UnShaekable (FFXII)

XXVII) Confronting the Past

The dirt path leading up to the refugee camp has me shaking more than the cold winds of the frozen rift. My heart pounds relentlessly in my chest and my fingers twist into the orange material tied about my hips to hide their trembling. It's an unspoken rule that I'm not allowed here any longer. Murder generally constitutes at least a ban.

Once we break past the stone walls of the mountains towering on either side of us and enter the refuge of the holy mountain, I'm nearly drowning in nostalgia. There are far more people lying about without shoes or proper clothing or signs of happiness glistening in their eyes. The very same white tent that housed the soup pots and fresh vegetables when I stayed here is more of a market with its wooden bins and table stands. A pair of seeq stands at the side of the tent, conversing in low voices. Pilgrims stroll about in their customary robes and children run around laughing. It's a place of peace in the midst of a war. Or so they would have you think.

We head further down the path and I stick to the back, hiding behind my hair and pretending nothing's amiss all at once. Young boys run the stands of random assortments they've created to earn money. I fight a painful smile, remember the stones Dern used to carve into and polish. They were simple little things, but he enjoyed making them and the pilgrims could never get enough of the mysterious swirls and dips carved into their surfaces, reading them as religious symbols when really they were mere scribbles. 

The sun peaks around a bend in the path and finally beams down fully on our heads. I close my eyes and take a deep breath of the oh-so familiar air; soon afterward, I swallow the lump in my throat and blink away the pools gathering in my eyes. As I look around all I can see is a tanned young man who could never seem to find an excuse to wear a shirt, whose thick brunette hair was pulled this way and that by the wind, and whose best friend was a simple runaway princess who wanted nothing more than to spread her wings and fly, even if it meant taking a leap of faith off the edge of the mountain. All I see is a pair of wistful children who thought they'd found the secret to happiness. 

The people no doubt stare as a group of battle worn, haggard fighters drags themselves through the accumulating village. Tents stand over nearly every piece of ground, holding more than one family apiece. I doubt my old tent is there, not because it's old, but because old Malachaius would think it defiled. No, we never defiled the bloody tent. That was reserved for the Castean. I fight a bitter laugh. Too far? Though it's been four long years, I'm surprised to see no one I recognize thus far. As the temple draws closer on the horizon, however, I begin to fear that may not always be the case.

"This place is certainly impressive," Basch breathes, looking up at the towering, square buildings. I nod, ducking my head as a nu mou waddles past.

"Yeah," Vaan laughs, earning a few gentle smiles and confused stares from acolytes and pilgrims.

"Let's hope the Gran Kiltias will be prepared to speak with us," Larsa says, holding his chin high and resting the heel of his hand against the hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip.

"I promise to keep my fingers crossed," Penelo nods, her pigtails bouncing with every cheerful step she takes.

The stairs leading up to the temple's entrance have my stomach twisted in knots. Fran eyes me curiously for a split second before facing forward yet again. I huff, hugging my arms to my body anxiously and forcing my legs to continue up the steps mechanically. As Ashe's fingertips brush the surface of the door, I feel all the blood drain from my face. Suddenly wrecked with weakness and inability to face my failures, I stumble back from the group. Fran raises an eyebrow, gaining the attention of the others.

"I'm not quite feeling myself," I force out, pressing my back to the wall tightly.

"Yeah, you're looking pretty pale," Vaan points out, frowning. "Everything alright?"