that you hardly needed my protection at all."
Kuja did not catch her reaction. There was another movement in the darkness and Kuja silenced it with a harsh crack of lightning before it reached their sight. There was a soft moan, the pungent scent of burnt fur, and then nothing. Kuja glanced toward the princess to gauge her response, but she had not moved. She stood frozen with sword in hand, face sheet white as she stared in horror at...
A short humanoid figure twitching and dripping with blood. Kuja's paused at the sight of it. Blonde. That familiar hated blonde above a squat, genderless form and a wiry tail jerking in pained spasms. Kuja's mind sparked with instant recognition.
'Odd. But hadn't it been a wolf?'
There was movement again, and Kuja raised a hand to face it. His magic burst and the hallway flashed in orange, red, yellow, and white. He saw it then -- a swarm of them ascending from the tunnel they had passed. The wolves were sprinting up the path with blind white eyes and tongues lolling. They ran together as a pack, but did not hesitate as his light reached them. They were thrown back almost silently, nothing but muffled bodies slamming into ground, ceiling, and wall. What was left was consumed by his effortless firaga.
Kuja turned as the woman pried the figure from her sword. For an instant, Kuja saw it -- a boy, blood streaming from his neck as his too-blue eyes caught his -- before it hit the ground as a wolf once more. Kuja stared at it and tried to place his sudden sense of unease.
"You both spoke of magic." The man was speaking again, a man long since forgotten. "Both of you are correct. Long has this magic been left unchecked and, like a woman, its illusions are unpredictable...”
"Illusions?" he echoed. Kuja knew of magical glamours and illusionary barriers. He had used them himself on the renovation of his Desert Palace, but he knew that they took time and precise incantation. This had been nothing of the sort. This magic was, as the man had said, unstable. It was impossible to tell whether the trick had been from the man or the temple itself, but one question lingered in the back of Kuja's mind.
'Why Zidane?' From the woman's panicked, bloodless expression, Kuja was certain that the magic had shown her something different and altogether terrible. For Kuja, it had only produced a genome whom he had hated, thrown away, and then used. If the intent was to horrify, then why show him that?
And even more intriguingly, why had Kuja's stomach lurched at the sight of him?
"Boy." The wheezing sigh caught Kuja's attention, and it seemed that those sightless eyes were on him again. ”What of you? A loved one, perchance? Ah, but no." The man's head tilted up as though he had smelled something through his skinned and useless snout. His cracked lips widened into a grin. "That is not your nature, so your blood screams.”
"My blood? What does that-?" But the time for questions was over. The man was changing.
The wolf's muzzle fell over his lips then folded together and grew. Fur bristled in the still air as the pelt twisted and convulsed like something alive. It stretched until it reached the floor and then kept stretching higher and taller than the man had ever been. Jet black stains shot from its center in reaching tendrils that smoothed and hardened into metal. Behind them there were growls, groans, and dragging footsteps, but Kuja could not look away as the darkness grew over the pelt like a shadow, growing and staining and finally releasing into a tattered cape held aloft by sharp metal shoulders. The armor moved with a rasping groan of metal joints and Kuja stood rooted in horrid fascination as a the center was lit in crimson shadows and a grizzled face emerged from the darkness.
”Death personified, yet death is only a beginning…”
Time froze with that single moment, with that single voice, with a single word: "Garland."
Kuja knew that it had to be an illusion -- the old man had stated the power himself and Garland would certainly not materialize out of a wolf's pelt -- but that did nothing to ease his shock. He heard the woman calling his name, heard the monsters approaching, and yet he could not move. For that single, eternal moment, there was only that face -- a face he had not seen in twelve years -- glaring down at him with white, omniscient eyes.
'-I'm not like them! I'm not-!'
'-they're empty! Master Garland, what does it matter if I just-?'
'Why do you need him? I'm stronger! Why won't you-?'
'-listen to me! I can-!'
'Master Garland, I-'
'Master Garland, please-!'
The grasp of metal claws. The merciless hold of telekinesis. The choking twist of his soul, compressing, writhing, shooting pain as his body seized and his vision went black.
”Kuja, please.” It had been twelve years since he'd craned to look up into those pitiless white eyes. Twelve years since Kuja had been condemned to a strange, alien planet. Twelve years since -
Crimson red feathers. His feet touched lightly upon the luminescent upper decks of Pandemonium. Before him was a shadow -- still alive. Kuja approached it with an almost regal air, hips swaying mockingly. Garland, on his knees. Garland, looking up at him. Garland, weary and defeated.
Kuja winced and touched his forehead. Where had that come from? A fantasy? ”Kuja! We need to get out of here!” The ground trembled. The walls groaned beneath a cavernous weight. The darkness snarled with shuffling feet. And in that moment, Kuja tilted back his head and laughed.
He laughed until his shoulders shook. He laughed as the monsters entered their circle of light. He laughed as their rotten, half-dead faces peered towards him, teeth bared. As their hands raised into elongated claws, Kuja touched his forehead, raised his free hand, and cast a spell without even looking at them. Magic shot out from his palm with the force of a small explosion and then danced from target to target in waves of black, purple, and yellow. The flare incinerated them whole.
The temple's power had not stilled and more legions were doubtlessly coming, but Kuja had bought them time. As the last of his spell disintegrated with the scent of vaporized human flesh, Kuja slowly lowered his hand. The laugh still played on his lips, though he no longer gave it voice. "How clever of you," Kuja said, smiling at the apparition in a way that suggested he didn't find it clever at all. "Using your victim's innermost turmoils against them? Oh, how very clever."
Kuja took a few careful steps towards the facsimile of his creator. He looked delicate, fragile, and largely feminine from the sway of his hips to the haughty flip of his hair. He touched his nails to his cheek and tilted his head, considering the image. His smile widened. "But I'm afraid you have miscalculated. You see, I've waited a very long time for this moment, and you don't appear to have any of his old tricks up your sleeve." Kuja laughed again and spread his arms. "Please, by all means, prove me wrong."
Blank white eyes met Terran blue. For the first time, a flicker of doubt crossed the man's face, and the spell lost all meaning. Kuja had never seen Garland with that expression before. He doubted the man was capable of it.
No searing words pierced his mind. His soul was not compressed by ethereal hands. Kuja waited another second longer and then shook his head. "Well then, I suppose I'll cut this short." Kuja flicked his sleeve and gave the phantom a taunting bow. His eyes changed as he straightened. They burned with a venomous focus. "I truly must thank you for the pleasure you're about to give me." The words played at the edge of a sneer. He raised a hand.
"Thundaga."
The air crackled heavy with electricity and then struck at his command. Blinding blue-white light. Searing dry heat. The force came like an explosion that reverberated off of trembling walls and nearly deafened him. Over the sudden ringing in his ears, there came a faint cry. The figure staggered.
"Thundaga."
The magic was like a heat inside of him. Burning, burning, burning. It reflected in his eyes, possessed his fingertips, and scorched his blood. His heart beat faster.
"Thundaga!"
Again and again he cast, mouth sneering in sadistic pleasure, eyes burning with feral magic as he watched the man stagger, fall, and fry. He knew that one spell would likely be enough -- two at most -- but he could not stop himself. The illusion that looked so much like Garland shuddered at his power. His metal body collapsed into dirt. Those blank eyes rolled. It was like Kuja's most elaborate dreams played out in ethereal form.
Catharsis, Kuja would have called it. Yes, a beautiful and cleansing catharsis after a troublesome first act.
Kuja did not stop until his magic dulled and his breaths came in pants. Magical fatigue. He was by no means a stranger to the condition, and yet, it surprised him that this man had survived long enough to test his limits. The illusion knelt very still now, yet still it breathed. Barely.
Slowly, it raised its head and met his eye once more. "Your fate has been sealed." The voice came not in Garland's graveling tones, but in the wheezes of an old man. "For death created and from death reborn. It trails behind you like a shadow. So says...your blood..."
The darkness receded. Metal contracted and softened to fur. White eyes shuddered and faded to hollow sockets. Joints collapsed and converted into a smooth layer of skin. In a flash, the image was gone. All that remained was a singed and tattered wolf pelt.
Kuja lowered his hand. The walls still trembled. The air sparked with magic. He felt a headache lurking somewhere behind his eyes.
"Well then," Kuja glanced at the woman still standing beside him. He swept his arm in a mocking bow. "Shall we continue, princess?"
Kuja was not used to vulnerability. For the last several years, Kuja had moved with an aura of untouchable confidence. He had practiced his expressions, recited lines as though from a scripted page, and played his part to dole out nothing but lies. Never once had he slipped. He had played the role even when alone -- it had so ingrained itself in his subconscious that there was a time in which Kuja honestly couldn't have told the difference. Honesty. Deceit. Kuja had woven his new persona so tightly around himself that even he had forgotten the truth beneath.
Kuja had never been a nobleman, a weapon's dealer, or a harbinger of war. Beneath it all, he was just...
The snow prickled at his exposed skin, and Kuja repressed a shiver. His tail swished loudly in the pocket of his skirt -- hidden, but beating to a wary rhythm. Zidane stood far too close. Blue eyes bore into him with a focus that was almost unnatural.
Kuja knew that expression. Understanding. Sadness. Pity. Kuja's nails dug sharp into the palm of his hand.
"Kuja, let's get out of this alley. Sit somewhere warm. I'll tell you anything you want to know." Zidane said his name without hatred, suspicion, or derision. He said it softly, as though calling to a lost child. Kuja felt the sudden urge to strike Zidane. He wished to draw blood. He wished to force Zidane away and claw that softness from his eyes. He saw it in that moment -- Kuja's eyes livid, mouth sneering as he raked his nails across Zidane's cheek like a feral mu. He saw it, but he did not act. The fur at the base of his tail bristled.
Zidane crossed his arms and shivered against the cold. Kuja was certain he couldn't have felt it terribly. Their bodies were resistant to hypothermia, after all, and could survive internal temperatures exactly 16.3 degrees lower than the average human's. Yet still the boy shivered in the cold. Kuja watched coolly as the boy examined the tip of his glove.
Part of him relished seeing Zidane like this. Trembling. Uncomfortable. It distracted from the memories bubbling beneath his throat.
Then Zidane stretched that hand towards him. He held it wavering between them like an offering. Kuja glanced skeptically from gloved fingers to Zidane's earnest eyes. As though by clairvoyance, Kuja knew that the boy's next words boded poorly.
"Come on." Zidane's voice was insistent, yet pleading. "I know we were enemies before, but I'm giving you every reason to trust me. Please."
'Trust me.' Kuja felt his lips sour. No matter what he was feeling, no matter what he might or might not remember, no matter how Zidane approached with his pleas and his misguided compassion, trust was not something he could give.
It was not something he would ever give. He didn't think himself capable of it.
"No, Zidane." Kuja felt himself straighten, his composure returning. The walls around himself had strengthened, and Kuja was able to think critically again. He blocked the memories clawing and screaming through his subconscious. He thrust down the feelings of panic and guilt which he still could not identify. In its place came thoughts -- cool and logical. Sneering sarcasm. Sardonic criticism. Part of him realized that this would be an easy opportunity to use Zidane. He had only to lead him along and let him believe whatever he wished, after all, and the boy would be under his thumb in a heartbeat.
But the other part -- the part that he had not entirely buried -- imagined sitting beside Zidane in some smoky inn, talking by the flickerings of firelight and meeting those too-blue eyes. Zidane would ask him questions to which Kuja didn't know the answer. Even now, painful emotions churned at the sight of the boy's outstretched hand. If Kuja took that hand, then Zidane might break his defenses again. Kuja might speak truthfully and then they would start a conversation which Kuja could never take back.
The conversation he had sworn he would never have.
Kuja pushed the hand away. "I'm afraid you have not given me reason to trust you. And in fact, there is nothing at all which I wish to ask of you." A lie, but Kuja was a master of those. It was far more comfortable than the truth. "I have absolutely no desire for your company and would do best left alone." Kuja let the last word drip with extra emphasis. His eyes spoke the words which he had left unsaid.
"Don't worry. I have no plans of enacting any evil schemes upon this innocent world. In fact, I haven't been plotting at all." Kuja crossed his arms and let his eyes wander to the adjacent wall. "So you needn't watch over me, Zidane. I promise I'll play nicely." Back to his usual mocking. Sarcasm came to him like a second language.
Kuja had often prided himself in his power of perception. Reading people was an art -- one which he had mastered long ago. Emotions, thoughts, morality, all of it could be perceived with only a moment's observation if one knew the signs. As Kuja watched Zidane with eyes like a snake's, he had no trouble at all reading him. From his shifting gaze to his clenched fingers to the cautious swish of his tail, Zidane might as well have been screaming his emotions from across the snowy expanse.
Zidane was afraid. Truly afraid, and yet trying miserably to hide it. He did not arm himself. He did not step away. There was only that wary hesitance and a barely concealed fear. Zidane nearly flinched at Kuja's words, but where Kuja had expected anger or some pitiful retort, Zidane gave neither.
Instead, he answered honestly.
"Well... I don't know how I ended up here. I was flying an airship to Lindblum from Alexandria. Next thing I know, me and half of the airship is falling from the sky!" The boy gave a casual shrug as though he was speaking to one of those idiot friends of his -- the wanderers that he seemed to attract no matter what the time, danger, or situation. The ones Kuja had suspended over lava and then strung along to follow his will.
How had that ended? Kuja could recall leading them to Mount Gulug, traversing through a settlement infested with dragons (and killing them gladly -- he'd needed a distraction from Zorn and Thorn), but something had gone wrong. Something...
Something...to do with moogles? But that couldn't be right...
"How did you get here?"
Kuja's eyes flitted back to Zidane. The boy had placed his hands on his hips -- still unarmed. His head was tilted in a curious expression. It unnerved him. "I mean, the last time I saw you was..."
Kuja's eyes narrowed. The last time? The last time that Kuja had seen him, he'd called the boy an idiot, sent him off to retrieve an ancient artifact, and then stolen away with a kidnapped child. But no, that wasn't right, was it? Zidane had surely chased him to Mount Gulug (as Kuja had planned -- why else would he have brought along a knowledgeable hostage for the boy to save?), and for the briefest of moments, Kuja recalled an image. Zidane looked almost feral when he was mad, with his tail swishing irritably behind him and his daggers held out like claws. That's how he'd looked at the bottom of Mount Gulug. Angry. Agitated. Hateful. That was the last thing Kuja remembered.
...Or was it? Something irrational told Kuja that it wasn't. Something deep inside that gave a horrific lurch at the look Zidane gave him now. Sad. Pitying. Mournful, even. Kuja had seen that look before. He'd seen...
"I had forgiven you for that... a long time ago." Zidane spoke, and that voice -- that hated voice -- was laden with something that made Kuja's breath catch. "After everything that happened, Kuja, you came back to us. You saved us all." But that wasn't...Why would he have...?
Zidane looked him directly in the eye, and then Kuja remembered. Those eyes -- startling blue. They were the last thing he saw. The last thing before...
"Don't you remember? The Iifa Tree?"
Those words crashed around him with the resonance of a bass drum. In that moment, there was no city, no snow, no mystery awaiting them on a strange planet. In that moment, there existed only Zidane and that word. "Iifa..."
The leaves rustled when he closed his eyes. Rustling. Creaking. Groaning. Kuja listened to the death throes of his planet. His no matter what he'd said or done. It all ended here, in this alcove of wood and rotting leaves. Soon everything would be over, and he would be...
His body hurt in ways it never had before. Not burning, not aching, not shooting heat that he could bear if he only grit his teeth and fought through it. No, this pain came like a cloud. Removed. He felt it and knew what it was -- back fractured in the impact, deep scratches caught on branches, slashes from a dagger's blade, magical burns deep along his left side -- but it was like the signals had gotten lost somewhere between nerves and brain. His body wasn't fighting anymore. There were no more warnings to send.
Dying. The word had once set inside him like a knife. Cold. Paralyzing. He had been afraid, but not now. The adrenaline had faded. His mind had cleared. Suddenly, he saw it all as though analyzing a diagram or the themes of a play. He saw the planet (still so startlingly blue) with its heated sands and towering castles and wind that blew in long grasses, and he knew that there was no places for him on it. There never had been really, yet he had forced himself upon it like a parasite. Always taking, never returning. From the moment of his creation, that was all he ever had been.
A parasite. An enemy. While Zidane...
"Listen, whatever you remember, we're on the same side here, okay?"
Zidane. Kuja saw him through the storm and the ice and the swirling snow. He saw him but he didn't understand. Why was he coming closer, and why was he smiling?
"We both ended up here, somehow, and if we work together, we might be able to find a way back."
Zidane was close now. Close enough that Kuja could have touched him if he'd only extended his hand. Those eyes were watching him. Sympathetic. Blue.
"Work with me now, and then we can hash out any problems between us later. Okay?"
So familiar. So very, very familiar. "You should hate me." The words came weaker than he'd intended. Not biting, sarcastic, or mocking like before, but quiet. Almost pleading. Kuja didn't know why, but in that moment he looked away. What did it matter what this boy thought? What did it matter what anyone thought, so long as...
His throat constricted. His ears murmured with the rustling of leaves.
"Why are you doing this?" The words came almost as a whisper. He forced it past the ice in his chest. It had nothing to do with the cold. "Why are you...?" The words trailed off. The wind whistled through their forgotten alley-way. Here there was only the wind, the snow, and Zidane.
Zidane, who was far too close. Zidane, who had refused to draw his blade. Zidane, who had once...
Kuja's head pounded from magical fatigue. His boots trailed in the snow-lined streets. For not the first time, he longed to find some dark, quiet place to let his mind rest. He only needed a moment of silence, a second to close his eyes, and then perhaps he would have the strength to continue. Kuja rubbed at his temples and let his fingers trail through the feathers of his hair. He needed a moment -- just one moment -- or he'd-.
The flickerings of a deep blue light cast shadows through his doorway. Kuja listened to the rustle of pages -- almost deafening against the silence. His eyes fell to minute writing cast in mechanical letters. It listed the modern civilizations of Gaia: Alexandria, Lindblum, Burmecia, Cleyra, and Madain Sari. The last would fall soon (Kuja had been subjected to Garland's plotting far more often than he would have liked), but the others...
Was there nowhere with enough human activity to mask a Terran soul? Alexandria, perhaps. Or Lindblum.
"Hey Kuja! What're you doing?"
That voice pierced through the silence like a monster's shriek. Kuja jumped despite himself and then eyed the disturbance over the top of his book. He saw messy blonde hair, wide eyes, and a wiry tail sweeping back and forth in anticipation. Kuja gave the boy his coldest look (the kind he'd learned from Garland), but the boy didn't even flinch. Instead he just smiled that idiot smile and then scrambled closer. Grasping hands pulled the tiny form up higher until the boy sat perched on his bed, in his room, during his free time. Kuja's nails dug into the pages of his book. Words could not express how much he hated-
"...Kuja?"
That voice. Kuja's footsteps stilled. Slowly, he lowered his hand and looked towards the end of his path. Beyond the slicks of ice and the flurry of fallen snowflakes, he stood there. Zidane. Taller now than in his memories, but not by much. Somehow -- impossibly -- the boy waited before him, blocking his escape. Kuja met his eyes -- that familiar Terran blue -- and felt the deep stirrings of some familiar emotion.
Pain, regret, and hatred.
Zidane took a step back, startled in the way that Kuja had never been able to inflict on him before. "Hey you...You alright?" Fear flickered through those hated blue eyes. Kuja's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
Why was Zidane acting as though they knew each other? And had it been Kuja's imagination, or had the boy looked at him almost eagerly, just like-
Just like before. Kuja's nails marked crescent-moons into his palms.
"What are you doing?" Kuja's mouth soured around the words, sneering. "Shouldn't you hate me -- the man who single-handedly brought ruin to the Mist Continent? My, but we are stupid, aren't we?" The words cleared Kuja's mind, and suddenly he could think again. If Zidane was here, then that meant that others from Gaia could have slipped through the same rift. If they remembered anything at all, then that could bode poorly for Kuja's chances to establish himself here.
If they remembered anything. Kuja's eyes flicked from Zidane's sheathed blades to his wary eyes. Could it be possible that he didn't remember? Perhaps he had slipped into a child-like state and still thought of Kuja as some kind of make-shift guardian? Or was it Kuja who did not remember? Had something happened in that vague, unknowable time between his conquest and now?
But no. Nothing could change that drastically.
"And what brought you to this forsaken place? Fate? The hands of gods? Or did you simply fall from the sky?" Kuja touched at his mouth, laughing a little though it was mostly for show. "My, but what luck, running into you. There is absolutely no one I would rather see in the desolate wastes of a strange world. Truly, I wish you nothing but the best."
HAVE A NOVEL IN WHICH KUJA DOESN'T ACTUALLY SAY ANYTHING TO ZIDANE AT ALL
Why should the world exist without me?
Kuja hated the cold. Of all the world's natural wonders, Kuja hated this the most: ice, snow, and biting winds. His body had been constructed as resilient to all manner of elements -- be they natural, physical, or magical -- but that didn't mean that Kuja had to enjoy the various assaults on his senses. Even if he was at a relatively low risk for dying of exposure, Kuja still cast a reproachful eye across the snowscape that greeted him.
Sonora. By all accounts, it shouldn't have interested him. With its frozen tundras, paranoid military presence, and general lack of culture, the town couldn't have offended him more. As Kuja approached the settlement, he eyed frozen railroad tracks and the looming shadows of what looked to be two over-large cannons. Kuja couldn't imagine what they could have possibly been used for in the middle of this wasteland, but from their size and make, Kuja thought they might even rival the power of the battleship Invincible.
It was just another connotation to add to the wonders this fortress had to offer. By the time that he'd reached the entrance, Kuja could have spit fire. "You, intruder! State your purpose!"
The city had been blocked by a fence and two high-rising guard towers. A guard approached him armed with a sleek black uniform, a stern expression, and a gun. Kuja's eyes flicked to it carefully.
"I beg your pardon. I hardly meant to intrude, I only-." "Sonora is off-limits for citizens without a military pass."
Kuja felt the fur at the base of his tail bristle. His fingertips burned with latent magic.
"Please, I am a scholar. I traveled from Torensten in order to learn of the conflict here and of the city's people. I promise you, I mean no ill will."
"Do you have a military pass?"
"Well no, but I-."
"Then I can't let you inside."
"You'd turn me away? But where am I supposed to go?"
The guard fingered his gun, and suddenly Kuja felt twelve years old again, standing outside some barred gate, teeth grinding in frustration at some meager-minded guard who refused to see reason. Before Kuja obtained his ill-gotten fortune, there was hardly an official on the planet who would listen to him. After all, why spare the time for a strange foreigner of no money or standing -- rationality be damned? How many times had he suffered through this exact conversation? Dozens? Over a hundred times? Those times had made Kuja no stranger to oglop-ridden inns and the chill of the wilderness.
But that time had long passed. As he stared down the moron before him, Kuja felt a familiar fury rise into his throat. His eyes flicked from guard to tower to wooden walls. A few well-cast firaga spells would take care of them all. But no, there was no reason to cast himself as the villain of this story. Not while he still had no definitive plan, and not while the world was watching. So Kuja swallowed his rage, cleared his expression, and smiled into the face of idiocy. "How unfortunate. I thank you very much for your hospitality." Kuja let the word slip from his tongue like poison. Then he gave a respectful nod of his head and began back down the path, away from the city, and out of view.
Only then did Kuja allow himself a furious scowl. They were hard-headed idiots. Every single one of them.
In truth, Kuja had wandered this far on a lead he'd gathered from the worshipers of the Crystalus Divider. After securing an admittedly unreliable pawn in Genesis, Kuja had continued his research on the gate to little avail. He had been able to identify a source of power. He had speculated its source and cause as something of a dimensional disturbance. Beyond that, however, Kuja discovered almost nothing of practical use. Unwilling to waste his time, Kuja had taken to speaking with the various followers of the mysterious gate. Their conversation had mostly been drivel, but a few words had caught his attention.
They had spoken first of some kind of calamity in Torensten. Apparently a great beast had fallen from the sky and torched the place. Kuja's offerings of sympathy had almost been genuine. The city had reminded him a little of Treno, and he would miss the culture it brought to this barren world.
Secondly, they spoke of a massacre some months ago at the summit of the World Sight. Apparently the place held rumors of some supernatural power hidden within the tomb of an ancient warrior. The description had immediately piqued Kuja's interest, but as the holy site had been closed after the incident, Kuja postponed his inevitable journey for sometime in the distant future.
Lastly, they told him of a battle taking place only a week prior in the Northern outpost of Sonora. They told him of the city's defensive canons, of its great walls, and of its constant state of vigilance. The place was in an unending state of war, it seemed. Though it certainly offered him nothing in his research, its chaos spoke of another opportunity.
Where there was war, there was fear. Where there was fear, there were people ready to be manipulated. If anywhere had a need for sorcery and invention, it was a city at the constant brink of battle. Kuja could offer great services in the arts of mass murder, yet those idiot guards hadn't even allowed him the chance. One day, perhaps, he would return with fire in his eyes, and he would laugh as he watched them all burn. Someday, when he'd gained the power and position to do away with pretense, then he would let his impulses see the light of day. Until then, there was nothing he could do but smile, wait, and ignore the rules they had so arbitrarily given him.
Kuja set his eyes on the wall again. With towers posted regularly along its length, Kuja had no hopes of sneaking in side without raising alarm. Kuja generally tried to conserve his magic where possible, but without the aid of his charisma or the advantages of his dragon, his magic remained as his only advantage. Closing his eyes, he brought his magic to strict focus. For a moment, he could no longer feel the snow or the wind or the creeping pain running up his bare fingers. There was only his magic, welling hot inside of him. Kuja muttered the beginnings of a spell which normally took him hours to complete, but which Garland could cast instantaneously. He felt its heat rise within him, his stomach turned, and then he was falling.
The sensation lasted only a few seconds. His feet hit solid ground. When he opened his eyes, he saw a dirt road, metal houses, and people milling about in the snow. Kuja staggered a little as gravity caught up to him, and his knees threatened to give under the weight. Instantaneous teleportation was no simple task, and Kuja tried to avoid it when possible. Snowflakes caught in his hair and across his sleeves. It brushed across exposed skin like the creeping tendrils of the dead. Kuja straightened and tried not to shiver.
There was no time for rest. He had work to do.
Kuja spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the streets of the war-stricken city. He conversed with the locals, learned of the local goings-on, and generally gathered as much information as he could from weak-minded idiots who blanched at the sight of individuality and would rather glance away than meet his eye. He spoke with shopkeepers, housewives, craftsmen, and merchants. He avoided only the soldiers, who eyed him suspiciously and kept their distance. He let their disdain slide off him like ice water.
It was only as he finished his interrogation of a young barmaid (useless -- the girl seemed to have the intelligence of a fruit fly), that something caught his eye. It was only for a second, but as he tossed his head to the side, he noticed the slightest flash of blonde.
A familiar blonde. The kind that made his stomach crawl and his bones freeze. Kuja paused in his coy farewell, and glanced to the source. Walking down the street was blonde hair, a blue vest, and-
A tail. Kuja's breath stopped as he eyed the thing, twisting and swaying like a snake behind its owner. 'A Genome,' his mind supplied, but then his eyes trailed to a wistful mouth and bright eyes, idly admiring the sky. 'It has a soul,' his mind continued, and then suddenly it all clicked into place.
Zidane. The boy he had nearly killed, abandoned, used, and abused so often. But how had he gotten here? Had he been pulled into the same rift that Kuja had fallen through, or was it merely fate playing some terrible trick on him? It seemed that no matter where Kuja went --whether it was other continents, planets, or dimensions entirely -- he could not be rid of his feeble-minded replacement. Anger stirred in his soul like a flame, but there was something else there too as he watched the boy wandering closer. It was a strange emotion -- one he was not used to. It came like so many others as of late -- confused and as though through some vague and impenetrable fog. Kuja brushed it aside. There was no use humoring it just as there was no use causing trouble when he held no position of power.
Kuja eyed the boy sourly and then turned and started down the street. He moved casually, as though he had noticed nothing, then he slipped aside at the first available alleyway.
Whatever Zidane's presence meant, Kuja could ponder the implications later. For now, he knew only that such an altercation was not in his interest, that he had other work to accomplish, and that he wanted nothing to do with the odd hesitance that lurked deep within his subconscious. The sight of Zidane had made him uneasy, and Kuja didn't want to think as to why.
Somewhere deep inside, a monster lurked clad in bright fur and red feathers. It lingered at the edge of his mind's eye and radiated with passion and pain. He saw it now as he slipped into the shadows of the city. His eyes throbbed in crimson red, and he touched at the beginnings of a headache.
Whatever it meant, it had something to do with Zidane, and Kuja wanted no part of it.
No, I don't know what he's implying at the end. Kuja might be a bit of a whore.
Why should the world exist without me?
“My soul, corrupted by vengeance hath endure torment, to find the end of the journey…”
Kuja glanced at Genesis, a frown playing at his lips. The man's remaining memories seemed to have no shortage of poems, and he certainly had no restrains on using them. Kuja hardly minded, however, and relished in the unfamiliar verses. They spoke promisingly of the man's state of mind. 'Corrupted by vengeance.' 'The end of the journey.' These were all phrases which Kuja could more than relate to.
Genesis looked him straight in the eyes, and Kuja met them without hesitation. He had long ago mastered the art of his own expressions, and he returned Genesis' interest with a placating smile. The man's eyes stared into his own, and for a moment, Kuja lost himself in that endless expanse of striking blue. They shone with an unnatural brightness not completely unlike his own. But Kuja's had been scientifically created through genetic engineering and exposure to high doses of magic. This man, however...
“Quite the opposite," Genesis smiled and spread his arms in agreement, "The chance makes my heart hasten with the thrill of the challenge, the revenge only makes it sweeter.”
Kuja blinked in surprise. Such bloodlust was normally not worn on one's sleeve, and yet he found it refreshing. How often had Kuja felt the same sentiments, and been unable to relish in it? Truly, he had not only worked for the cathartic rush of sadism at his goal's end -- but also for the "thrill of the challenge," as Genesis had deemed it. At times, life could be like the most dramatic of plays, and yet there were times still when life resembled more a game of chess. Often, Kuja's opponents proved so weak-minded that they remained unaware that a game had been played at all. Yet, did his heart not race with adrenaline every time the pieces fell so perfectly into place? Would he not plan for months and years on end so that every circumstance was accounted for, and every pawn played its part? Oh, how he longed to muse on the poetic implications of such thrills, but to do so now would be to play with fire. While Kuja had always been fond of taking risks, this one proved unwarranted.
He would not endanger his safety for the sake of some social satisfaction. And so, Kuja merely smiled as though there was nothing at all alarming (or in his case endearing) about the man's lust for battle and revenge.
“If there are gods or mortals that need to be felled, then I shall help you with your conquest. It goes to say that I shall inform you if I should uncover anything, as well.”
There was the assent that Kuja had sought. His smile widened to a much more genuine smirk. It wasn't much of a promise, but he hadn't really been seeking one. Now was not the time for power plays, after all. For the moment, Kuja needed only to learn the rules of this game, and then to gather his pieces. It seemed he had one, anyway, or might acquire it sometime in the future. Kuja only had to learn how best to play his role.
"Thank you, Genesis. I'm certain your aid shall prove most helpful." Kuja tilted his head back to once again admire the sky. It still amazed him how beautiful it could be. The sun warmed the down feathers in his hair, and he relished the heat. Did he really wish so desperately to return to that world of conflict and chaos? Perhaps if he slowed the churning of his mind, chilled the vengeance in his heart, and ended his quest for knowledge -- perhaps then he could stay here forever. The words soured in his mind, even as he thought them, for he knew he would never stop. Kuja had not been made for peace or for his own simple gratifications. No, his soul had always been geared towards a different goal.
Kuja had been created as a vessel of death. He would never be satisfied until the world bowed beneath him.
With the man's agreement made, Kuja had no further use of him. He sensed that Genesis longed for the conversation to end, or perhaps for something more to catch his interest. Kuja let out a soft and delicate sigh. Perhaps he would give this man a taste of his own fire after all. Just obvious enough to entice, if interested, and subtle enough to ignore if not.
"I look forward to exploring the gates of Hell with you. What is that saying, again? 'Stare into the abyss, and the abyss shall stare back into you?'" Kuja laughed, but only a little. He kept his hand delicately at his mouth, and sent the man a wayward glance. "I could think of few challenges more worthy than that. Or perhaps my soul is also 'corrupted by vengeance.'" Kuja gave a wistful sigh that bespoke of deeper longing. Then he turned to face the man before him. His eyes slid from high-heeled boots to tight-cut turtleneck to windswept hair.
"If that is all, then I suppose I shall let you return to your wandering. May the winds guide you well, noble poet, as you seek the ends of your journey." Kuja turned his head away and pressed his hand closer to his lips. "Unless you desire more of my company?" Kuja sent the man a glance which could have promised anything. "If so, I would be happy to give it."
What did I say about creeping on women, Kuja? xD Also, they keep talking about stuff popping out of the dark, so fill in the ending however you want.
Why should the world exist without me?
The woman gladly took her candle and sealed it once more in a lantern she had dropped. When she turned back, her eyes were gleaming with praise. "Wonderful! I do not believe I have witnessed such control before. Truly, it’s astonishing!” Kuja laughed quietly at her compliments, a subtle but obvious show of appreciation. Of course, he always welcomed praise, but to think that she gave it so vibrantly for the creation of fire. But then, the people of Gaia had acted much the same. Just a simple flame, a spark of electricity, and he'd had them wrapped around his fingertips. Nevermind that his magic was enough to slay dragons, no, for the general populace just a spark was enough. Kuja liked to keep it that way. There was no reason for anyone to consider him a threat.
At least, not until it was far, far too late.
Kuja had barely asked to the woman's well-being before she had swooped in upon him, grasping his arm as though he were a noble guardian and not a stranger found traveling a labyrinth. For a moment, Kuja couldn't help a blink of surprise, but it was gone a second later. He had a role to play after all, and he returned to his placid smile. "I am sorry for my boldness." The woman looked up at him through long eyelashes and strands of that striking auburn hair. She smiled at him faintly and clutched tighter at his arm, "But I fear you will wisp away like mist, just as the man previously did. A woman can only be tricked so many times. ’Fool me twice, shame on me,’ they say.”
For a moment, Kuja could only stare -- had she really succumbed to his charms so easily? -- but while he would have liked to have grasped this victory as yet another example of his skill over the weak-minded, something did not feel right. It was too easy -- far too easy, and there was something about her batted eyelashes, the careful control over her face, and that last line that tugged at his subconscious. 'Fool me twice, shame on me.' It felt too ironic, really.
The woman pulled on his arm, leading him carefully away, and then it clicked. This was a noblewoman, caught up in the subtle politics of manners and proper etiquette. A long time ago, Kuja might have been lost in the perilous seas of nobility, but years of sweetly muttered lies and false platitudes had given him the skills to navigate any social waters. Sarah walked with a kind of delicate grace, even over rocky and cracked terrain. Arm in arm, Kuja might have been escorting some young and gullible noblewoman through the Alexandrian courts, yet there was still that spark in her eye. That careful manner of speaking that told him she had not completely dispelled her guard.
If anything, her mannerisms reminded him most of Lady Hilda Fabool. There too, he had seen a kind of social grace even as he'd held her life between his fingers. Every conversation with her had been like a game -- how long can we pretend that you are not powerless? He saw that same dignity in the woman at his side. She, too, seemed determined not to acknowledge her own perilous situation.
'It seems you desire a game, sweet hummingbird, but do take care. I am an excellent player.'
The woman spoke of her awakening on this world. She came into it devoid of name or memory in a desolate forest. She had not been welcomed by this world's people, and had wandered without aid or hospitality for quite some time. Her memories awoke to the familiar strings of a lute, though her past had not returned to her completely. After days without assistance, mysterious lights led her to a man shrouded in a wolf's pelt. He offered her reprieve, and as she spoke of the many luxuries he gave her, the woman gave a short and longing sigh as she nestled closer into Kuja's arm.
Her hair was like threaded flame. His heart fluttered at the heat of her body next to his. There was so much beauty in this world to admire, and so much that he longed to make his own.
"The devotee spoke of humanities, he was courteous, and yet he left me in this dreary place. He said I could confront and regain what memories still remain hazy…”
"Regain?" Kuja echoed. Of course, it could have all just been a lie to lure the woman into a deathtrap, but still, those words rang deep within him. Was there something here which could recover lost memories?
"But, enough of that man.” The woman's grip tightened on his arm, and he felt her fingers tremble against him. Kuja banished his theories and returned his attention to the conversation at hand. "His deeds have been smashed, thanks to you. Not to mention, I confess I’m curious over your kingdom. Would you mind telling me about it?” It was innocent question, particularly of one so seemingly startled, and yet Kuja had not imagined her previous confidence. It was the kind of question that Lady Hilda might have asked to ease the boredom of her captivity and also to find some hidden weakness in him. Yet, before he could smile and placate the woman's curiosity, she spoke again. "The air isn’t heavy with magic,” she said. She glanced from the tunnel then to Kuja and then behind them, as though expecting something. "I believe we have rushed, robbed you of your research, though I am wary of monsters which lurk.”
"Hm." Kuja had noticed the rise of their winding tunnel, but he had not thought to comment on it. Before long, they might resurface to the temple, its surroundings woods, or somewhere else entirely. It hardly mattered to him.
"That is quite alright, my lady. Should any monsters appear, I shall be certain to protect you. And I can always return another night for research." No, first impressions were far more important than an interchangeable and likely futile attempt for answers. Kuja refused to let this woman leave with anything which might tarnish his reputation. No, he would either play his part as the noble protector or he would kill her here. The first required far less effort.
"But it seems we have some time before we might resurface. If I may return to your original question, I arrived in something of a similar situation as your own. I, too, awoke in this unfamiliar land with nothing to guide me. So I ask for your patience if my memories prove inconsistent." It was a blanket statement of apology which was neither unbelievable nor untrue. Kuja's memories had muddled near the end, after all. It would diffuse any undue suspicion.
"I was a traveler from a desolate continent of monsters and wastelands. I came to the kingdom of Alexandria with only my magic to guide me, and sought to make a name for myself in spellwork and charms. The people of that land had never experienced such magic as mine, and over time, my reputation spread. It was not long before I took to that kingdom as my own. My new-found fortune gave me rank among the nobility."
Kuja left out the crucial steps he'd taken to gain the trust of the naive Lord King, proprietor of Treno's famed auction house. He also did not mention how he might have pulled the strings in a business deal granting Kuja access to the man's wealth and title. And of course, he gave absolutely no hints to having played any part in the man's tragic and unexpected death. The allegations against him had never been proven, anyway.
"As for the kingdom itself, Alexandria is..." Kuja allowed himself a pause to place the right words, "...an opulent kingdom. It is a place ruled by tradition and that revels in works of theater, craftsmanship, and literature. Unfortunately, it is also a kingdom which often partakes in the art of war." Kuja gave a lamenting sigh. "The late queen was quite the war-monger, and so the continent was plunged into chaos. But I remember nothing more. My memories prove quite fogged, I'm afraid."
"Since my arrival, I have met others with similar stories such as yours and mine. It seems the native population has grown used to amnesiacs falling from the sky, as of late." Kuja gave a bitter smirk and shook his head. "No one quite knows the reason, but that is why I came here. I thought that perhaps I might find some clues hidden in these ruins. You sense the power of this place, do you not? The scholars were right to study it, though I fear they do not know what they seek."
The ground had evened beneath their feet, and Kuja searched ahead for some sign of an exit. "But it appears we might be nearing our end. I do not know who you had the misfortune of meeting before, but I assure you that most of the scholars here have proven receptive to strangers and without higher agenda. Once you have found an escort, there is a city along the road north of here. Perhaps you would fair better there than in this wilderness?"
Kuja's words had not yet ceased their echoing along the cavern walls, when a noise brought him to a halt. It came from ahead, somewhere lost in the darkness. It was a kind of rustling -- footsteps or perhaps the scratch of claws. Kuja steadied the woman and then released his arm from her grasp. "Keep your grip on that lantern," he said, "It seems that something approaches."
Come on, Genesis. Won't you be Kuja's pawn? Pretty please. =D He needs them desperately.
Why should the world exist without me?
Genesis had grown irritable. There was a certain darkness behind his eyes now and a sharpness that spoke of impatience. Had Kuja been anyone else, he might have found the obvious signs of irritation hurtful or even intimidating. As it was, however, Kuja could only smirk in satisfaction. Genesis had begun the conversation on the literal high-ground with nothing to offer and nothing to lose. He had seemed so unshakable then, but that time was not now. Now he seemed almost snake-like with his darting eyes and scowling expression. It seemed the man was not so impervious as he had seemed.
A pity. Kuja had almost thought him worth the time. For a moment, he'd even considered...
But no. That was ridiculous. Kuja would never find anyone worth relating to.
“Was it a vision, or a waking dream?” Genesis crossed his arms and mused towards the sky. “Fled is that music—do I wake, or sleep?” Kuja spared him a glance and considered those words. Such an odd question...
"I would think that it should hardly matter. A vision can prove as powerful as any known truth." There it was again, that irritable something deep in Kuja's subconscious. He lingered on them -- those visions which he could not remove from himself. Crimson red feathers. A warm crystalline orange. And...leaves? Yes, he had unearthed the smell of leaves during his last journey through the fog. Back on that moonlit hill, spurned by the words of that knight, Kuja had closed his eyes and for only a moment he could have sworn he'd heard the rustle of leaves.
Kuja could not place a single image, yet they held immense importance -- he knew. The music had fled, yet these visions remained. Like a shadow of a dream.
Kuja expected more of the man's poetry, but nothing came. Instead, the man took a step back, grasping at his shoulder. Kuja looked at him in concern, but Genesis seemed to have forgotten him. His face was awash with pain. "Genesis?" Kuja asked cautiously. The man froze, staring in front of him as though he had seen a ghost. It only lasted a moment, but Kuja felt his magic burn inside of him. 'Unstable' was the word which came to mind. 'Possibly dangerous.' The man had given him the look of a spooked animal, cornered and ready to strike. Kuja kept a spell ready behind his lips.
The man let go of his shoulder and turned back to him, grinning again. “Soldier? I’m hardly soldier material." Genesis continued as though nothing had happened, but the color had drained from his face, and his voice held less of its earlier confidence. "Me, fighting for someone else, for something that has nothing to do with me? Hardly." The words were flippant, but the intonation...
There was something more behind them -- something dark. Had Kuja hit a chord with this man? Was it something he'd said...?
"If what this insane man of yours said is true, and gods are fighting with each other once more in some sort of cycle, and they decided to bring me into to it?” Genesis left his own question unanswered, but the implication remained clear. 'If what you say is true, then those gods will face fire.' Kuja could have laughed, if he hadn't been overcome by caution. Yes, that was the reaction he'd been seeking. Of course, it was possible that his story was nothing more than fable, but if it was true...
Then Kuja would need others seeking the blood of their puppeteers. Kuja knew strength and he knew power, but he also knew that he could not fight such a battle alone. He'd prefer not to fight using his own hands at all.
“If they want me to do something for them, they should have thought better of messing with my head and tossing me in here without promising me something out of all this nonsense.”
But that was always the way with tyrants, wasn't it? Let me play with your life, toss you about, and then offer you nothing. Even Kuja offered his puppets sweet lies, if nothing else. Anyone who couldn't give even that deserved every bit their subjects' vengeance.
"That is, assuming that my sources were correct, of course. But yes. I quite agree." Kuja turned away from him then in order to observe the great, arching gate. He took a step towards it, eyes bright with focus. "There is clearly power here. I came to observe the legends, and they did not speak entirely false. Something lies beyond that gate. I have some experience in magical teleportation and rifts to other dimensions..." How odd did it feel to say aloud? Stranger than he could say, but between all of this world-jumping madness, Kuja doubted that anyone would question him. And at least for the moment, keeping quiet wouldn't help him in the slightest. "This feels much the same, though I could be mistaken. The power here has been sealed, but I do wonder: could it have opened for only a short while? The first rule of such magic is that the rift must be made in some specific place and time. Could that have been here?"
Kuja touched thoughtfully at his lips. They pursed in great concentration. "No matter the truth of that story, there remains one undeniable fact: we are here where we do not belong. That means that something called us here -- be it mortal, god, or inhuman force. I have heard the story time and time again. Awakening in some odd place here with no recollection of arrival. Stumbling along with some or all memories lost. Even I seem to have..." But no. That information held no relevance here. Genesis did not need to know what Kuja had lost. "I feel nothing for this world. The whole of it can burn for all I care. But I will not be toyed with in this way, and I will take vengeance on who-or-what ever is responsible."
Kuja turned to Genesis. The man was a poet, yes, but also something more. Dangerous, perhaps, and certainly unstable, but also confident and easily scorned. "I feel that you are the same. If I should find the source of this manipulation, would you join me, Genesis, in seeking retribution? Assuming that you are not adverse to slaying gods."
The idea felt ridiculous -- laughable, even -- and yet Kuja did not flinch from it. If there were gods and they had toyed with him, then he would seek their blood. It was as simple as that. "If not, then you may continue on your way. And I thank you very kindly for the poetry."
The word choice near the end wasn't intentional until it totally was.
Why should the world exist without me?
Genesis laughed at Kuja's chosen title for him. It was a small laugh, unassuming and quiet with a hand placed over his mouth for modesty. It was the kind of laugh that Kuja had given many times over -- only as mysterious as it was enticing. But it ended as soon as Kuja continued the conversation.
Genesis agreed with his sentiment. He mused for great length on the power of words and language. Kuja only waited, watching him with his arms crossed, eyes peering bright like diamonds. "The ‘weapons’ of most are weak, but ours? Sharp and deadly compared to the bluntness of theirs. Most formidable indeed, when so simple a word can change everything." Kuja had thought much the same since he'd discovered the power of suggestion somewhere in his second year on Gaia. Of course, he had learned to lie long before that, but Garland had never been particularly susceptible to deception. The general public, however? They might as well have been blind for all the notice they took of Kuja's true nature. In truth, Kuja had hardly needed magic to devastate that planet. He had only needed words, patience, and an actor's touch.
Power -- true power, that was -- came only from the mind.
"Not a person from this place could manage to talk their way out of a paper bag.”
Kuja laughed at the sudden bitterness to his tone. Genesis had an aptitude for biting criticisms that might have rivaled even Kuja's -- at least, on his weaker of days. "You are far too kind, Genesis. When the people here do communicate, it is more the bleating of sheep than any proper language." Kuja readjusted his crossed arms. He was all too aware of the priests in nearby earshot, but hardly cared for them. They had shown no signs of hostility before now, and KUja doubted they would rise to his bait. If they did, then perhaps he would finally have a reason to interrogate them. “So, I shall stay with Genesis the Wandering Poet, then.”
"Hm." Kuja glanced at Genesis. The man was so easily read, and yet also something of an enigma. Kuja couldn't place it entirely, but he felt that there must be something more behind this poet -- this monster -- that he had not yet uncovered. Genesis was intelligent, and yet unprying. He was snide, and yet lacked any real focus behind his fire. He was, well, wandering to say the least, and yet Kuja wouldn't have placed him as the type. Here was a man who should have been driven by some higher goal, if only to fuel his own self-praise. Yet he seemed to have none.
Kuja supposed that he could hardly judge. With the latter half of his memories erased, he had searched for meaning in artifacts, records, and old ruins that might prove curious. Then there was that familiar, and yet all-too-unknowable knight. What had he meant by an endless war...?
“What has earned you the title of mage, or sorcerer? Magic? Miracle making?”
"Hm?" Kuja tossed his gaze in the poet's direction. He fought the sarcasm rising past his throat, 'Magic? My, but I never would have expected that of a mage.' His smile soured to a smirk. He reminded himself that there was no need to think less of this man for his repeition. After all, it was entirely possible that magic didn't even exist in his world, or perhaps it came in some different form. What was it that idiot hero had told him upon his arrival in Torensten? "I'm pretty sure your power doesn't stem from demonic supernatural monsters branding you." Magic, it seemed, was not universal. Sometimes it came in more ridiculous and altogether horrifying forms than Kuja would have ever thought possible.
Still, Kuja had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his wit in check. 'And I thought you were a poet.' "Yes. You could say something of the sort." Kuja gave a vague wave of his hand. 'Magic is only the root of the word.'
“You must be quite skilled with the art,” Genesis continued, and finally Kuja was able to answer without any hint of derision.
"Naturally." Kuja gave a short bow, complete with a sweep of his hand. "It is how I once supported myself. I am a caster of enchantments and a craftsman of charms. Among other things." Kuja straightened and recrossed his arms. He eyed the tips of his nails. "I have also played the role of inventor, nobleman, weapons' dealer, and adviser -- if you wish to choose a title." He left several entries out, most notably traitor, murderer, and harbinger of war. He had the feeling that this poet did not walk so straight a moral line, but Kuja had never been the kind to draw attention to his own wrong-doing. "Perhaps I shall regale you with tales of my life on some other occasion. If you would stay so long as to hear them."
Kuja met Genesis' eye -- so vibrant and striking -- and smiled. "But that is not what you wish to hear, is it? No, you wish to hear what I can tell you of yourself. Or at least, what is in my power." Kuja ran a hand through the soft silver of his hair. His fingers were tickled by down-feathers. "I found myself here some three months ago. I awoke to the heat of desert sands. There were no footsteps behind me and I had no recollection of my arrival. It was as though I had simply fallen from the sky." His lips hardened into a smirk. That desert had been his own personal hell, and yet it was nothing compared to what had followed. After his memories had taken the liberty of stirring red-hot in the back of his mind. "I wandered this land much like yourself, without aim or direction. That was, until I met a man who claimed to know me. He spoke nonsense mostly -- of endless wars driven by angry gods -- but he also spoke some reason. He said that these 'wars' he remembered had meant the selection of soldiers for either side, and that these soldiers were taken from their proper places and brought to a common ground. He said that the process often muddled their memories." Kuja tilted his head up to the sky. Speaking it aloud, he knew well that he sounded ridiculous. And yet...
"The man was clearly insane, yet I seemed to know him from somewhere I couldn't remember. And I have met many others not unlike the two of us. Wanderers who do not belong in this world." Kuja glanced at Genesis, gauging his expression for any response. "I wonder, then, if each of us do not have some special strength. If we were not summoned here for more than wandering, but then, perhaps I'm only speaking nonsense." Kuja's gave a short flip of his hair. "I don't suppose that you would have any reason to call yourself a soldier?"
The man's eyes sparked with interest, and then he was falling down. It seemed that Kuja had finally earned the right to face this man on even ground, or perhaps the man also sensed the change in power. Feigned disinterest could only take one so far when the other held much-desired information. For his part, the man took his degradation in stride with a dramatic flick of his wrist a subtle flip of his windswept hair. The man appraised him and then gave a sweep of his hand.
And bowed. Kuja blinked in surprise that was soon replaced by a smirk. This man was just full of surprises...
"I'm..." the man started, but then paused halfway through his bow. He glanced away before continuing, "...Quite impressed myself. I haven’t met any so far that were quite as eloquent as yourself, either." Kuja smiled in response. "You’d think that half of the people that filled this land were walking sacks of flesh with hardly anything between their ears.”
Had Kuja been so amused by anyone else on the planet? Usually, he took his amusement at the expense of others -- mockery, sarcasm, subtle signs of disdain, and the satisfaction of his own treachery. But Kuja found himself agreeing with this man. Had he not mocked the stupidity of this planet's inhabitants countless times before? Why, they were all so foolish that not one of them had considered him a threat! There were soldiers slaughtering innocents, suspicious characters wandering on the wind, and he'd never hidden his own estrangement from this world. Yet, just as on Gaia, the civilian populace could never see past his beauty and a misleading perception of fragility. They were idiots. All of them.
The man slid his fingers through the bangs of his hair. "Impenetrable and vast, most unfortunately," he said and then flicked the strands away. Kuja laughed again. This man was quite amusing indeed...
"As vast as the night sky, and far emptier," Kuja agreed. "Though I can't say the conditions were much better where I came from. The world is filled with fodder barely deserving of life. They march towards their deaths without purpose and believe whatever pleasant lies whispered to them from a snake's forked tongue."
Kuja watched as the man took a step forward, arms raised dramatically and shoulders thoughtfully shrugged as he gazed upon the gate before him. “I awoke far in the north, and came down to find… anything. To, ‘find meaning where it has been lost,’ to put it into words.” The man glanced lazily to the sky. His next words came slowly -- almost labored. "As for...my name, it's..." Kuja's mouth tilted into the slightest of frowns.
Had this man truly forgotten everything? Was he like that Warrior of Light, destined to wander without only vague inklings of a past and without even a name to grasp onto? The idea chilled something deep within Kuja's soul.
If Kuja had awoken differently, could he have lost everything as well? His identity? The core of his being? The idea pricked at the back of his mind and drew his lips a little tighter. It was foolish to consider. Kuja had lost nothing of value, after all.
Or had he?
“Genesis, a wandering poet. Monster, warrior, knight, whatever you’d prefer to think of me as. Those are what the people here have taken to calling me, when I've had the displeasure of running across them.”
"Genesis?" Kuja tilted his head, lips upturning. "'The Beginning'...?" But there was far more to unravel here than just a name. The man referred to himself as a 'monster.' Kuja laughed again, though more bitterly this time. He cast his eyes up to the sun. "I find the term 'monster' to be quite subjective, actually. The weak-minded throw it about as carelessly as they would 'evil' or 'hate.' There are proper usages, of course, but over-use weakens their true intentions."
Kuja lifted a hand and eyed the lacquer of his nails. "For instance, most coined as 'monsters' prove only tragically flawed and perhaps a little sadistic." Kuja smirked coolly. "Evil surely does exist -- I have seen it -- but the title should be reserved for only the worst of atrocities committed without passion. And as for hate, well, most barely know the meaning of the word. It is something to be nurtured until it reaches fruition."
Kuja sent a glance towards Genesis. "And what would you call yourself, Genesis? Monster, warrior, or knight?" He paused and then laughed softly. "But no, I would not say that any of those suit you properly. If I had to choose, I would you call you the first -- a poet." Kuja lowered his hand and turned to look at Genesis fully, his usual smile playing ever so slightly at his lips. "After all, I've found that words are the most formidable of weapons. Wouldn't you agree?"
