Even when offered the lead on which course of action to take next, Jecht still took the time to vocally acknowledge the likelihood of Cor’s theory holding weight, even if it sounded closer to reluctant deference. It was worth considering here; a pair of strangers carrying weapons out in the wilderness were certainly liable to draw suspicion, especially if they were to try and impose themselves on whatever food was being cooked, which was just unmannerly behavior in general. Scary, indeed.

Still, it had come as a quiet surprise to the Marshal to hear his circumstantial companion decide it was worth following the advice that had been given to him and keep pressing forward, hunger pangs (and his own feelings of disappointment) be damned. Had the transition between his own world to this one played havoc on his metabolism?

Unless he simply asked Jecht, Cor thought, it was hard to say here, especially since he could still taste the MRE ration he had eaten before…well, before all of this. Even after the world came burning to the ground, the lettering on the package still had the audacity to call its contents a “vegetable cheese omelet”. And not even “Cor the Immortal” could stomach the taste of the vegetable cheese omelet MRE.

Cor merely grimaced as he tried to forget the malingering aftertaste of ill-flavored egg product, yet he remained confident in Jecht’s decision to push forward until they could properly satisfy their growing appetites for some real, and proper, food. “Very well. I’ll be right behind you,” the old soldier reaffirmed in his usual measured manner, letting his more brazen counterpart take point once again while he settled on acting the role of rear guard.

As they ventured deeper into the tepid jungles that hugged the foreign shorelines, the Marshal continued to split his cognitive focus between several tasks at once, the most important of these being to memorize this new environment in case further exploration was warranted later down the road, while another had been to keep an eagle’s eye out for any possible predators prowling amidst the treetops and forest basin. So far, he’d spotted nothing dangerous, but that wasn’t to say the situation couldn’t change at any moment.

Jecht, on the other hand, seemed more than eager to run off the implication that Cor would relate to how he perceived their shared predicament, lamenting that he didn’t have a “movie sphere” to capture the moment before devolving into yet another self-aggrandizing tirade about being some kind of “space and time connoisseur” and how the people he knew were likely to be jealous of his adventures. Although the Marshal couldn’t align with Jecht’s wishful thinking, he could at least recognize an underlying pinpoint of sentimentality beneath all the bragging and chest-puffing.

Sadly, it was hard to play along with these thoughts, as well. Being who he was to the people that knew him or served under his command, nobody would allow the Marshal to live it down if they were to ever discover that he had somehow crossed over into a world completely separate from Eos and lived to speak of the tale, where it would become yet another notch on his “list of exploits”, another win for the legend of “Cor the Immortal”. He never enjoyed hearing rumors about himself. It felt even worse when people believed them.

But, between mulling over his own insecurities or listening to Jecht inflate himself like an hot air balloon fueled entirely on ego, Cor settled for a third option instead, this being to steer the conversation elsewhere. “I suppose this place would look nice on a postcard…” he expressed, if only to show a splinter of awareness for the latent serenity of these new environs. As a crab scuttled close by, Cor thought back to the earlier scent of roasting meat, even as he silently considered its diminutive stature to be rather bizarre, given the natural immensity of the crustaceans found on Eos. “What sort of food do you enjoy? A good connoisseur ought to have well-established preferences when it comes to haute-cuisine.” He took a short glance in the direction of the ocean. It might be worth trying to fish for a meal later on, once they were both in the arms of relative safety.

Jecht

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If he were to be fully honest with himself here, Cor had meant for his question about blitzball to be one of arbitrary curiosity, a way to kill time as they both searched for signs of civilized life. Between perpetually eyeballing the woods for enemy movement and trying to ignore the perspiration that was starting to build up under his jacket, sports of any sort were the last thing on his mind.

Alas, by confessing his own lack of awareness of blitzball or what it entailed, Jecht took Cor’s admission and used it as a springboard to practically launch himself into a very loud and equally boastful monologue about “the greatest competitive sport in Spira”, speaking with the sort of confidence and joy that only the most diehard fans ever expressed. He may live inside the body of a warrior, but beating within his breast was the heart of an athlete; yet another similarity the Marshal could perceive between Jecht and Gladio, but could not appreciate in earnest on account of the former’s incredibly audible rambling about what he could only presume was his favorite pastime.

From the way Jecht made it sound, the premise seemed simple enough: Two teams of six players attempt to score goals within a time limit of ten minutes. He might as well have been speaking Altissian on everything else.

Terms like “barge” and “intercept” allowed Cor to mentally infer blitzball as a type of contact sport; it led him to briefly think of an old history book outlining the ancient civilization of Solheim, and one paragraph had mentioned a ball game that sounded vaguely similar to the one Jecht described, except the people of Solheim were forbidden from touching the ball with their hands or feet, and the game was consistently documented as having been played on dry land.

Unable to get so much as a word in, Cor still emerged from Jecht’s garrulous yammering having learned several important points, the most relevant of these being that he originally came from a land called Spira. Secondly, the people there just play sports while paddling around in giant spheres of water, apparently. But, according to Jecht’s exhaustively passionate insights into the various niches and tricks of the sport, most of which sounded closer to a love letter to his own prowess and ingenuity, Cor had been made to understand that those who enjoyed the game also took it incredibly seriously. It also explained his earlier bragging about being a “blitzball legend”, as well.

The former leader of the Crownsguard could respect the principle behind such devotion, even though he personally never found much interest in activities like sports. When your life is spent in service to the royal family, it doesn’t really leave a lot of room when it comes to pursuing hobbies. Five years in darkness all but erases the hope of ever returning to a normal life, anyway. As for what he did before then, Cor would much rather keep those thoughts where they rightfully belonged: buried and forgotten.

Still, for what it was worth to Jecht, his love for blitzball proved authentic and intense, and the sport itself seemed novel enough. Maybe when the shock of seeing sunlight and the broader spectrum of colors again fully wears off, he might just pick his brain about the subject later on, Cor considered.

Until then, the Marshal stayed his tongue, just long enough for it to dawn on Jecht that he was monopolizing the conversation. He didn’t need to interrupt him, either; Jecht would have found out sooner or later. He issued a dry chuckle, “Don’t apologize for being passionate about what interests you,” said Cor afterward, casting Jecht a partial glance in his direction, “Besides, it sounds like fun.” Who knows? Maybe he’ll start a new craze.

“I never did play any sports, myself,” the Marshal eventually admitted aloud, unafraid of whatever perceptions may arise from it. “I’ve been a soldier for…well, just about my entire life, really. Since I was thirteen, anyway.” Everything about him, from his inflections to his manner of dress to his choice of weaponry to the way he gingerly manipulated them even as they remained in their sheaths, was a direct reflection of this one unalterable fact. “I didn’t have many opportunities to watch sports, much less play them.” The more he tried to think over it, the less he could actually remember about what Eos had been like before the Long Night descended, until Cor eventually arrived at a possible answer. “I suppose Totomostro was the closest thing we had, but I never indulged in it. I’m pretty certain that gambling on monster fights doesn’t qualify as a proper sport, either.” The Marshal shrugged indifferently. “But, what do I know? You’d be pretty surprised at how popular it was.” Past tense. Old habits and all that.

Jecht

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Watching the other man roll his neck around to loosen the vertebrae within, Cor felt his own eyebrows folding downward in subdued confusion as he listened to his acquaintance profess audible apathy over the idea of doing things at his discretion, even though the Marshal had done nothing except vocalize an implicit willingness to let him take charge and steer the course of their travels in whatever direction he wished. He had meant for it to be a simple turn of phrase, and nothing else.

But, in that same breath, his overly-muscular colleague-by-circumstance barked out an order to start moving along, practically traipsing his way into the forested wilderness that hugged the shorelines, clearly unaffected by the lack of additional clothing or protection apart from his peculiar trousers and that enormous iron plate acting as a sword.

In many ways, Cor felt as if he were looking upon a phantom echo of the King’s Shield, Gladiolus Amicitia, right down to their shared propensity for walking through nature both shirtless and barefoot. Even Gladio could throw caution to the wind and emerge having benefited from it somehow. Now that he’s thinking about it, they both have tattoos…

Still, the veteran soldier had to remind himself that, despite the similarities, this person was still, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger; not only did he subliminally admit to knowing the concept of discretion, his insouciant remark had all but expressed a conscientious disregard for it. Even that sounded a lot like how Gladio took to most problems, Cor surmised as he carefully pursued the impatient man with even strides, using Kotetsu’s scabbard and his other free arm to push away loose foliage while his footsteps were relegated to the driest portions of solid land.

As they explored, the Marshal took stock of the alien jungles that surrounded them on all sides, stifled by the humidity lingering in the air, not because it made his uniform uncomfortable to wear as one may like to speculate, but because of how heavy it felt with each breath he drew in and released. The buzzing of gnats and other insects filled his ears in tandem with the warbling calls of different birds, creating an ambient symphony of noises that Cor admittedly found…rather peaceful.

He’d almost forgotten what real nature sounded like.

Alas, the other man, clearly itching to listen to more than just the sound of silence, broke the climate of quietude with an important question that, truthfully, should have been fielded a while ago: He asked for his name. Fair enough. Better now than never, the Marshal figured, waiting for his new associate to lift a sizable-looking branch up and away from his path with hardly any effort.

“Cor Leonis,” he curtly introduced himself, ducking beneath the obstruction as he maneuvered his way past the muscular man, straightening out once he had sufficiently moved out of the way. Unless they were willing to ask about it, the Marshal saw no point in telling them about his Crownsguard affiliations. “I’m a soldier—” A short pause followed. “—I was, anyway,” He felt no shame admitting the facts whenever they proved relevant. “Although, I guess that no longer matters, now.”

Brushing past a voluminous-looking frond, Cor grunted softly as its enormous leaves gently slapped into the Marshal from various directions, to his mild annoyance. Using his swords to cut away the greenery was out of the question. “I suppose I should ask—” he spoke up, dodging another cluster of ferns as he brushed his jacket free of pollen dust, casting wary glances at their immediate surroundings before continuing on to say, “—about what they call you, then?” The Crownsguard commander wasn’t averse to small talk by any means, but expecting him to lower his guard for the sake of it was like trying to squeeze clam juice out of a Karlabos. It wasn’t going to happen.

Jecht

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In times of uncertainty, Cor found it occasionally helpful to verbalize his thoughts before a third party, preferably to somebody without any emotional investment in the ongoing events. This way, whatever input he received from them would remain unbiased and free of preexisting prejudices, guaranteeing that the only decisions he made after the fact were also the most informed ones. This also allowed a wider degree of social participation, which came with its own merits.

Metaphorically, the Marshal had fully expected himself to be the only one stuck on this boat, as it were. He almost hoped it were the case, if he had to be transparent here. What he hadn’t counted on, was for the other man to get in and start casually rowing alongside him, so to speak; by his own admission, he also lacked any concrete answers regarding where they were, or how they managed to arrive here, or when they did, or why.

Unlike Cor, who grappled silently with his own inner turmoil, the other man seemed to care very little about their shared predicament, if at all. More telling than this, was how swiftly he was able to conclude what should have remained a very simple and most obvious truth: This wasn’t home. Even so, to hear it be spoken aloud, by someone else, felt…jarring, to say the least. Trying to reflect on it yielded nothing the Marshal could use to build so much as a raft back to Eos, let alone a working hypothesis that could sufficiently explain how they both came to be faced with this insoluble dilemma.

He figured that this, all of this, should have been impossible. For every intent and purpose, it was.

But what does a word like ‘impossible’ even mean to someone that the greater public refers to as Cor the Immortal?

From the perspective of his Lucian allies and compatriots, the Crownsguard commander was the human embodiment of dedication and excellence in the line of duty; the picture definition of a perfect soldier. To his enemies, the Marshal might as well be the Astral of War incarnate, having never lost a single battle throughout his long and illustrious military career to the point he was openly acknowledged as one of the realm’s three best fighters. Frequent and repeated cooperation with the Hunters saw him widely recognized for his ability to complete any task given to him, no matter how difficult the challenge. Talk to the numberless scores of people that Cor has rescued over the course of his service to Crown and Kingdom, and even they will tell you of his ability to successfully overcome insurmountable odds for the sake of his liege and fellow countrymen. At fifteen years old, Cor was the youngest person to ever serve on the royal security detail; he was also this age when he faced the trials of the Blademaster, becoming the first person to emerge from the Tempering Grounds wholly unscathed by the experience. Attempting to run through his entire list of successes here, innumerable as they are, would be well and truly impossible.

But Cor saw it much differently. From his point of view, he thought it was ‘impossible’ to eke out an existence in a ruined world for five years, transformed into a slice of Hell itself. He also considered it ‘impossible’ for that same Hell to run him through the grinder for that long, chewing on every aspect of his whole being for half a decade merely just to spit him out somewhere else.

Anyone else would have called these feats ‘impossible’, too, yet here he was: a ‘legend in the flesh’, living proof of humanity’s limitless potential for greatness, and a royal celebrity through and through.

Well, until recently, anyway.

Fleeting as the thought had been, for all its simplicity, it served to pull Cor away from his listless reverie and into a state of sudden blinking cognition, the kind that generally came about in a moment of immediate epiphany. Not only did the other man seem to accept their mutual plight with casual indifference, he had almost come across as overly familiar with whatever phenomenon had deposited them here. That he called his fatigues a ‘spiffy outfit’ only highlighted his apparent ignorance of Lucian culture, although the Marshal couldn’t exactly hold this against him, seeing as he was equally as uneducated about the shirtless fellow’s nation of origin, wherever it was.

Staring out into the nameless blue ocean before him as he pondered these thoughts, Cor barely caught wind of the stranger’s suggestion to move along and obtain a lay of the land. It was a shrewd idea, and sensible to boot. It’s certainly better than trying to grasp for answers where there are none, just to slip against the proverbial wet stones for his troubles.

With an irenic sigh, Cor rolled his shoulders around to stretch out the tension in his upper back, feeling tiny beads of sweat roll down his temple. Tepid, sure, but what beach wasn’t? A swift glance back in the direction of where he rose from his nightmares caused him to let loose a quiet snort of disappointment, not for what he saw, but for what he allowed to occur in the wake of his own confusion.

Resting half-submerged in the pearly sands were his trusted weapons, Kotetsu and Kikuichimonji, only visible on account of the gleaming silver light reflecting off their gentle curved forms. A wave of relief washes over Cor. Finding new boots was one thing. He couldn’t even begin to imagine replacing his swords for a second time, especially due to careless negligence on his part, and the possibility of somebody unknowingly injuring themselves with one of them was enough to spur the Lucian soldier out of inertia.

Unwilling to pollute the serenity of these new environs with needless shouting, the Marshal gave the departing shirtless man another wave of acknowledgement before he suddenly started moving in the opposite direction. At a glance, it appeared as if he had simply chosen to walk away for reasons only Cor might have been able to understand, yet refused to (or could not) explain. Waiting for a few seconds eventually showed the well-dressed soldier stooping low to the beach so that he could reach for whatever lay in the sands, a telltale sign that he had actually gone back to retrieve his personal effects.

Kikuichimonji, the shorter of the two elegant weapons, would be what Cor picked up first, slipping the blade’s ornately embellished scabbard through a loop on the back of his trousers that connected to a pair of small leather straps, which he had retrofitted during the Long Night to function as an auxiliary frog for hanging appropriately-sized weapons at his waist. He would resolve to simply hold on to Kotetsu, the longer blade, as a matter of habit. Not like he could simply will them in and out of existence anymore, but it made them less vulnerable to petty thieves all the same.

He feels his fingers wrap around Kotetsu’s saya, the scabbard, mentalizing its inner strength returning to his body as though it had physically been drained away. The sword is an extension of his mind, a tool to enact his will upon the world, and the means with which he uses to protect those he loves and cherishes.

With a final mollifying breath, Cor Leonis straightened his posture out once he had returned to standing fully upright, then turned to start walking back in the direction of the other man. This time, he did so with reinvigorated composure, as he had narrowly avoided the crisis of being completely stranded somewhere unknown with no means of defending himself against danger.

It was valid to consider inaction the enemy of progress, given the circumstances, but the Crownsguard also has a saying that proves equally relevant here: “Discretion is the better side of valor”. A mantra that even reflects itself in the Marshal’s impassive and stoic expression.

Jecht

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