A pensive young Auron witnesses the sending of his parents.
Closing the forge, the swordsmith looked down at his son and wondered if all children asked their parents such grim questions. It's probably those damn books his mother buys him. He tells her all the time the boy's too young for that business. But does the woman listen? Nah.
"It'll be Sin, won't it?"
"Come here, kid." He sat down so he was eye-level with his son. "It's not gonna end for a real long time, you hear? And when it does," He continued seriously, "it won't be 'cause of Sin. The world will only end when it's good and ready, not 'cause some big fish came along and splashed some water. Sin will be long gone, and the world will end happily and in peace. Only when it's ready." He stroked his son's dark hair. "Promise me you'll believe your father, and not some book, ok?"
Auron nodded, his nut-brown eyes wide and solemn. "I believe you."
They tried to stop him when he went back to his house. But he had pulled away, to see what was left. He found his father's body in the workshop, the man's limbs twisted around a heavy wooden beam, his chest pulverized under his anvil, half-formed swords scattered and bent. In one mangled hand, his father was clutching his still-corked earthenware nog jug. Auron gently unwrapped his father's fingers, already cold, from the jug. His father's blood was on it, which smelled like the metal the man spent his life hammering and forging.
Auron felt queerly ill and began to walk away. Something shinning caught his eye near a small overturned chest. His mother's glazed beads, green and yellow and blue and bright as summer. He took those, too. He knew his mother was here as well, under the rubble somewhere. He could not bear to find her.
Later, he sat on a grassy slope and watched the summoner dance among pyreflies, all blazing and indistinguishable. He wondered which ones were his parents. They all went so easily. He had hoped, in a deep and unspeakable way, that his parents might be a little tougher, glued a little tighter to this side of Spira. But the summoner danced until all the souls were danced away and he watched the entire thing, dry-eyed. He would not cry in front of the summoner. An unfamiliar woman tried to hug him, but he pushed her away rudely.
He sat there until nightfall, wearing his mother's beads around his neck, and clutching the white jug like a child's stuffed mog, disregarding anyone who would comfort him.
When the sky began to lighten with a band of pale light, only then did Auron begin to cry.
He was still breathing.
The sun was rising.
The world continued.
One house does not make the world. One village does not make the world. One life does not make the world.
I still believe you, Papa.