The lone monk sat, still as the stone beneath him. Meditation would come, he imagined, if only the sun would show herself. The warmth of the day ensured that she remained in the sky, but the heavy clouds stagnated overhead. If it would rain, perhaps, but the only thunder was of the surf as it rolled lazily over the cloister of rock and pebbles.

Meditation should have been the wash of a gentle river, thoughts cascading without aim. The river he knew was rock-filled and rapid, white water breaking in the way the sea foam danced before his eyes. If he were the fish, he would be battered and broken on the banks of the Enhlai Falls.

It suited him, perhaps. Thinking back, perhaps he never should have left the Monastery. A hero was a fine thing to be, surely, but he never felt less heroic than standing before the dragon God-King. Bahamut had not said as much, not in such words, but the message was clear – Not a hero.

It was true. He did not deny the fact, looking back, that he was more a menial than a hero. In three years, never led, but followed. He never planned, but undertook. He would never be her equal. She was a hero before he was born, and would continue to be a hero after he died.

Almost at his thought, she appeared before him.

If he were the rock, she mimicked the sea. Her cloak moved fluidly with the waves.

"Don’t let it bother you," she said. "He’s a weathered old lizard, for a start."

He was nameless, when she found him. When she waited for him to follow. It didn’t seem to matter, and she might have waited forever, as he weighed his life to choose.

She named him, retelling the exploits of a long forgotten war god. He never had a name before, but even so he was unsure that it fit. The way she told it, he imagined spontaneity and passion. He could fight, certainly, but he was never spontaneous in that he had to understand things first. He had to weigh, he had to judge, and he had to decide. Even being familiar, it could take a while.

She never had trouble with deciding. Sometimes she changed her mind, but that took no time at all. So he followed her decisions, and never questioned a thing. She had decided to visit Bahamut, and now she claimed he was nothing.

He never did things for himself. Not at the Monastery, and not since he journeyed with her.

Never.

There, on the shore of the sea, he found what he was missing in this lesson.

He stood before the Dragon Lord. This time, as the last, he stood in reverence of the great beast. But this time, he knew what to expect. The dragon watched with an earthly patience.

She stood quietly by his side. He, who had never insisted anything, insisted upon their return. She allowed it, for that and because she was curious. He wondered if she would have, if she knew what he was planning... or if she knew that he feared such an end.

"Courage," he said, glad for his voice as he drew the silver knife. He could have walked away, and he knew it. But this was not about what Bahamut thought, nor was this about being a hero. This was about knowing and his own inner strength.

He flinched, because it hurt… and smiled, dizzy and apologetic, even as her eyes widened in surprise. His consciousness ebbed with his blood; when he found himself again he was on his back, and what remained of his arm was bound up tight.

"Forgive me," was all he asked of her. She was not angry as he might have feared, but without understanding.

"No need." Although she wondered, "but was that necessary?"

"It was," he laughed, strong but for his body. "Courage, by any name is merely another word for confidence."

Above his head, Bahamut rumbled, and the young monk was unconcerned. Whether the dragon agreed or not, he was one to understand.