So that was how it was then. The past held them all, it seemed - and Fran was hardly a stranger to the woes that family could bring, even when one was so thoroughly cut of from it as she had been. Voluntary exile was still exile after all, preferable though it may have been to staying in the Wood. But if there was any good to come of this it seemed that the nethicite the man bore was of the sort made by hume hands.

Not that the manufacted variety was any less dangerous to those of her kind than the the shards of the Sun-Cryst had been, before it had breathed its last to wake Bahamut.

But that was of less importance at the moment. There was a ghost from the past to confront, after all.