He is something to each of them.

To the old woman by the waterside, with her hands held shaking over her mouth, he is solace. For her, (The Soothing of the Souls), his hands moving in that old familiar rhythm, comforting. Her tears are silent for her children lost, but her eyes are keen as they watch the sky.

To the young couple kneeling on the boardwalk, he is hope. For them, (The Releasing of the Souls), the uplift and spin of his bare arms, fingers seeking the sky. The husband's shoulders tremble, but his wife has ceased to weep.

To the motherless child with the wide frightened eyes, he is authority. For him, (The Calling of the Souls), the stern commanding movement, the downbeat of his staff, creating order of the crying chaos of passing souls. The little boy tries to lift his chin, and wonders if he, too, might be called to be a summoner.

And to those souls waiting beneath the water for their second home, he is peace. And for them, (The Final Prayer), the twirl and cadence of his footsteps, the music borne on his dance alone.

All this I know, for I have watched. I hold his robe, his obi unwound and draped over my shoulder. I have seen this, many times; I have followed him across Spira. Too, I have seen the tired angle of his shoulders, the droop of his head when the dance is done. I know each step of the Sending, I know the moments when he barely falters, staff too heavy in his weary hands.

And as he pulls his staff across his chest, bowing backwards beneath the weight of his dance and his destiny, I do not watch the scattering of souls, I do not watch the grieving grateful faces all around me.

I watch his face, and wonder. His face is unprotected beneath the sky, the curve of his neck exposed, his naked hands casting a spell of calculated vulnerability. Greedily they soak in his ritual-- to be so thirsty in such a land of water! My fingers tighten on his robe, rich fabric stiff under my touch. I want nothing more than to drape the cloth around his shoulders again, just so, to give him back his raiment and his distance. He may not smile again until--

It ends. He meets my gaze, his eyes strangely illuminated, as stars that shine in a sky not yet dark.

He is something to each of them.

I do not know what he is to me.