"No matter how dark the night, morning always comes."
Her own words, prophetic. Lulu never dreamed what shape that morning would take.
A Night: He's not coming back, Yuna admitted, two years after all Spira had started weaving her romantic tale of tragedy into song. Politically savvy suitors flocked to comfort the bereaved High Summoner, confessing themselves poor substitutes for Sir Tidus, her legendary guardian.
A Night: "I'm sorry, Lu. It's just..."
"It's Rikku, isn't it?"
Wakka had hung his head, braced for thundaga, not for the gentle kiss on his brow that freed him.
There had been no moon that night.
But the moon came, just the same. Yuna, too, had lost her sun, and knew the tides of grief. As they had done in childhood to banish nightmares, they found each other in the darkness and curled together for warmth.
A kiss meant to comfort.
Water conjured to wash away salt tears. Healer's hands unbraiding raven tresses. Magic tumbling from silken fingers. Voices that rose and broke together, like the white arms of Shiva raised on high before a minute snap of fingertips made the world come crashing down.
Morning came, though dawn was far off, with the crescent moon lying in the full moon's arms.