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kazeofthemagun · 3 years

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Child of Wolf

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“Wolf father, at the door

You don't smile anymore

You're a drifter, shapeshifter

Let me see you run, hey ya hey ya

Wayward winds

The voice that sings of a forgotten land

See it fall, child of wolf

Lend a mending hand”

[Kaze’s compiled backstory drabble, canon + headcanon, 3.3k words, pre-show.]

[content warnings: blood, death, abuse, trauma, dark themes in general]

He had always been closer to the dead than he was to the living. Closer to animals than men; for men often were the greater monsters.

There was a sneer, and another sharp rock grazed his face. A small cut, at first glance almost unnoticeable, but blood trickled. It was a light red against his tanned skin, quickly obscured by a dishevelled mess of equally red hair. He glared.

A child yelped, feigning fear, as they felt a pair of icy-blue eyes digging into their features like those of a starved dog on the verge of lunging. "The desert-wolf is angry, isn't he? Just look. He bares his teeth like an animal!"

Children, indeed, could be the most cruel. "...Hand me another."

The sound of a stone hitting pavement. He moved away, for the time being. He was not welcome there.

Whether it was because he had come from outside the city, rescued by some old hermit who found his fugitive father sick from desert wolf-venom and begging for his child's safety, or because he was an orphan, the only memories of his sire he ever had (his mother he couldn't remember at all) intertwined with gnashing, reddened teeth of beasts, he didn't know. All that remained of his family - the only corporeal proof that it had existed and it was his - a protective necklace his dying father bestowed upon him as blood charted trails along the pavement, washing out the poison along with life.

What he did know was that if the folk tales were to be trusted, his unusual hair color had come from his body soaking up that very blood, of one who died to protect his child from the mercilessness of Mother Nature. A story his still-too-naïve, youthful mind was made to believe.

They made him know very well that he shouldn't be alive. That he was an evil omen. A child not of man, but of sand beasts. The fangs he flashed at them as they laughed did little to help.

Even the one to initially pick him up did not come to stay. Indeed, the man was too old and too senile to remain in his life for too long. The knowledge of speech he did manage to acquire was incomplete. To safeguard the precious words he kept as a memoir of their time together, he resorted to guttural growls and the occasional hiss as each new object battered his famished body.

Perhaps he was simply not meant for that world, brought into it incomplete, like a story half-written, ink bleeding over crumpled pages to deny him meaning. Like the stained manuscript slipping from the trembling hands of his tutor when he finally lost the ability to hold the pen.

Where did a child such as him go, one may ask?

He sought help at first, not quite understanding of what happened, voices of pity and superficial comfort finally directing him away from his only home. That was the plight of his existence - a promise of aid never delivered, hollow reassurances never backed up by deeds. He may have been but seven cycles old, but the lesson of distrust and scepticism was rooted in him as one of the first, most painful, and most precious.

Denied shelter, he wandered like the wind, tracing the lines of the cobblestone streets, tripping over stones and scavenging for sustenance. A sense of dignity was inborn to him, which made the ordeal seem even more wrong to the boy who hardly knew good from evil.

He only learned to recognize the latter by experience. The first, remained a vague concept in the back of his psyche.

One may say he was a fighter, staying alive for so long, under the weight of such an indifferent society. They were a proud people, rarely stooping too low for comfort, a callous culture who believed in prosperity solely for the fittest.

Yet they hardly wished to speak of the ugliness which made up the fundaments upon which they trod. He made himself at home where the mighty never walked, and worked odd jobs here and there among fellow dwellers of disgrace. It paid him in continuity, slowly adding more letters to that dirtied draft he called a living.

Yet there would be those better off than him, who beheld him some circus animal rearing from the dark towards water.

"Get the dog away from the water. Stray dogs spread nothing but disease..!"

They're out of rocks at that point, having hit some, having missed some. One, a particularly tall boy, pranced around him for some time, as if in hopes of scaring him away. He didn't budge.

They exchanged looks, the boy finding himself drawn in by those blue eyes of his, and a staring contest ensued. All the while, he was making his move for the water. Were they intimidated? Perhaps.

Perhaps they noticed that, upon closer inspection, he, too, was quite imposing for his age.

One attempted to throw sand in his direction, movements suddenly so much less confident, and earned herself a snarl in response. He didn't like wasting words where none were needed. And if they wished to persist, he could make good use of his fists and teeth. Indeed, he had gotten in quite a few brawls on the streets with fellow children and had the scars to show. He wore them proudly - like the tokens of another survived day. Of his rights as a human being he protected with tooth and nail.

He acquired the water he had come for. But that was the least of his troubles, really - something he had done time and time again, for without water, there was no life. Especially in the lower cities, submerged in desert heat and shielded only rarely by the passing shadows of the capital's floating continents.

There were things more perilous to acquire than water - such as money.

One fateful night, he picked up a delivery job for spare change, hoping to replace some of the worn clothes. What he didn't know, however, was that the customer he ended up working for was in it for more than the simple favor of transport. In a way, he was sending what he thought to be a lamb into a predator's nest. Indeed, some would acquire income over the chained bodies of children, sold away into servitude of the kind most foul.

But his instincts were keen, and able of body he was. What transpired there, and what he saw, he would never mention, but in the end, he escaped with bloodied nails, battered knuckles and chipped teeth. To survive in that world, he taught himself to fight. What was not given, he would take.

To survive, he turned to violence, the images of the night haunting him with yet another disappointing realization. The world was not cruel only to him - mayhaps he should have been happy, but the hidden goodness inside dismissed such a notion. So he turned to fights, fists against fists and knees buried in one's gut, muting out the compassion inside, for nobody ever felt any for him. Not in a way that ultimately mattered. He would much rather collect the coins from the creases in the pavement when the curious crowd tossed tribute for the winner. But even that turned out a poor source of income, and he found himself, between errands, trying his luck elsewhere. Somewhere quiet.

Seldom, he turned to religion, the allure of spiritual comfort prying at the back of his mind as remembrance of the scribe who had raised him. He joined a temple to work under a priest, learning the speak of Soil and the ways of Wind. There, he contemplated the praises sung over countless evenings for the high summoners and their weapon-deity, Magun, the Temple's greatest relic. He would furrow his brows and think, that he never saw his guardian turn to colored sand, and scatter along the breath of the Planet to sustain the growth of plants.

Rarer yet, but increasingly more often, he turned to poetry, for once in his life crafting something of his very own, even if the still crude wording only held meaning to him. Once, he beheld a contingent of soldiers invoke a mighty Phoenix with a ritual of three departed souls, and he dreamed of one day calling beasts of his own.

He had always been closer to the dead than he was to the living, after all. Closer to animals than men. He could feel a kinship with the splendid bird, free and fiery and defiant, and so brazenly selfish. He sought to imitate, and draw teachings from the beating wings.

For days he would sit in the scorching heat and contemplate the name of fire.

He was but twelve cycles old when a warrior recognized his spirit.

He jumped at the opportunity, leaving behind the temple and the budding bonds he forged there. There was no meaning left for him there, lest he wished to work himself into illness with clipped wings, carrying incense and washing tiles. And with a reawakened passion and the remembrance of the Phoenix, the prospect he could not bear.

He wanted to explore his strength, his one heirloom passed down to him by his blood and the desert. He vowed he would make a fine warrior himself. Like a Phoenix, he would rise from the dust and protect his dignity and freedom. Temper it in blood and sweat, and secure it in a clenched hand.

He did. A natural, he was, training and fighting with all the ferocity of a wolf and taking to the gun and dagger with the sly precision of a hawk. Indeed, he was born more a beast than man in this way, blessed perhaps not with claw and fang, but sheer animalistic determination.

He showed no hesitation nor remorse as he humiliated the other trainees, proving himself time and time again in the fighting pit. The cult of the Wind Warriors, the ultimate ode to strength, was his water if he were a fish. They asked.

"What is your name?"

He responded, for once not sparing words,

"I have never had one in a way that mattered, for none sounded right. They only ever called me Wolf."

And so they granted him one that he cherished, and painted his featured in the colors of their clan. He belonged. He loved and was loved in turn.

Together, they took up the holy calling weapons of Soil-Adherents, forged in the image of the high temple's gun demon, and performed rituals to summon gallant beasts. He knew then the name of fire, but there was one who could call flames brighter than any imitation ever could. He strove to witness the work of the Champion himself, to refine his technique further, never quite satisfied. Always pushing to improve, and to understand what strength truly entailed. It was another milestone he laid out for himself.

Windarian warrior clans had always been tightly knit, each a community unto themselves. They trained together, traveled together, served together. They ventured out into the deep desert and the loftiest plain, slaying beasts and bandits. Soon enough, he had a hunting party of his own, and he sought out that man, and his rotten business, and he freed the children, human or otherwise, even if not many remained. And even if the practice was looked down upon, he snuck money in their hands and sent them on their way with a prayer for good fortune. They, too, could become as the Phoenix.

The past was but fleeting dust, so he vowed never to look back. A tall order, it was. To be broken much too early.

One of the Moogles he rescued there took to him quickly, and followed in his every step. As an Adherent, the Wind Warrior offered his teachings. The tale of perseverance and strength enamored the fairy, not too much younger than him. So even if the winged one couldn't be a warrior, he took him in and trained him as a Missionary. He was but 20 cycles old then, silently hoping he would make for a good mentor to his first student. He saw the youngling wear his wings like he wore his cape, and he laughed heartily.

He rose through the ranks, soon enough taking control of his clan. He was proud and bowed to no one - his one true creed was power. To his enemies, he was merciless as a force of Nature, and to his found family he was a fierce protector. There was but one time where he knelt before another, and it was by choice, nothing like the grovelling of a starved child. It was a respect paid between warriors; Finally, he had the opportunity to behold and treasure a presence mightier. It was a name he would remember most fondly, one of the generation's champion of Magun.

As he took the bow, so, too, did his entire clan. The Demon Gunner offered his teachings, the greatest honor, but he couldn't help but notice the reddened eyes and shallow, shaky breath with each movement of the holy weapon. Sometimes, the strength of the Espers was not meant for mortals. But such was the cycle of souls.

It was a time he realized, that if such power was ever truly required, and ever truly mattered, he would gladly sacrifice his life to attain it. Even if his eyes failed him, his hands shook more each following day, and his blood ran black and foamed from between his teeth.

The wolf-turned-summoner became obsessed with power.

There was a time of unrest in the capital, a civil war breaking out. The champion of Magun did indeed die, The high priest's assassination following suit, and the ruling caste plunged into chaos. Clans were pitted against one another, and he saw it as an opportunity. With an iron fist, he seized control of the situation, in a ploy to get into the High Temple's graces. Other clans soon joined the effort, protecting the nation from anarchy. Balance was restored.

They were deemed war heroes then. It was around that time that his plan was truly set in motion. Amassing power and influence; And using it to overthrow Windaria's broken order, keeping the bloodthirsty warrior clans on a leash. It was also around that time when he met her.

She worked as a priestess of Soil in one of the city's temples, in her spare time tending to the most beautiful garden, tucked away behind the building as if behind a shield, free from the hustle and bustle of the lively district.

He slipped away towards the end of a mass held in their honor, never the one to bear too much noise, and ended up among the flowers. There were some that he had never seen before, and quickly he realized the value in the fragile beauty they held. She approached him then, and they conversed idly. She was one of those with whom words flowed lightly, lighter than he could have known.

He visited that temple from then on, and they grew close. He was a young, ambitious summoner from a once-outsider clan and a rising local legend, and she was a priestess of the spirits, a Missionary of Soil. He learned that she, too, had suffered in her youth, and much like him had a strong will to see her through life. He saw much of himself in her, and soon enough offered her a place in his clan.

She accepted. It was both a blessing, and a curse to them. Cruel and callous chance was something the young gunmage would soon learn was to be his very shadow, following ever in his footsteps like a persistent animal of prey.

The look of horror in their eyes when he casually showed her the warding amulet he had as a keepsake of his father; And she traced their origins over the engraved symbols to a clan hailing from a war-torn region, a small city smashed between a rock and a hard place in the duel of two local factions. Together, they took a hot-air balloon and traveled. Asked questions. Spoke to the elders.

The truth was laid bare - they were siblings, separated at birth when a raid surprised the town and ripped families apart.

They embraced one another and wept, a storm of emotions buzzing with a multitude they could not quite put into words; The love they had was not lost, only strengthened, reforged into a familial bond tight enough to last the ages. They became inseparable, a brother and his sister. A sister and her brother.

The wolf-turned-summoner, one ever obsessed with power, answered the call. It was the symbol of his greatest achievement and greatest downfall alike. His words filled her with a boundless sadness, but she was a Soil Missionary and he was a Soil Adherent. They were more than the lives they lived, resigning themselves to the dust from whence they had come. The purpose they followed in their existence meant more to them than even themselves.

What was more important to the son of wolves, however - the life he promised her they would lead, or the call of the High Temple, and another promise yet - made to him. Of power.

One he could never refuse. Nobody could - this highest honor was a collar snapping shut around his neck from the very moment it was offered.

He knew that accepting the Demon Gun - and being accepted by it in turn - spelled an early doom. He remembered vividly those wild eyes and seizing fingers, ink dripping from the mouth like the ink from his late guardian's pen. Unnatural. Twisted. The beauty of Espers was too much for mortals such as them. They were but animals taking in the spirits of gods.

He went to a jeweller, an elderly man with a mastery of his craft. He requested custom work - a pair of earrings cast from his own blood, solidified with tree sap. It would be a memento. For him and for her, when the color was no longer to be found in his veins. A symbol, perhaps. An amulet of warding much like the one that brought them together, a token of their bond to last the ages. A message.

Look upon this gift of mine and remember I was once human.

She knew she would accept her brother even if the holy beast settled in his bones and devoured his heart. The Moogle he tutored cried both with pride and solemnity. And the summoner knew that and kept their words close. With their hopes and prayers he ascended the steps to the altar where the Dragon awaited.

"What is your name?" The priests all knew it. The Beast knew, too. But it wanted to hear it. The willpower in his voice, what would become the foundation of the seal that linked them together and inevitably cut his life short when Imhullu - the Magun discarded yet another in search for its perfect match.

What the summoner did not know, however - was that his shadow was far from done with him. The persistent echo in his mind, the story of the red-haired children who did not die at birth as they should have. Who brought calamity, and all that followed them was blood. A worthless tale, or perhaps a geas - the name for that accursed shadow. He had let his hair grow long and vibrant in defiance of the nightmares they imparted in his psyche, but the nightmares still returned. Always they would.

He responded, feeling the needles pierce the skin and his soul enter a state of dreaming. A dreaming he would not rise quite the same from.

His name would be the name of one who defied death at every turn. Even as it claimed everyone he had ever come to love, but never him - ever closer to the dead than the living, closer to animals than men - the legion of monsters who would follow his every command. The Gun Dragon laughed.

"...My name is Black Wind."

#[[drabble #[[Child of Wolf #[[lore and speculation #[[headcanon #[[Of My Blood You Alone ║ Golden Aura #[[Dear Gunmetal ║ Moogle Kupo #song is Wolf by First Aid Kit #kiichimarichuril #edits made on 07/12/22 to clarify things since lots of new lore had come out #nothing too major and nothing changes

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kazeofthemagun · 3 years

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#thats it thats the post #final fantasy unlimited #moogle kupo #[[Dear Gunmetal ║ Moogle Kupo #hes a precious baby

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kazeofthemagun · 3 years

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I will save you back - Bond with Moogle Kupo

“And he turned to face his fellow Windarian, the fae’s visible beady eye framed by laugh lines. His dear Moogle. His Peacekeeper. Kaze's perpetual frown relaxed, and he returned a sorrowful look.”

[headcanon drabble, character study, 5.1k words, mid-show (Episode 22)]

[content warnings: body horror, psychological horror, angst, trauma, emetophobia]

The tower exploded with a flash of lightning, Ixion's ornate horn striking down with all the force of a wrathful cyclone - smiting the construct of Chaos. Begone, doomsday machine. The Demon Gunner's soulless blue lit up with a certain recognition, touch of the newcomer's magic still lingering upon Magun's shell. A magic somehow familiar, the warmth of which he had felt times and times before. The woken Weapon shattered and folded over onto itself; Satisfied with a job well done. Another obstacle destroyed. It was what it lived for.

It was what it thawed for, and for what his heart still beat.

The broadcast ceased, debris raining down upon them as they snapped out of their stupor, beautiful lies still too close for comfort. Yu screamed, tugging at his sister's sleeves as the cards scattered to the howling wind which blew into their backs. They ran, an adrenaline-fueled sprint carrying them towards the harbor, where Jane awaited. Fungo's cloak was also snatched, and the three headed for safety, fabric of the patchwork reality inside the Puzzle's Cube unfolding outwards from the spot the radio station once stood. Another challenge passed, and another vestigial world to meet its final demise.

Crack, crack. The web spread ever further.

He knew well the trick Chaos had attempted on them, and still he allowed himself to sink into its alluring embrace. So what if it was but a lie? He had long forgotten what happiness felt like. A terrible guilt swept in; Shame. Shame on you, Warrior. To have chosen escape over continuing onward as your people always did. For what? Only so you could see her again? Even if you knew it was but an illusion, and the past could never be changed? Did you not promise yourself never to look back?

Only so the voices of regret would finally fall silent. Every waking moment he pleaded for them to stop, and yet still he wandered the halls at night, blue orbs reflecting moonlight like those of a lost animal.

Kaze forced his eyes to stare on despite the biting surge of hot air, watching the aftermath of the summoning as he always did. The thing that had ensnared and enamored them was gone. The children could run, now, and live through the ordeal. At least there was that. His gaze was filled with hatred, and longing. It was all that was left in his eviscerated mind. To hate. And to ache. My dear, dear sister...

And he saw it again, and smelled it. Even inside that beautiful dream, time went by as it had. The scent of blue flowers, so sweet, sweet enough to bring vomit up his throat and into the mouth, held back between gritted teeth. The plain where they sat and where his Planet's children played was where Chaos - White Cloud...! - descended. Where it took her away, and with her, took everyone. Everyone. The Soil chattered, hungering for the blood of the Mist. Kill. Kill. Kill. Avenge. Avenge -

And yet, something pulled him from his hallucinations. Touched the Magun and made it sing again. Who are you? I cannot remember. His tongue searched for a name, but he uttered nothing.

With reality crumbling and the hurricane still raging, he was content simply to stare. Death hardly threatened him, after all. The Demon Gun always had a destination in mind, and so, he would merely touch the ground beneath and the Spiral would take him away. He did not have a need to run. And yet...

Snap out of it! That voice -

He blinked. There was a scream of terror, feet leaving the ground as the rampaging gale carried the newcomer away. The creature clad in black, wearing the lesser brand of the Phoenix and the mark of his clan. Who? Who are -

He did not understand. He was merely a machine. And yet, suddenly, something clicked, and the machine sprung into action.

He knew then just who saved him from his dreams. Long legs pushed off the ground in a mad leap, hand reaching into the air to grasp the hand of another's. A jolt of electricity - he pushed the trauma down the best he could - and gripped firmly. He would not let go. His silence thawed not unlike the Weapon mounted upon his arm. A name, recalled at last. You are...

"Moo...gle.”

Moogle Kupo. My dear friend. Your face, your eyes, your voice, I remember it all. The fae cried out in relief, tears glistening against the wind. Kaze pulled him closer, and set him firmly on the ground. We need to run, Moogle said. Kaze agreed.

For once, he had a reason to run, because he was not running for his life, but another's.

"Hold on," a word spoken in their native language as he made a break for the shore, hand entwined with his ally's. The pixie's little paws could hardly keep up, and his wings would do little in such a storm; The next thing the creature felt was a sharp tug and he was secure within the Wind Warrior's arms, braced by his hand and the Magun. Alarm blared from Jane's speakers as the last of the Comodeen made it inside, and the vessel began to submerge. Black Wind's eyes narrowed, accepting the challenge. Magun's teleportation hardly worked for two. His stride lengthened, and with a formidable jump they made it safely onto one of the vehicle's side-wings, from where the top could be accessed and there, an emergency hatch to let them inside.

The passage closed just in time to deny water entry - only then could they truly breathe a collective sigh of relief. Nausea washed over the gunmage, too-slender frame wobbling as his shoulder met the wall with a metallic clink of armor. Human hand grasped at the rim of his cape. Kupo pawed at the side of his old friend's leg, attempting a reassuring smile before his features warped into a look of surprise.

Black Wind lurched forward and threw up from exertion.

---------

"....What do you mean you did not wait for Kaze? He saved us from the psychic field!"

"Look, we did not have time! We thought he had already made it in, the entire Cube was falling apart!"

Knave fumbled for words underneath Lisa Pacifist's unrelenting assault, the twins peeking out from behind her with worry still evident on their childish faces. Yu's eyes were red. A breach nearly consumed him before he entered the submarine, and he had been shaking since. The Comodeen were only just assessing damage; Thankfully, it seemed as though the reality collapse cost them no casualties in personnel, only equipment. Equipment for which Cid understandably wept for, even if his tears were a tad dramatic, doing little to diffuse the already tense situation. Everyone was on edge, and the hallways were filled with shouting and people running to-and-fro, bumping into each other and tossing about insults. Tool crates were dropped and feet were injured.

Even now that Jane was safely out in the open waters, the volatile atmosphere had yet to subside. At least the spacetime within the ship itself was stable. "Where is Mister? I heard he fainted..." Yu finally asked the Kigen artist.

"He did not faint but is reportedly feeling very weak." She responded, dark eyes lost in thought. "Weak enough to not even complain about going to the sick bay, apparently." She gave a weak laugh. As she always did. "I'm sure he'll be okay. But it's probably best to leave him alone for now."

The younger Hayakawa nodded, taking his sister's hand as they headed towards Miles standing at the opposite end of the corridor. The Comodeen sniper greeted them and issued instructions - and the kids were off to help carry tools for any repairs underway.

Lisa's lips discarded the forced smile, a deep sigh leaving the woman instead. She knew well none of them were perfect - not she, not Knave, not Kaze - and yet the injustice with which the last was often treated left an aftertaste in her mouth she hated to experience. But it was only the truth. Nobody deserved to be left behind, even an entity as terrifying as the demonic gunslinger could sometimes be.

Her Kigen proficiency had told her before his soul was not quite human - but dammit he had the right to be treated like one. Even if they still feared him.

She would not be here if not for him. None of them would be, really. She caught the hypocrisy of her thoughts.

One did not need to earn being treated as a person.

---------

He sat on one of the beds, staring blankly at a wall. Moogle sat beside in supportive silence. The gunmage's equipment rested on a table, cape hanging behind him. He was cold. Despite the doctor's repeated suggestions, the taciturn Wind had not quite felt like obediently laying down. Instead, he breathed in and out soundlessly, allowing the man to run his examinations. A stethoscope pressed against his chest, quickly followed by another. Then, a third. Kaze sighed and merely watched the situation unfold. Amidst the medic's bafflement, Cid was requested.

"Hmmm... the stethoscopes seem just fine to me. Try them now!" The inventor offered, unbuckling his various machinery and pulling up his shirt. Having proven his point, he gave a victorious smirk. "Considering Mr. Kaze here is merged to the Magun, his heart is actually... elsewhere. Isn't he just fascinating?"

The warrior said nothing, listening to the blonde explain him not unlike one of his own machines. He had allowed the engineer to scan his golden gun when they originally met, after all. Cid knew about his condition, even if said knowledge was superficial. A certain bitterness rode up his throat, but it was not a prelude to yet another round of retching. It was... disgust. With all that he was. But it was the truth. He was an amnesiac war machine. Did he even... own those memories he relived day after day? Or, were they placed in him?

Was Moogle... perhaps not once his student and closest friend? Was Aura not his sister?

Did it even matter? All he needed to do was destroy White Cloud. One directive, and one predatory algorithm. He closed his eyes, releasing a shaky breath. Maybe then it would be over.

Cold.

He crossed his arms, human hand grasping at his right shoulder. His back arched, ornate patterns the meaning of which he had forgotten adorning an emaciated frame. A shadow of a body. Even for a Windarian, he was deathly thin. The medic told him he looked like a corpse. A bitter chuckle, more akin to a hoarse rumble. Were it only so easy.

He continued to take in the inventor's monologue. How fitting for that boy to only see the mechanical demon in him. To see only golden metal and wire, the magnificent Soil engines, the blades of obsidian, the drill that powered the Spiral. He saw the energy burning within his system, one of a perfect Weapon to call splendid beasts. He did not see the broken man under the weight of it all, paper-thin skin draped over jutting ribs, matted hair that had long forgotten what care was. Sullen, sunken-in eyes, the fire within all but burnt out until he saw that mongrel again. That white-clad swordsman he lived to see fall.

Kaze was a dead man walking risen from his grave to drag the Gaudian Lord Kumo right back to hell with him.

Cid gleefully ushered him towards a glowing platform placed on the tiled floor. Above it, a sizable screen loomed, black and empty. Slowly, he rose and walked over, stepping into the designated spot. The contraption flared to life, and he observed as a metal ring descended and steadily traveled past him towards the bottom. Beeping. A most obnoxious sound, and vertigo came knocking right back, reminding him of its presence. Of course it would.

Cid might as well have teleported, staring up at the display panel with a gaping mouth. "Wooaah... oh no. Arabella here says you, Sir, should be dead about ten times over! And she's definitely not the type to lie, if I do say so myself..."

Kaze reacted not. Was this new to him? Hardly. He had been dead ten times over. He was not counting, but the number was up there.

Set afire, drowned, blown to shreds, impaled, disembowelled, beheaded. Magun always pulled through. And it shackled his heart and soul so long as it itself functioned.

He did not remember just what the demon really was, and how it kept him alive, but he was painfully aware his body was warped far beyond what a human should have been able to endure.

And Kaze was no longer human. Here they had the proof.

"....And it seems like your bones are coated in an unidentified metal... your own blood should literally be poison to you... are those wires?! Fascinating! And.... and...." Truth be told, Black Wind had no reason to listen. Yapping, yapping, meaningless yapping. He allowed himself off the plate and slumped back on the bed. A low growl finally seeped from between his teeth. "Silence."

Enough.

Cid blinked comically and stared in his direction, away from the horrified doctor, who was nigh pale enough to faint. "Sorry, what was that?"

Kaze drawled, venom dripping from every word. "...I am not some circus animal, Engineer. Remember."

I hate you, he thought. I hate all of you.

It was all he had left. Hate and longing.

....But then, why did he keep saving them?

A paw brushed against his side, electricity shooting up the Soil-Adherent's spine. Moo...gle. He did not hate him. He did not hate Moogle. Or, did he?

Where the fae had been quiet, allowing medical professionals to do their work, after some time he finally decided to speak. "Take a moment to pause. Kaze here is not some piece of tech to be gawked at. He is a living being, even if your devices do not recognize him as such." Small brows furrowed with conviction. Kupo was polite where Black Wind was not, but he, too, had a way of speaking which ensured his words would not be taken lightly. "So, stop treating him like an object. He is a human who has feelings."

And he turned to face his fellow Windarian, the fae’s visible beady eye framed by laugh lines. His dear Moogle. His Peacekeeper. Kaze's perpetual frown relaxed, and he returned a sorrowful look.

...Back on Windaria, many times was he about to rip out another's throat, until Kupo stepped in. His Peacekeeper. In many ways, wiser than his mentor. Kupo spoke where he himself had no more words. And did it much better than he ever could.

Another wave of dizziness, Magun's engines humming painfully in his ears. What... was... Windaria? His world... his people? Was that the name?

"...Clearly he needs help. Just look at him, he needs food, and hot water. A shampoo, definitely. And space. I don't intend to invalidate your own hardships, but my partner has been through a lot. So, if you'll excuse him."

He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling much safer, like he was again in the care of a benevolent guardian. An odd feeling to have at a time like this. For a man like him. His mind, however, was too drained to dwell much longer. He rose to his feet, reclaimed his apparel and began to dress himself. His belt clicked closed around his waist, Orthrus back in its holster and his trusty cape over his armored shoulders. He walked past the Comodeen without saying anything else.

With his cape concealing his diminished form, he looked less like a cadaver and more like a thing that could still reasonably be walking.

Saved him the staring, that. Between his physique and the golden sarcophagus encasing what used to be a human arm.

---------

Sometime later, Jane's main deck. Kaze and Kupo sat together in quiet meditation, away from the commotion and yet still close enough to stay informed in real time. A storm was brewing, the Puzzle shifting around them steadily as they went.

One of them broke their meditation, however. A visible beady eye of blue stared up. "Kaze, you should make use of the ship's amenities more. Now that you're here, you can eat better and take a warm bath. I know I'm gonna. You could also -" A pause. The Adherent's eyes were closed. Was he asleep? Not unlikely, considering the hell they had been through that day. The Missionary stared on for a moment longer, unsure. Slowly, he slipped closer, until his furry body snuggled against the warrior. Moogles did not purr, their contentedness manifesting as an increase in bioluminosity instead. The electric impulses from the fae's heartbeat lit up his lantern in a series of gentle waves. Still, Moogles were a species between man and Esper, and their senses were often sharper. Such as, their sense of smell.

Truth be told, one did not need an improved sense of smell to notice Kaze reeked quite badly. Blood, sweat, dirt. No, not the Soil kind either. When had he last washed his clothes? He was on Jane longer than Kupo, so he should have done so already. Then again, if the state of his hair was to be any sort of indication...

Hey, partner. How are you holding up? Kupo wanted to ask, but was afraid of waking the other Windarian. For now, he would simply wait to speak another time.

His efforts were rendered meaningless when a child decided to approach. Naturally, Kaze woke up and stared. If he even was sleeping in the first place, it was often hard to tell.

"Hey, Mister." Chatted the younger Hayakawa, an oddness to his usual smile. It was not his 'usual' smile. It was forced, like a puzzle that no longer fit the board. "Hey, uhm. So, did you see what was inside the breach..?"

The Wind Warrior gazed idly, either looking for a reply or about to offer none. Kupo took over. "What do you have in mind? Don't look too close into such rifts. Less trouble for your head."

Yu lowered his head in shame. It was clear he looked and his head was indeed troubled. "...So, that is how the darkness of Chaos feels like."

The pit that had so nearly swallowed them after the riddle was solved, and Somosan defeated. The gaping maw that awaited their failure at every turn. Lose Pist's game, and Chaos claims you. The law of the Puzzle, their prison. After the destruction of the radio tower of the Lane of Memories, they almost did not make it before the entire Cube collapsed into that very darkness. The tower was the Anchor. Just like Somosan was the Anchor of her Cube, and the Frog Sage of his in turn.

...You defeat the Anchor and you may not have enough time to run for your life. You win, and yet you die. Worse than 'die', really.

"Uhmm. Mister pulled us from the Memory Lane's curse with his Magun... If not for him, the dark would have eaten us all... I just wanted to say thanks. Again."

Fear. Fear in the kid's eyes. Pitiful small thing, rightfully afraid of Chaos. Black Wind did not speak, and yet with a rustle of his cape his hand reached for the kid's hair and gently touched in reassurance, before retreating again. Attempting to, anyway.

"T-thank you! Sorry for bothering you, Sir!" The Hayakawa grabbed his hand and squeezed, tears forming in his eyes. He saw things between the cracked tiles.

Crack. Kaze's eyes widened, bloodshot. Yu couldn't have known. Children did not understand such things. Did not make the connection between abstract action and a sudden result.

This time, the reaction was much more violent. No, no harm befell Yu - the machine's indecipherable algorithms seemed to evade hurting children - but it tossed in terror nonetheless, sending Black Wind's body upright, back slamming against the window behind him. Like Yu was fire. No, not him. His hand. Burning. Like her hand as it turned into crystalline dust. He could still feel his grip crushing what remained of her bones into that rainbow hue, her delicate limb snapping like a twig and turning to nil. Missionaries. Missionaries of Windaria were raised to -

He tore his hand away before the same could happen to the child. Before his bones crumbled in the warrior's grasp. Anything but that.

Not an exaggeration, even - the kid was lucky this did not happen the first time. Kaze's body turned to cast iron, clenched fist a hydraulic press.

Yu fell on his rump, not comprehending a thing. Immediately the others were upon the scene like a single-minded flock. Asking what happened. Had Kaze hurt you? Judgemental stares. Ones that persisted even after the youth reassured them between fits of tears. He did not mean to. He did not understand.

Truth be told, Kaze did not understand either. The past was the past. It stayed in the past. Why, oh, why, did it live in his reflexes? In the memory of his nerves?

It was proof that it was real. Is that not what you wanted? To be assured of her existence? Of yours? Flesh and metal pressed against his ears in shock, back sliding against the glass to bring him down into a sit. Overloaded mechanisms shut down, protecting themselves from melting back down into the liquid alloy they were made from. He did not even register Kupo taking a hold of him and shaking him desperately, screaming in fervent Windarian what he wished no one else to know.

It was the day the Comodeen learned all was not well with the Demon Gunner. Not only in body, but in mind as well.

‘All was not well’. Scratch that. Nothing was well.

---------

A disgrace. Disgrace, disgrace, disgrace. Moogle succeeded in herding Wind into a bathroom, both the closest hiding spot and the most appropriate place should... things happen. The summoner hasn't had anything to eat the entire day, and yet still his body spontaneously decided to eject the acid from his stomach as he lay all but doubled over on the floor. Kupo sighed and put the wipes to work. Scrub, scrub.

Prideful as Windarians were, the Moogle relented and asked Lisa to get the doctor. Little could be done to help, however - the issue was not physical and the underground organization did not have the best grasp on mental health. Neither did the Wind people, and so, Kupo was instructed to wait and report should anything go in a direction worse it already was in. It was definitely a record day for Kaze when it came to throwing up.

Ever since they met again in the Memory Lane, the Missionary knew his friend, the chosen of the Gun Dragon, was not quite as he used to be. The look in his eyes was different, his recollection of things skewed, the Magun... wounded. He fell to Chaos' mind games where his old self would never. Like... like a child. Like he had gone back in time, undone the cycles that forged him into the soldier that he was.

This is pitiful. A great man like you, reduced to an imbecile. Kupo bared teeth in exasperation, mouth hidden behind his wings. But how? What happened to you after you duelled Chaos?

What has Chaos done to you...?

"If I could call anyone strong, Black Wind," for once he used the gunmage's full name instead of a nickname, "it would be you. You saved me and helped me on the path I chose for myself. Took me into our clan and taught me." Windarians did not understand how to cope with trauma running that deep. How could they? They had been a people of war, of progress halted so often by slaughter. Death was an everyday occurence - everywhere. Such breaking of the mind - if persistent and hopeless, warranted nothing but a quick mercy kill. Disgrace. You saved me. Wind, I don't want to see you fall that low. Please, now. Let's get up.

He helped the man rise into a sit. His weight would have made it impossible for the Moogle to do so if the summoner was unconscious, but, thankfully, he responded to stimuli, if only in a limited manner. A deep sigh past drooping whiskers. "What am I to do with you, I wonder."

Tiny paws began to undo what held the other's outfit together, gently nudging the warrior into taking initiative himself. Yes, good, good. A mechanical and practiced motion, performed even with hollow and unblinking eyes. Was his soul still in there? Had it gone with the Soil, somehow? Kupo paced around as Kaze let his vest slip where his cape lay, once again exposing the patterns decorating his chest and back.

They looked so wrong upon a revenant of the man he used to be. More bones could be seen underneath the skin than painted upon it, even as the Gun Beast's skeletal arms adorned his shoulders in a striking crimson. Death's embrace. The fate of all those who harbored the Beast's Weapon. Had it come to claim him as well? So soon? So quickly after they found each other again?

Moogle would not have that. Fuzzy brows furrowed in conviction. "Come on, now. Take the lower garments off as well and into the shower with you."

It was a jarring experience, really - for the Missionary to have to baby the great Destroyer like that. The man who survived even ascension. The man who brought out the Dragon and lived to tell the tale. Positivity washed over him - Black Wind would live through cold water as well.

Not too cold, however. Moogle was hardly cruel. A squeak of a rotated tap, and liquid drizzled forth. Kaze whimpered, earning himself a rather scornful comment. "Pathetic!"

At least the blinking returned when droplets assaulted the man's eyelids. Flutter, flutter. There was that willpower. The willpower to not get one's eyes pummelled by Water Blue.

Kaze... your memories cannot be so pleasant that you would lose yourself in them completely, he told the Adherent upon the Lane's hill.

How the tables have turned. First, he was gone in happiness. And now, he was gone in sorrow. Think, Moogle, think. How to pull this sorry bastard off his arse and back onto his feet yet again?

It really seemed the fae was the only one capable enough to take care of things. Alright, you good-for-nothing. The Soil Missionary Kupo will not allow you to walk around with hair that looks like wool from a sheep unsheared for five cycles.

After an embarrassingly long time of fumbling, he managed to get the metal hair clasps off - probably, the only things that kept that red fur of the summoner's in a remotely agreeable state. From a distance, anyway. And definitely not from the nasal tract's point of view. Ugh.

With a beat of his wings, Moogle accessed the top shelf, grabbing a random shampoo in a hot pink bottle. For dandruff? Will do. He would be surprised if dandruff was the only thing in there.

"Au...Ra..." The gunmage muttered under his breath.

"That's right, partner, Aura says you should wash your hair now. And so do I, and Four Winds my witness, I will not stand defiance." One paw popped off the bottle's cap and squeezed free some slime of the same color. "Here. Hoooot Pink!"

Poorly timed jokes were Moogle's specialty.

And so, Wind proceeded to get his hair brushed as vibrantly colored shampoo turned to foam. A pause in the rain of water rendered the bathroom quiet once again. Kaze merely sat, eyes devoid of emotion, the robotic rhythms of breathing and blinking his only movement. Moogle, however, worked out knots tirelessly with a grim determination on his fluffy face. Black Wind hissed like a soaked snake. "Should have brushed your hair yourself." Came a reply.

Why? Why had Kaze himself forsaken all of his bodily needs like that? How could he have let it all get so bad? Twelve cycles. Twelve cycles they were apart.

What did Chaos do to you? Moogle bit his lip.

You should be dead ten times over. But you're stronger.

Just like Moogle pulled Kaze out of the Lane's lull with grief, he would pull him from Chaos' grasp with warmth.

"...Partner, I don't claim to know what happened when we were separated. In fact, even if I'll one day know, I'll never claim to understand. It must have been terrible, if, even you..." His antenna sank, inner light dimming into naught but a stray flicker. "...were broken like this. Your memory, your connection with the Magun. You keep reliving her death over and over again, don't you? The death of all of our people."

It was a horrific image to recall, and Moogle himself frequently lost sleep more than a decade later. It was a lie, that saying. Time did not heal wounds. Not at all.

Time rubbed salt into your raw flesh as you agonized forever and always over the things you could not have possibly amended.

A part of Kupo died that day - a part that would never return, no matter how he told himself never again to live in the past. And that day, Kaze died as well - wholly. He was a walking corpse.

He was dead, ten times over. Many more times than that, dying in his head everytime their Planet fell inside his dreams. One death for every flower Chaos planted on their grave.

Moogle could not help but wonder whether a scrap of Windaria existed somewhere still, buried deep within Wonderland, stolen and grafted into the wicked kingdom like a puzzle which did not fit the board. Nothing in Wonderland ever belonged together. Truly, it was the land of Chaos.

But they were still alive. They fit together. They belonged together, an Adherent and Missionary, forever and always.

"But I'm here. I'll bear this with you. So please, believe me. Like you once did to me. I will save you back."

And he turned on the shower again, washing away the foam. And hiding the tears running down his cheeks.

---------

The devil light encompassing his world was gone along with the accursed flowers. The storm pelting him with heavy rainfall, platinum scales turned blood red -

- was merely the cold water of one of Jane's shower rooms.

Pulled from another trip down the Memory Lane, the last Windarian blinked. Once, twice. He was wet. And naked. And cleaner, definitely.

And his friend was there to greet him once again. An inkling of an apologetic smile, carved with great effort into the stone tablet of his face.

"Moo...gle."

He was not the last Windarian anymore.

#[[drabble #[[headcanon #[[I will save you back - Bond with Moogle Kupo #[[Dear Gunmetal ║ Moogle Kupo #[[Hearts Defiant ║ Hayakawa Twins #[[Move Would You ║ Lisa Pacifist #[[Prodigy Mind ║ Cid

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kazeofthemagun · 4 years

Text

If I had a thousand voices - First Battle with Chaos

“It was a sea of eyes, deep and unforgiving, and all that it enveloped ceased to exist. It sang a song of joy and teeth and - his ears bled, and eyes ran red with hate.”

[headcanon drabble, character study, 3.5k words, pre-show]

[content warnings: cosmic horror, body horror, psychological horror, angst, trauma]

He stared into the never-horizon, reality giving way at the edges of his vision. The corpses of his fellow Wind Warriors littered the ground, his once-proud army reduced to a silent legion of the dead, their Soil stagnant for there was no one to use it, no one to honor it. No one to speak the hundred thousand prayers and load a hundred thousand calling guns with their names on the lips.

Even if summon spirits didn't work.

No purpose was left for their souls as the very Planet faded under the searing light. They had been a warrior people, once; A civilization built upon blood and wind and honor. Singing songs of bravery, violence and valor. Now, no one was left to sing them, for Kaze the Black Wind himself had but one voice, and mere moments left to live. Make no mistake; he welcomed his death.

If only he had a thousand voices, maybe they could all rest in peace, together. He wanted to believe the memory of Windaria would live on, somehow, in spite of the deafening silence. Maybe the stars could sing their story.

He was the inheritor of Magun - and the weight of their demise fell onto his shoulders alone, like cold and cruel daggers. He ran his one hand through the fur of Moogle Kupo, the creature's antenna dim as he and his partner beheld their home's destruction, the world of the Wind meeting its gnarly end just as the land of Mist before it.

It was a weight he wouldn't have to carry for much longer. He would take those daggers from his flesh, and he would turn them towards their killer. And then, he would die. He would take Magun, manifest his spirit, and fade away as his predecessors had. He wouldn't dare to leave her alone.

A final sacrifice for the Demon Gun he was bound to. No other wielder to follow in his footsteps. Just another lineage's end, at the end of days.

Only fitting.

White Cloud watched him as he wandered the battlefield, dragging his feet through the gore. Periodically, he knelt, hovered his hand over empty eyes, and collected what he could, filling his belt with colored sand he would never use. Filling his mouth with prayers he would never speak.

If only he had a thousand voices.

Still, what use would they be, if he failed to speak with even one?

"Black Wind... Let us end this, together."

A glare of blue meeting green, and a hoarse growl. "Are you suggesting we off ourselves?"

Quite blunt, he could be. Moogle squealed in horror, clinging to his side. "If you die, Rorahm, I follow. Windarians ought to be together always, isn’t that right, partner?"

Now, where would their spirits go... He mused quietly as his fingers resumed caressing the pixie's ears. So long as they all went to the same place, he cared little whether it was heaven, hell, or oblivion.

So long as he dragged Chaos down to its own grave as he went.

Kumo blinked once, twice. "No?"

"Good." Kaze replied dryly, allowing his golden arm to shine through from underneath his cape. "See, I have yet plans for you, White Cloud."

"Only natural for you to, Black Wind. I've been expecting that. Let us give it our best shot, shall we."

"Hmph."

One last shot.

He graced the Misterian with a glance of approval before once again turning his eyes towards the unraveling yonder. His hand now free of Moogle's hair, he scavenged a rainbow bullet from his arsenal. It would all be over soon.

It wouldn't.

It was a sea of eyes, deep and unforgiving, and all that it enveloped ceased to exist. It sang a song of joy and teeth and - his ears bled, and eyes ran red with hate.

The jewel embedded in Magun's carapace shone a bright blue, and the Demon Weapon dissolved with a hum of blades and clatter of metal against flesh. Skeletal fingers dressed in new muscle and skin wrapped around a handle of cold steel, regaining feeling with the rush of blood.

He slipped two bullets into Magun's eager chamber. His mouth uttered meaningless poems. She would be safe with him there, as she had always been.

She wouldn't.

Kumo's Maken readied with a whistle, awaiting his next move.

And Kaze knew very well what had to be done. Moogle looked at him with a tilt of the head, realization slowly dawning.

He plunged his hand into his chest, fingernails digging into the fabric of his vest as he forced the Soil energy to bleed freely. He directed the flow into his palm, his own corporeal form dissipating into nothingness as he held his very soul in his etheral grasp. A bullet, capped with gold, full of swirling, roiling white.

He inserted it into the final hatch with a click as Kumo stared in awe. It was finally complete, and it was perfect.

All that remained of him was Magun's hand cannon, levitating where he had stood just moments prior, their shared black heart beating wildly with a yearning for revenge, a yearning for justice.

Chaos.

The gun's muzzle pointed itself at the demon of discord, bracelet open and wiring outstretched as if in invitation. And an invitation it was.

"...I see, Black Wind."

His purest, most vulnerable form; From whence all the power and life flowed. His very heart, flourished and entrusted to him, and him alone.

"The Soil Charge Triad to use on you has been decided! The helix of my life, Endless White..! Now, White Cloud! Fire me!"

Without a moment's hesitation, Kumo offered his arm, the golden Demon Weapon jumping at the opportunity, armlet snapping shut and sharp cables plugging into the Misterican's arteries. A wave of dizziness washed over, green eyes flickering out for a brief moment when he felt his blood surge forth into a new extremity, his own heart pounding in sync with Black Wind's.

A gloved hand caught and steadied him gently before he fell, but when he looked around, nobody was there. He was all alone amidst the desolation that became of Windaria.

Or, was he...? He shook his head.

No - Black Wind was still alive, and he was there, with him, guiding each movement of his hand.

So he stood his ground. He wouldn't fail him - and he wouldn't fail Aura.

Aura, and all of Windaria and Misteria, lost so tragically and so soon. He gritted his teeth.

"Good boy." The Wind Warrior's voice echoed in their shared thoughts. Snarky, to the very end.

The runes lining the gilded shell flared up a devilish violet as sparks flew from the weapon's drill and sheer spirit power blazed at the barrel. The letters rearranged into a new pattern.

Magun of the White Wind.

Kumo's lithe frame convulsed as he aimed in and pulled the trigger. His mouth moved, directed thusly, with a mournful incantation.

"Avenge, We summon you! Bahamut..!"

Click.

Bang.

The transmutation of his soul was complete, senses slowly taking hold of the winged fortress he now inhabited.

He fell, fighting to regain his breath and keep his consciousness as he beheld the Spiral stretching out into the shape of a gallant creature, defiant in the face of Chaos.

Nine eyes shot open, aglow with a cyan hue. Blade-like feathers sprawled, testing the limits of the sky. His shell glistened platinum, and the tears of the rainbow stained his metal scales.

They were all there, with him - he knew. He could always hear, always feel them in his heart of hearts, but now, at the climax of his warrior’s life, to become as one with all the spirits Magun harbored; He reached out, searching, and she was there, painted upon his wings. He took her hand, even if but in a memory, one final time.

"A...Aura." He mouthed, those steeled cold eyes now wide and pleading. All the years behind his mask peeled away in her wake, leaving his spirit naked and pathetic in his grief as he had never been before. In the end, he, too, was weak. But by the Winds, if he didn't scream, the sorrow would tear him limb from limb.

"It's okay." A reassuring gaze, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. He had gone crazy, searching for her features in the flowing Soil. "We'll do it together, brother. Remember, you're not alone... Neither you, nor Kumo. We'll always be with you."

They would never return. But the wheel of life turned again, and he would sift through the dirt and dust and think of them, and weep. "My dear sister."

She was fading. The Soil was seeping through his fingers, and he could not hold it. The Winds were taking her, scattering her ashes across the clouds which weren't there.

"Brother... Please, promise me one thing. If you make it out of here, you and White Cloud - dear, dear Seejvariil - please, you must always be there for each other. Together... You will free the worlds from Chaos."

Her final message, what they didn't yet know, was to be twisted so, so terribly.

She was fading, swept away by the immense flow within the Beast's veins. "S-sister..!"

If his demon eyes could cry, they would shine with waterfalls.

She would always be with him. Always, inside his soul. Inside his soul, where all the colors of the world came together, for he was the herald of the damned. "...I love you. Now, rest easy. It will soon be over."

It wouldn't.

His heavy cannon-shaped head turned, taking with it the rest of his body. The Beast descended upon Kumo's weakened form, as if in an attempt to comfort him beneath its protective claws. The Misterian looked up, pain and hope in his eyes. These would be the last words they ever spoke to one another, or, so, Black Wind thought at the time. Reality would soon turn out to be a much more cruel mistress.

A low growl, monstrously inhuman, but he would understand. "You will rise, and strike at Chaos' core as I hold it down. Do not hesitate...Warrior of the Younger Moon."

Those final words hung heavy in the Cloud's mind, but he nodded. And the Gun Dragon departed, soaring through the skies.

He watched as it folded its wings, and plummeted into the crimson sea. And it was gone, or so it seemed.

Black Wind exhaled as one with the great beast of Magun, his vengeful spirit clawing into the ocean of Chaos, prying open its innermost secrets. He knew then and there that he, too, would cease to exist, for even if he lived, his sanity would not be sustained. Not in the face of such disastrous glory. Oh, it sang to him - he shivered at his core as those secrets made themselves known, welcoming and warm as nothing had ever been before. There was such overmhelming love within the pain which boiled his insides.

He waited in agony, for those countless seconds that felt like hours.

"White Cloud..!"

His comrade's name rang out like a meaningless, mangled cry. His own senses no longer recognized the sound, his lips numb in their utterance.

All meaning, drowned out by the screams. By the Winds, the screams.

He was dead - praying scrambled prayers for all the holy Soil which died with him, yet he knew he could never apologize enough, even if he had not one, but a thousand voices.

Aura... I am so, so sorry. I doomed you all, did I not?

The things he saw there sundered his very essence. They rearranged him, stripping him down to the bone piece by piece by piece and rebuilding him into something indescribably beautiful, white scales and feathers corroded black as if by bubbling mold, brilliant light dulled and curbed and chewed into malignant, seeping, splendid, red - the raw flesh of a machine consumed by the sea which undid. He had come undone at the seams, howling through many eyes and glaring through many teeth. What words he did still spew no longer made sense, instead a garbled mess of a dying Planet's agonized screams.

The rainbow was stripped from his wings, pried methodically shade by shade by shade, leaving naught but darkness. The last of her Soil seeped through his fingers as they convulsed.

He could no longer feel her hand, but he didn't care. She was nothing in the face of this neverending glory. They were nothing. He laughed.

He could not see for he no longer had eyes, and even if he blinked and stared, he did so through empty mirrors. His breath would hitch and tremble in the cold nights that followed, for there were images and voices and boundless sickly joy in these thoughts there was no language for. His own voice froze, unable to express. Unable to comprehend the animalistic noises pouring from his throat like blackened rot and bile. Finally, he howled as not one, but a legion, and it terrifed him. So he didn't speak. He would look back on the nightmares and every time, he would dream of sewing his mouth shut and gouging out his eyes.

Gaudium was all that he would remember when he awoke, that very sweet and disgusting glee of destruction and hate, hate, hate. Oh, he was their eternal beloved servant. There was love in the breaking bone and tearing flesh, and with all his heart he wished to adore, to carry the message on flayed wings.

With a final flash of clarity amidst searing delirium, he screamed in a wail of grinding gears. His dignity was gone, and his sanity was going. He cursed the day he let a friend see his weakness - but it all would be over soon.

It wouldn’t.

"White Cloud... Destroy me. Please... When I... Expose its core... Ugh. Strike..!"

Anything for a release. Anything before the joy consumed him to the last. He braced, the sea gone, having gilded him its new avatar. He was Chaos. Chaos was him.

There was a place all their spirits went, and he wished he had never seen the truth.

His clawed fingers pried at the edges of his chestplate, working steadily to open up his heart.

If Windaria was to perish, all he could do was beg and scream and howl for peace. Let them rest. Let them rest. Let them all die human.

White Cloud. I know that, in the end, you will do the right thing.

...A dawning realization, and a laugh of his own. Impressive. He now understood. He understood what the black general had meant.

The white prince stared on in horror at the scene unfolding before him. No, no, no. It was all wrong. It was not supposed to be like this. No, no, no!

He had offered up his very life to become the new embodiment of Chaos, and in the brief moment his sanity was still his own, he would allow the prince to destroy him.

Oh, Black Wind. Truly, you are impressive.

He swallowed dryly, eyes alight with a newfound determination. The opportunity was right there before him, at the long last. So, why was he hesitating still?

Do not hesitate.

A sad smile. I won't fail you, old friend.

He would.

White boots pushed off the scorched ground, bringing the lofty Misterian into the sky. His many Sword Dragons encircled him, serpentine white a stark contrast against the overbearing red. He brandished his Demon Sword, Maken; the sleek blade thawing into the shape of a greatsword. He positioned the weapon in front of his face, lips ajar as the Mist vacated his lungs.

And there, he waited; En garde.

Waited as the great artillery beast peeled off its own flesh. It would not be long, now. Soon, it would all be over.

It wouldn't.

Much to White Cloud's horror, the Dragons of Maken suddenly shrieked and lunged, almost as if possessed by an external force. He screamed a mute scream as his outstretched hand begged for them to come back, but it was too late. The four beasts slammed right into Kaze's dragon, knocking it out of the sky before it was done unfolding itself. There was a gurgling roar, a swing of skeletal claws, and a Sword Beast split in twain amidst an explosion of Mist. A sharp knife of pain twisted within the Misterican's guts; he yelped.

No, no, no.

The Bombardment Beast regained its balance, its tumble decelerating into a leisurely glide. Its entire right side of the body was gone from the impact, the rampant Chaotic energy already rebuilding its injuries. Within seconds, it had healed, metal and flesh coming together not unlike Magun's jigsaw. It flexed its recovered fingers as it trod the barren ground, a new god of destruction unleashed upon the mortal realm.

Kumo seized control of the remaining Sword Dragons, calling them back as he put his body between them and Kaze like a makeshift shield. Torturous seconds passed, and he waited with held breath for his friend's spirit to begin tearing down Chaos' chest again.

No such thing happened, caged Mist escaping White Cloud's insides before he suffocated himself. "Black Wind...?"

But the moment he looked into those flaming eyes, he realized he was already gone.

"Uwaaaaagh!"

His friend was gone, mind blank, erased by the rapture. He sneered, taking off in a whirlwind's ascent, cliffside shattering under the force of the bellowing gale. A tainted deity now roamed the devoured skies, ancient Magun leashed and made to kneel before the majesty of an even older demon. Enslaved. Subservient.

Reformed.

The proud Black Wind was reduced to naught but a mad, foaming dog chained to its new owner. A sorry fate for a warrior, and even sadder one still for the golden lord of summons.

Alas. Kumo's mistakes were great, and he felt he could not apologize enough even with a thousand voices. I am sorry I let you devolve to such a state. It will all be over soon.

It would’t.

The Dragon of Magun snarled, inky saliva frothing at its heaving jaws. It was enormous, its tattered wings easily blotting out what remained of the sun. The deafening whirr of engines drowned out the sounds of armageddon - for then, Black Wind himself was armageddon personified, Chaos glistening in his nine lost, fiery eyes.

Judgement Day had come for the world of the Winds, just as it once had for the land of boundless Mist.

Kumo's face contorted, pity and guilt upon his visage. He would fix this, for better or for worse. The Maken gleamed.

No tears left to shed. No words left to speak. No respect left to pay - not to the animal before him.

One sword left to swing. And he would make it count.

A touch of his own hand upon his chest, one last, solemn look as the mask slipped over his mouth, and he exhaled his life with a swift cut from his blade.

"This is the Mist of my very soul... I must play it! Symphony of the White Cloud!"

Nobody was left to witness their battle as the silver blade-serpent lunged at the black gunslinger beast, what remained of Windaria and Misterica's spirits warring for seven day-nights under the extinguished sun. Tiamat, against Bahamut. It was then and there that the venomous seed was planted, for in the end, Soil knew not Mist from Chaos, and Mist knew not Soil from Death.

Had fate had no other plans for them, they would have fought on into eternity, living up to the names they were soon to earn - the Unlimited.

Yet when the battle was finally at its end and the Pillar first broke through the waters of Earth and Wonderland, bridging the worlds together, so, too, was built an irrevocable bridge between the Wind and the Cloud. They were, henceforth, connected forevermore just as Aura had unwittingly prophecized, the pure and sweet hope to her words twisted beyond recognition by the everlasting darkness of Chaos.

For when Black Wind and White Cloud fell from the skies at last, ready to rest their weary wings under the seas, the defeated, but never destroyed Chaos left them with one final gift - hatred.

Hatred, sewn with a red string of fate into Kaze's broken mind, holding together what remained of the lost warrior's psyche. Hatred - branding White Cloud as his sworn nemesis, reducing the proud Windarian to nothing more than a hunting hound ever on his trail. For Chaos knew what it wanted - it recognized the Unlimited, and the danger they posed to it, and sought to lock them in an endless struggle against one another so that it may feast undisturbed.

In its perfect symphony, the Cloud would duel the Wind always, Magun against Maken, and thus, they would both be buried and forgotten - consumed by guilt and rage, an eternal reactor to fuel its needs. But such a sorry fate was not to be for our intrepid travelers.

Twelve years after his death, Black Wind awoke a puppet, suppressed, out of his mind and confused. He flexed his recovered fingers, wounded Magun resting dead-asleep upon his right arm where it had always been. It had not devoured him to the last, because contrary to what the warrior used to believe, he was its one true wielder - an Unlimited, chosen to carry the Demon Weapon forever, to become it. He was Magun, and Magun was him, the spirits of Windaria still present deep within the recesses of his being, indistinct and hateful. Watching. Speaking, speaking, speaking.

Howling to destroy the Mist, and the Mist alone. He questioned why he was alive, why the Demon Gun did not take his life. He questioned the anger. He questioned the hunt as he wandered the wastelands aimlessly, perpetuated only by the promise of sick joy at his Moon’s demise.

Gaudium means joy.

He was Magun, and Magun lived only to hunt. A scorching desert Sun, unable to ever close its eye. His other name was long lost to slumber, and only the fires of war remained. This was the path he would walk, even if he would die many more deaths along the way.

He would.

...And when he first opened his mouth, he recoiled in horror; for he had not one, but a thousand voices.

#[[headcanon #[[drabble #[[Shining like the Younger Moon ║ White Cloud #[[first battle with chaos #[[Dear Gunmetal ║ Moogle Kupo #[[Of My Blood You Alone ║ Golden Aura #[[If I had a thousand voices

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