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The tree shakes, the planet rumbles, and Kuja opens his eyes. In the dim light of the sunset’s valiant attempt to pierce the Mist with its rays, he can see the vines of the Tree winding and writhing. The airships have rightfully retreated to a safe distance, leaving the tendrils of the Tree to strike at empty air in their fury. They try to strike at him, too, but as long as he’s alive they won’t touch him. He still has enough magic for that, at least.
He wonders how long it’s been since he blacked out. It’s difficult to keep track, lately; the window of time between waking and the void is slimming. He knows it won’t be long until Death is falling upon him as swiftly as he can blink. Then it will be over.
His entire body screams in agony as he raises his hand to his hair, runs his fingers through it. The Tree screams as well, thrashing as the cycle of souls spills over and the battle below rages on. Lying on his pedestal, in the lowest pit of the Tree, he’s amidst the worlds themselves, as adrift in the cycle of souls as he is grounded in the very essence of Gaia and whatever’s left of Terra. If he closes his eyes, provided he stays conscious, he has the ability to follow the roots of the Iifa Tree wherever they go; out to the lonely, forgotten deserts of the Outer Continent (until he built his palace in their wastes), the ruins of Mount Gulug, the desolate Oeilvert, or the sleeping forests of the Mist Continent. When he loses concentration, he hears laughter drift by his ears and feels the warmth and determination of the citizens of Alexandria as they lift timber, bring each other water, and admire the restoration of their castle and town.
It’s similar to what he senses from the Cleryans, the Burmecians, the Lindblums, even the black mages and some of the Genomes who don’t know what they are looking forward to, but only hope it’s as bright as the days they’ve had so far. The feelings wash over Kuja like water, and he’s all the colder for it. He possessed that same determination, too, not so long ago. Unlike theirs, not so much burning as gently glowing, guiding the way with their shared light, his flared with the force of stars. Powerful, unstoppable, unending. He didn’t wane, as the moon does, or crumble, as both Terra and Gaia proved was possible for a planet. He shines on and endures, even in the face of endless, empty, cold nothing.
Or, he did. The shuddering pulses of his resting spot are a visceral reminder of the sweeps of Death’s scythe across his body. If that fool Garland was right about anything, it was about Kuja’s impending demise. He takes bitter solace in his theory that even Garland hadn’t known how quickly his own prediction would come true.
He hears echoes of laughter and feels a caress across his cheek. He bites the inside of it. How dare they live on. How dare they continue to laugh, to shed tears, to continue forward into their futures while he lies limply in the roots of the Tree. They know nothing, he thinks, cursing when his hand begins to tremble. They are born and grow and live and die in ignorance, while I…
He blinks, dizzy and disoriented, and wonders if it happened again. Time barely exists down here, he’s coming to realize, though it won’t save him from his fate. Even the twisting vines look a world away. He brings his hand back down, resting it across his abdomen. Everywhere he searches where there are people, souls, he’s met with warmth, hope, and quite often cheer. It’s sickening.
So he lets his senses sink downward, and it isn’t long until he feels them. Their presences burn hotter than before, and Kuja just doesn’t have it in him to deny they feel like him. Except, underlying the defiance and sheer force of will, there’s more. Dreams and memories form their foundation, all three of which Kuja would easily admit he never had. He strategizes and he acts, doesn’t waste time wishing, and he rejected the platform Garland gave him in favor of charting his own course from the beginning. And the only strength his memories have ever given him are the gift of spite. So why is it, he wonders, that while he’s breathing and has all his memories intact, he can’t shake the feeling it’s the amnesiac orphan he abandoned that’s sailed father ahead?
I’m gonna live.
Kuja scoffs despite the pain, lips pulling into a mirthless smile. Does he really think it will be so easy? Does he really think determination alone will make a difference? Kuja tried that and now look at him, occupying the lowest perch of a toxic Tree, a canary dying in a mine of souls, out of sight of the entire world. What makes you think you can succeed where I failed?
Gaia shivers. It won’t be long now until the end, though Kuja can no longer tell if it will arrive via fusion with Terra or by the hand of this thing that arose in the shadow of Kuja’s last attack. It’s unlike anything he’s sensed before, not even the eidolons, the Mist, the Guardians of Terra. It’s almost reminiscent of the Soulcage, at least in stilted and clinical speech, but Kuja finds himself resenting it despite their similarities. Whatever this thing is, it’s unworthy of the purpose it suggests it serves. Where was it when Kuja dragged his way through Memoria, delayed by encounters with Death and reliving pointless memories? Where was it when he fought Zidane and his friends, defeating them once and for all? Where was it all this time, the Crystal right within its reach, while Kuja worked to bleed the planets dry and controlled the stuff of souls? When he was burning with questions and scouring both planets for answers?
And how dare it appear now, after everything Kuja had accomplished, just to make an example of him?
Kuja flexes his fingers and grimaces. Though few things in the cosmos can dull his powers, his body is another story. And he’s not sure anything living can go below the Iifa Tree anyways, not even magic. Perhaps that’s why he’s here, he thinks, staring between the roots of the Tree, to the sky. The wings of life could only lift him so far.
Maybe they do have a source of power he cannot comprehend. He’s finally willing to admit he’s suspected as much ever since he saw the young black mage in Burmecia. Fallen from the sky or discarded by his owner, no memories or stated purpose for existing, starting life from nothing…yet somehow appearing again and again before him, fighting with a conviction so strong it could be seen as admirable. The two of them are so much alike, Kuja thinks. Gaia convulses again beneath him.
He knows what he can do. He isn’t an idiot. He’s just not sure why he wants to do it. After all this time spent fighting them, evading their attempts to prevent him from succeeding, demolishing their homes and tearing at their hearts, he thinks it odd that now he wants to save them. Maybe it’s the spite. Or pride. After all, he’s the one who’s put the time and effort in. No one else, least of all that thing hiding beneath the Tree, deserves the honor and pleasure of destroying them.
The energy to lie escapes him. He sighs, tail twitching. Beyond the tides of Mist he surfs, he’s aware of other voices. He hadn’t heard them before reaching Memoria, but once he realized them for what they were, it took tremendous energy to keep them at bay. The loudest ones showed him visions as well. Alexandrian streets. Walls etched to the brim with eidolons. Families. Friendships. Generations of crowns and ceremonies. Grief turning into hope, then replaced with love, as the girl from a castaway boat grew into the princess he played as a pawn, until she became too powerful a piece and transformed into a queen herself. None of the feelings or memories are his, but now they are inside of him and now he can’t get them out. Not favorably, anyways.
He runs a hand through his hair again, the soft plumes sliding between his fingers. They’re all but used up, given how quickly the throes of Death have ascended upon him. But this most recent experience proves it can be done. All he needs to do is not waste time.
He plucks the feather from his head and holds it above him, watching the colors gleam in the dusty light. It flickers with the fires of Alexandria and Madain Sari. It vibrates as the Invincible did before it struck. It glistens like the blood Bahamut drew on him, glows like Terra’s lost moon.
When he takes a closer look, a dry laugh bursts from his lips. It appears Bahamut isn’t the only one who can draw out his blood.
Seven more times he plucks, and when the last one is added to the collection, he feels a sickening rush of desertion. He doesn’t need to glance down to know his tail is now silver, his Trance gone. Instead, he admires the small wing in his hand, briefly wondering how far it could carry him should he choose to fly away. He doubts he’d make it to the morrow.
He hears all of it. Their cries, their fears, their encouragements. He feels the elements from the eidolons, the powers of their Trances, the rush of air from the Dragon Knight leaping through space, the impact of the meteor the young mage summons. From above, the “will”’s and “someday”’s of the survivors of his triumphs wash over his skin. The whispers of eidolons fill the chamber he lies in. The leaves in the black mages’ village crunch beneath the feet of Genomes and mages alike as they tend to the farms and forest.
His grip on the feathers tights. Nothing has changed. This world is teeming with life and he’s utterly alone, only able to cling to and discard his own creations.
The feathers glint in the dying day. If Garland is right, and he usually is, some essence of Kuja will live on. He’s not sure how to feel about that, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. He no longer has time to figure it out.
He smiles emptily as he envisions the looks on their faces if they realize how they survived. Though it’s a gratifying visual, especially the expression of the young summoner, he sincerely hopes he never sees them again. Consider the silver lining, Kuja tells himself, fingers shaking. Maybe you’ll die before they find a way to thank you. And at least the Elephant-Lady will finally be silenced. It figures she’d still find ways to pester him, even in death.
Gaia shrieks and laughs and cries and sings all around him. Blankets of emotion layer themselves over him, and all Kuja can think is how nothing he ever did could fully extinguish it, and how it will carry on merrily without him, until no one remembers so much as his name.
It isn’t fair.
Kuja closes his eyes, takes a breath, and lets his hand drop to the side and over his pedestal. With more force of will than he’s ever used in his life he lets go and, one by one, the Phoenix Downs flutter into the void.