A short story about those who would become the Gagazet fayth as they await Yu Yevon's return.
It was colder up in the mountain than they expected; Zanarkand was farther north, but Zanarkand never saw the sort of winds that howled along the mountainside all too often. Those who wore the dainty clothing of the noble class died first. The other survivors, not knowing what else to do, pushed the bodies from the mountain when the summoners were too weak to stand.
The survivors of Zanarkand called themselves the Faithful because they trusted in Yu Yevon. They knew that if they looked northward they could see the distant ruins of the great city. They never looked northward and, when they found that the view of the world beyond Gagazet was just as frightening, they looked only at each other. They would huddle close and study the face of the person in front of them. It didn't matter who the person was as long as they were warm enough to keep themselves and those nearest alive through the night.
They would sing each morning until Yu Yevon returned. It became a way of quickly picking out which of the cold bodies would only
get colder. Those who had lain long enough to become unsent would look northward in tight lipped silence until the thin, limping summoners could send them. They had seen the fiends that had been the leisurely nobles and understood that their only choice was to accept the sending or walk down the mountain path to join the fiends.
Sometimes, they talked of Yunalesca and Zaon or of the nine Faithful who sailed with Yevon across the great, unknown ocean. They talked about Lenne's beautiful voice or the way that the lights had flickered before the horizon turned to flames and wind-carried ashes. They mostly talked of Yevon and reassured themselves that he would come back for them.
When Yevon did return, they did not ask what had happened to those that went with him. No one asked what happened to young Valefor or the younger Bahamut. Nor did they ask about the fates of the three sisters or the lovers Shiva and Ifrit. And there were no questions about Yojimbo or quiet Ixion who, with tears in his eyes, had watched the city burn. They asked about Zanarkand. They begged him to take them back to the city; back to a place that wasn't so cold that life and death were decided in the space of a few degrees. He listened to their pleas and, when they could no longer find the words, their weak and broken sobbing.
He was gentle when he pushed each of the trembling survivors to the mountainside and, with those gentle hands, ripped away all that separated them from the nine singing Fayth that had once walked beside him. It was cold in the mountains, colder than they expected, and the stony face of Gagazet was colder still. The Faithful no longer felt the cold when they walked along the lighted streets and swam in the warm waters of their dreams.