The Truth Beyond the Dream (A Final Fantasy X/X-2 Fan Fiction)

Chapter 14: Dim Days of Dolor

It was well-known twins shared a spiritual connection and could sense when the other was in trouble, or had even died, which is why Tidus had no reason to doubt his daughter's intuition. Zanarkand's keepers had taken his son.

He had been sitting at the dining table giving Vidina the concerned-parent-talk when he had heard his wife and daughter's anguished cries. At first, he thought it was just his daughter throwing a temper tantrum over the new house rules. But he quickly learned it was far worse than he could've ever imagined. Another promise broken. He couldn't protect his son.

Sitting on a crate in the dusty confines of his attic with the only light emitting from a single bulb swaying above his head, he rummaged through a metal trunk, searching for his old weapons. He wanted to cry so badly. He wanted to hold his wife and daughter and share in their weeping, but he had to be the pillar holding up what was left of his broken family if they were going to get through this. Instead of being consumed by grief, he channeled the one emotion he felt was a suitable replacement—pure rage.

He smiled when he spotted his blue, brotherhood sword, envisioning the blade severing off the head of that child-like demon who had turned his life into a living hell. Yes, rage was a beautiful thing, along with the type of courage it provided. He no longer feared dying or cared what anyone thought of him. All he could think about was snuffing out the lives of those twisted, evil bastards that called themselves the fayth.

Carefully retrieving his sword out of the trunk, he set it on his lap and ran his fingers along the cool, glowing blade. He was going to slaughter those keepers and get his son back. After all, Nymeia was god, right? There had to be some way to convince her to bring his son home.

The creaking sound of someone ascending the steps interrupted his murderous thoughts. He was really in no mood for any company.

"Tidus...?"

He kept his eyes glued on his sword, refusing to meet his wife's gaze—afraid seeing the sorrow in them may cause his resolve to crumble. "Yeah?"

"What are you doing?"

"Preparing for battle, what else?"

"We just lost our son." The anguish in her voice was soul crushing.

"He's not dead, Yuna. He's in Zanarkand."

"He's not in this world anymore, so it's almost—"

"Don't say it!" he snapped. "It's not even close to the same thing."

"You need to grieve. Have you even cried yet?"

It already felt like his heart had been torn out of his chest and shredded into tiny bits. Her persistence on the matter was only making things worse, adding guilt to the equation. "Crying won't bring him back. Killing those twisted keepers...now that...that's our only hope in seeing our son again."

"Maybe... Maybe we should side with Zanarkand, after all."

Her shocking suggestion prompted him to snap his head up and look her in the eye. She looked broken, but serious, no less. "After ridiculing me for two days, you're suddenly all for this?"

"Things have changed. They have our son now."

"What about the rest of Spira? You're willing to sacrifice an entire civilization?"

"I've sacrificed enough for Spira!" she hollered, slamming her fist against the wall. "What about my happiness? I want my son back! I want my life back! If Spira has to burn to the ground for that to happen, then so be it!"

To say he was stunned would be an understatement. He never expected to hear those words leave her lips. She was clearly lashing out in her grief-stricken state. "C'mon Yuna, you don't really mean that. We have a chance to liberate this realm. We shouldn't dismiss it."