by Farli
Summary: Every being on Spira has their own rite of passage to take..
FFX/-2 Spoilers: ...Erm. None. At all. Honest. ^^;
Rating: G
Date: 08/02/2004
Author's Notes: Done for the FFX500 Free Week/Anything Goes challenge. All feedback welcome.
It was a slow shuffle through the cavernous maws of hewn rock, silent tread patient and ponderous as it had ever been. It was the oldest one, last of the first tribe, making It the elder who would show the hatchlings and the newly formed the ways of their world in this dark, dank, forbidden place.
Today three Small Ones who had yet to earn their place amongst the inhabitants of the decrepit ruins followed It at a tottering pace, each beady gaze following the trail of light fading in the wake of the silent swing of Its lantern.
The cast iron lamp dangling from Its paw was as old as It was, and It was old indeed. The green lizard's head was scarred with the age-old swirls and scale patterns that came to the fore as the species aged, ragged cowl and robe tattered at the hems beyond repair.
Old It was. Old as the Overlord and its shadow, perhaps, but not by much - the great Masters that haunted (and hunted) the upper gallery levels had existed long after the fewest of men dared stray this way, where Sin had scorched and spurned the rights to a happier existence.
Old enough to avoid the hunts, because the hunters avoided It. Which was why It alone was the one to escort these three younglings to the final test. The test where they might earn their final Knife and a place amongst Tonberry kind.
Lantern's arc slowed, then stilled, pyrefly light source reflecting off his own silver blade as the dagger pointed towards the darkness ahead, indicating where the Small Ones had to go. It would wait here. Where it had waited before, and would likely wait again.
The humans had a Spiral of Death. Lions had a Circle of Life.
Its kind had one thing alone, above all else, that made them stand apart from the rest of the Fiends. Something that this final hunt-ritual would grant these children: the right to carry their tails proudly, to wear their hoods back and show their snouty faces lit only by the glow of a lantern.
And it would be It that would oversee it all. All it had to do now was wait. Wait, as the trio slithered off into the blackness in search of that elusive last opponent. It could wait. It had done so before. Wait for their return, so that It might officially welcome the children back as true Tonberries.
And approve their right to 'Doink'.