Categories > Games > Final Fantasy X
It is cold here.
Let it be known, our city was the pinnacle of civilization. My father ruled with an open and even hand. That is why the people obeyed him, that is why they gave their lives to the dreaming. Truly, ours was a city of heroes. Never before and never since have there been such a fair people as ours.
But now, it is cold.
The fire died a thousand years ago, when the last of my servants made their final pilgrimage to the mountain beyond the city. In a city of death and magic, there is no-one to serve a ghost princess. And so I watched the orange coals grow dark and cool and I watched the soot and ash be swept away by pyrefly drafts. Unmaintained, the very masonry of the hearth began to slip and collapse. Our baubles and jewels tarnished and skittered across the floor. The rich velvet curtains that my mother had so proudly cleaned and brushed every morning fell from their rods and lay in rotting, dank piles. We'd built our palace for the ages, with deep foundations and sturdy walls of marble stone. Those, too had an end.
Now, exposed to the desolate and vast hollow of the universe, I watch the stars wink out while I wait for the next summoner.
Everyone I have loved has died and yet I still stay on. For my dear father, claimed by the beast he created to save us all. For my noble husband, whose memory strengthens me and comforts me. For the children we never had the chance to have. For the brave dead and dreamers of Zanarkand. For Spira. For hope.
In my life, I've vanquished many fiends. Yet I never struck a man down until you. It is a curious sensation. I cannot regret it in good faith, for it is my duty to protect our sacred hope and you threatened it.
And yet we were not so different. You, the honorable guardian of a high summoner and I, the holy guardian of divine ritual. Two grieving souls, torn from the lives and truths that once cradled us neatly.
Perhaps that is why I did not kill you. It would have been easy to kill you. I could have shucked the life out of you with the ease of a feather caught on one's breath.
Hope is bleak. It took me five hundred years to learn that and another five hundred to accept it. You, however, were still such a young man.
Perhaps that is why I quickly turned away as you staggered, dazed and dying, down the broken steps.
Let it be known, our city was the pinnacle of civilization. My father ruled with an open and even hand. That is why the people obeyed him, that is why they gave their lives to the dreaming. Truly, ours was a city of heroes. Never before and never since have there been such a fair people as ours.
But now, it is cold.
The fire died a thousand years ago, when the last of my servants made their final pilgrimage to the mountain beyond the city. In a city of death and magic, there is no-one to serve a ghost princess. And so I watched the orange coals grow dark and cool and I watched the soot and ash be swept away by pyrefly drafts. Unmaintained, the very masonry of the hearth began to slip and collapse. Our baubles and jewels tarnished and skittered across the floor. The rich velvet curtains that my mother had so proudly cleaned and brushed every morning fell from their rods and lay in rotting, dank piles. We'd built our palace for the ages, with deep foundations and sturdy walls of marble stone. Those, too had an end.
Now, exposed to the desolate and vast hollow of the universe, I watch the stars wink out while I wait for the next summoner.
Everyone I have loved has died and yet I still stay on. For my dear father, claimed by the beast he created to save us all. For my noble husband, whose memory strengthens me and comforts me. For the children we never had the chance to have. For the brave dead and dreamers of Zanarkand. For Spira. For hope.
In my life, I've vanquished many fiends. Yet I never struck a man down until you. It is a curious sensation. I cannot regret it in good faith, for it is my duty to protect our sacred hope and you threatened it.
And yet we were not so different. You, the honorable guardian of a high summoner and I, the holy guardian of divine ritual. Two grieving souls, torn from the lives and truths that once cradled us neatly.
Perhaps that is why I did not kill you. It would have been easy to kill you. I could have shucked the life out of you with the ease of a feather caught on one's breath.
Hope is bleak. It took me five hundred years to learn that and another five hundred to accept it. You, however, were still such a young man.
Perhaps that is why I quickly turned away as you staggered, dazed and dying, down the broken steps.
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