Kuja had once loved the desert. He had loved the dry heat of it against his skin, the cool whip of unrestrained wind, and the endless expanses of golden light. Riding low on the back of his silver dragon, the air smelled of feathers and dry earth. It was a sensation of unbridled freedom only amplified by the large stretches of barren grounds beneath him. None but he could enter here. On a continent removed from all civilization in the middle of the most hostile stretch of land on the planet, he was the undisputed master of all he set his eyes upon. He had crafted it to his will, and it was invariable, unarguably his. Of all of the planet's natural wonders, he had enjoyed the desert second most, falling short only to the cool pin-drop patterings of rain. But it had not always been quite so inviting.

No, his first experience with the desert had been downright miserable. It had been shortly after his banishment (after Zidane, that was), back when he hadn't yet found a place among human society. Back then, a trip to the Mist Continent had meant scrambling at the edges of the law. Through the dual efforts of his magic and the unexpected us of his tail, he had managed to steal what he'd needed, but it hadn't been enough. Despite his banishment, despite losing everything, Kuja still heard his creator's commands, piercing like a knife into his soul. He was still expected to work for his survival, and that meant long flights to forgotten wastelands monitoring that forsaken tree as well as the status of Terra's various bases on its host planet. These trips were his most dreaded as they brought him through typhoons, earthquakes, and even anti-magic fields for the sake of a tyrant's satisfaction. It was on one of these treks that Kuja had his first experience with the Kiera Desert. He'd found its defenses exactly as formidable as any elemental shrine.

Despite the man's insistence on obedience, Garland had not mentioned that these particular ruins would be found underground. Kuja had swept over the area by air for hours before he was finally forced to abandon his dragon in a hollow mountain cave to search the desert on foot. Back then, he hadn't been used to the heat, and facing it alone had proven deathly. The sun had pounded onto the back of his head. The light had hurt his eyes as it glared off the shifting dunes. Wind had whipped the sand into his mouth, boots, and eyes.

He had not enjoyed his experience, to say the least. Years later, Kuja would become so intimate with the Kiera desert that he would know its every shelter, danger, and escape. An unprepared visit would not prove as deadly to him anymore, but it was still to be avoided.

And this desert was certainly not the Kiera. 

When Kuja awoke, it was to sweltering heat, unrestrained sunlight, and shifting sands. He had been sprawled flat on his back with a hand over his stomach, hair splayed out about his shoulders and waist. An investigative glance showed no landmarks but towering dunes and an empty horizon. He was, as always, alone.

He was greeted with a headache when he took to his feet. This was not particularly remarkable as living among idiots had left him prone to them, but he grit his teeth and spared himself curative magic until the pain had dulled to a subtle throb. Beneath his feet, he felt the subtle rumbling of activity. There were monsters here (sandworms or antlions, most likely), and they would sense his movement as clearly as he had theirs. He closed his eyes and sent out a call into space.

Silver dragon. Come here. 

The message came from deeper within him than the mind. His soul projected it out into the psychic sphere where it would only be heard by others receptive enough to such spiritual matters. He did not feel his dragon's presence, however, nor did she appear at his command. Somehow they had been separated. His head swam with possibilities.

Without her, he had no choice but to travel like he had so long ago -- on foot. The thought gave him a sense of deep and unending dread, but Kuja was not the same child who had been overwhelmed so long ago. He knew now to avoid the swirling indentations in the sand. He knew to check the rumblings of the earth beneath his feet. More than that, he knew the patterns of this planet, and he knew its navigation. Though he found nothing on his horizons, he knew that antlions most often nested near the borders of their desert home. By following the antlion nests to their point of highest density, one would theoretically be able to guide oneself out of the desert.

Four hours would pass before he came across anything but monsters and sand. He could have cut that time in half had the antlions not mistaken him for their prey. What a fatal mistake it was. His magic struck with a bitter taste like acid. He left a trail of burnt husks in his wake.

He was drawn to the carriage not from the activity of the antlions, but rather, the sandworms. Somewhere within his fifth hour of travel, he felt them awaken below the dunes. They whipped the sand in their excitement and as their paths approached him, he cast a quick float upon himself to keep his presence hidden. They passed by without notice, heading West. Whatever had sparked the interest of the monsters was not native to this land. Whatever it was must have come from beyond the edges of this forsaken place and would lead him to his own salvation.

What he found was a carriage. Its wood was splintered -- its wheels broken. More importantly, he found what appeared to be a human child. It let out a terrified scream, threw a piece of carved wood in a sandworm's direction, and then fled. The child acted for all the world like the most perfect of victims. Kuja could sense the excitement of the sandworms as they gave chase to such a rare treat. Kuja was almost reluctant to ruin their fun. But as it was, he needed direction and this child must have come from somewhere.

He had no choice but to play the hero then. For now.

His hand raised. Magic burned hot at his fingertips. It released with the force of a gale thunderstorm and sought vengeance upon those pitiable mortals below. One by one, the unworthy were struck down, their cries masked by the explosive cracklings of electricity. The sand buzzed with dormant energy. The air sparked with light. Within only minutes, the colony of sandworms were dead.

The battle was not without its toll on Kuja. The display of his magic had revived his headache. His mouth formed into a faint scowl.

"You. Idiot!" He barked the words in the boy's direction. He was not in the mood to deal with pleasantries nor would he waste feigned respect on a child. "What in the name of Gaia are you doing out here? Or do you have a death wish? My, it would seem evolution is taking its toll on the human race. And it wishes to leave you out of it."

Once upon a time, there were two brothers who lived on the moon. Among all of their father's creations, the older was by far the most beautiful. He had skin like porcelain, hair like moonlight, and eyes that sparkled like diamonds. He was studious, sharp-witted, and practical. Day after day, the older brother would be sent upon the Earth to carry out his father's will. He worked tirelessly, skipping sleep and even putting his life at risk to bring glory to the moon-world he called home, but no matter how hard he tried, his father never loved him. As it was, his father cared only for the younger brother who had hair like straw and the intelligence of a dog. The younger brother did not have to journey in ominous ships beyond the safety of their moon. For four years, the younger brother did nothing but rest, idle, and play while the elder was not allowed so much as a break in his work, and still their father loved only the second, useless son. Finally, the older brother grabbed the younger, and in a fit of jealousy, threw him down to Earth where their father would never find him. Enraged, the father punished his older son and exiled him from his home.

But that was a lie. Kuja was certain he had never been jealous of anyone before in his life. Further, Zidane was not his brother, and Garland was certainly no father. The moon was actually a planet, and most importantly, it was not his home. For Kuja had never had a home, and surely not one so horrifically dreary as that one.

No, if he were to have a home, it would be a place with bustling streets and opulent marble pillars. His home would be one of glittering water, intriguing gossip, and enough culture to entertain him be it through theatrics or the opulent amusements of high-towering opera houses. It would not be fair to say that Kuja missed the upper classes of Treno, but he had certainly found the culture pleasant, and as he wandered the streets of this new settlement, it was Treno of which he was most reminded.

This town (Torensten, he had heard it called) was not quite as gilded as the City of Eternal Night. Its storefronts were composed of limestone rather than marble. Its estates had far more to do with rural landscapes than urban shows of opulence and waste. Further, the people seemed to be far more of the practical sort. They looked upon his Trenoese clothing with the shock and scandal Kuja most thoroughly associated with the industrial people of Lindblum who preferred the masculine honor of the hunt and refused the niceties of a knife and fork. In these ways, it seemed that Torensten could not have been farther from what Kuja might have mockingly called his home. Still, it rang familiar in those ways that most mattered: the harsh divide between the haves and have-nots, the sharp gossip he overheard echoing from open windows, and the cool formalities that hid the sinister play of politics. This was where Kuja felt most at his element and this was where he had traveled upon awakening in this strange, and yet highly familiar world. It was not Gaia, but it was not so dissimilar that he was put out of ease.

Kuja was more than accustomed to forging his identity anew.

Without any particular guidance in his new environment, Kuja first visited the item shop in the town's center square. It was a polished storefront directly adjacent to the square's granite-carved fountain, and as he entered, he found that the interior did not disappoint him. The walls were adorned in oil-painted still-lifes and the hard-wood floors were bordered in ornately carved baseboards. The air smelled of lilac and juniper-berry, and Kuja thought that here, perhaps, he might not stand out so very much.

The girl behind the counter wore a flowing pink dress and had curled her hair up in a braided bun. As he walked in, her eyes drifted from feather-tossed hair to gold-accented hips to pointed metal boots. Her mouth opened in a silent, "Oh."

Perhaps anonymity was beyond him then. Kuja hid a smirk behind his most perfect of smiles and approached the counter. His hand played at the practiced motions of an actor.

"Pardon me," he said, "But I appear to have lost myself in this great city of yours. Could you perhaps be of some assistance?"

The girl blinked. "Could I...?" she echoed before giving a short cough and clearing her expression. "Yes, of course. What do you need?"

"I have traveled quite a way and find myself both terribly under-supplied and rather disoriented." He tried to look appropriately embarrassed. "Could you perhaps offer me some direction?"

He had not expected her to look relieved. "Oh," she said, "You must be one of those new people."

"I beg your pardon?" he asked with a slight frown.

"The new people. The ones that fall through here from other worlds. You're one of them, aren't you?" She said it with another glance at his clothing, and for what might have been the first time in years, Kuja could do nothing but stare.

"I..." he started, but found he did not know what else to say. She gave him a cautious smile.

"You don't have to be embarrassed about it," she said, "It happens around here all the time."

He blinked slowly. "Oh," he said. Then he cast his gaze aside and gave a long sigh. "Yes, I'm afraid you're correct. I awoke here suddenly, and haven't the faintest idea where 'here' might be."

It felt strange, telling the truth. He wondered if his soul would try to escape him in protest.

"You don't have any memories then?" she asked with a frown. "A lot of them that come through can barely remember their names."

"I hardly remember anything," Kuja lied. What on all of Gaia was she talking about?

She looked at him sadly. "You poor thing," she said, "Well, I'd be happy to help you if there's anything that you need."

"Thank you, but I wouldn't wish to overstep your hospitality."

"It's fine. I want to help."

His smirk lasted less than a second. "If that is the case, then could you perhaps spare an ether? I awoke in the wastelands of this place and found myself hounded by antlions."

"Antlions?" she repeated. "And you escaped?"

"Only by luck," he lamented. In truth, the antlions had been child's play. Back in the Kiera Desert, they had been as numerous as beetles and he had employed them as guard dogs to his underground lair. Still, enough thundagas would drain even him, and he could feel the magical fatigue building behind his temples.

"I...Yes, of course. Take one," she said before handing him the bottle. He took it with a grateful nod.

"You have my thanks," he said. His thoughts still buzzed with her suggestions. "A lot of them that come through can barely remember their names."

"Is there anything else I can do?" she asked with a frown of concern. Kuja paused. Of course, there was the matter for which he had come in.

"Yes, actually. Though I greatly appreciate your assistance, I do not wish to burden the people here for overly long. I am a sorcerer by trade and would be more than happy to aid the city with my healing and magical arts. However, I haven't the faintest idea where to start."

"Well, there's a mage's guild on the north side of town. They usually come for ethers and elixirs, you know. Then the noble families like the Irvings and the Aurions are usually hiring people for stuff like that."

That would do. "Thank you," he said and gave her a low and proper bow. She looked taken aback.

"I, uh. No problem," she said, though she smiled all the same. He took his leave of her.

If only Gaia had been so easy and hospitable. He wanted to laugh.

The townspeople on the street took to glancing at him for longer than necessary. He heard their whispers, but he hardly cared. If dimension-torn travelers were something of the norm here, then he had an excuse for anything. He did not have to mimic their standards of dress nor did he have to mask his unnatural accent born of another language. He did not have to craft lie after silver-spun lie to cover malicious and unbelievable truth. He did not have to excuse the feathers in his hair, the unnatural blue of his eyes, or the uncanny perfection of his features. In truth, he could have even displayed his tail without the slightest suspicion in a world like this, though he never would. It swayed its usual metronome rhythm hidden in the pocket of his skirt as he uncorked the bottled ether and sipped bitter magic like wine.

'Idiots,' he thought, 'This will be so easy.'