Setting: Pregame, nonspecific/various.
Theme + Number: #16, "Pattern(s)".
Warnings: Spoilers for the metaplot. Secretly a songfic.
Summary: My life is made of patterns that can scarcely be controlled.
The sending, a dance without partner as familiar to all summoners as their names.
A web of scar tissue spreading across Jecht’s back in a map of his life.
The smoothest places on the stairs to the Chambers of the Fayth, worn down by centuries of pilgrim feet.
Gray threads in Auron’s hair, one for every lost day.
The slow beat of the Hymn.
Latticeworks of light and shadow on bare skin beneath the trees where there is no one to see.
The endless repeat of pyrefly memories caught in spheres and still Zanarkand air.
Red cloth and black armor like game pieces on a board. (Red to play, and mate in ten.)
Calm, and Sin, and summoners and Calm again.
The lights of Zanarkand reflected in the water, each as real as the other.
A spiral turning ever inward like wool upon a spindle, like a waterspout, like a seashell, like a mockery of their every forward step.