(what it means) to be brave

Everything changed when they left, of course. One might say that it's when they stopped being boys and started being men, but in Colony 9, as in every other colony on the Bionis (or, if you're worse off, Colony 9 is actually the most temperate and bog-normal of the bunch), you're always ready for war, which is something you send boys to and get men's corpses back from, usually. The whole history is painted with conflict as the motive and medium both. Convenient, that, but also fairly incontinent when held up to (and then, rather unceremoniously, as all of this, shoved clear but not clean through) a psychological lens.

So everything changed when they left, but it wasn't because they were leaving that it did so, necessarily.

They weren't at Sword Valley. They hadn't wanted to be. But retroactively, in the snap of the fabric of the stretcher, there was (and is) buried something aspirational about (and in) the idea that you could go out, and you could do something, and you could be somebody because of it, and maybe even get something done. For everyone.

Which is a bit of a glorious universal ideal spun on the theme of coming of age, nothing wrong with it for the most of parts, but whether you tilt it towards or against the harshest light of war...you might find that it gleams a little different. A little more grimly.

They got out in the back meadow of the colony, and they get sticks and play fight, and the Bunnits have sticks, but it's not right, is it, because Dunban would never fight with a stick.

Never?

No. Dunban's sharp, and clean, and cool. (Cool! He's so cool.) Even when he's hunched over with the pain, the scars ripple more like lightning than burns down his arms (oh, such strong arms).

And maybe that's just the fault of the eyes that lie heir to the Monado, misinterpreting that same stick-sharp nightmare dream, but any roundness Dunban has is burnished, not knobbled, everyone knows that.

It's very obvious. (It's so obvious!) Dunban is perfect, every time he's brave. Every time he bats off Arachnos for them, and tells Dickson off for being too much of a sot, and gives Mumkhar that fierce look that says no, not here, don't you dare talk down and off and out about the war to these kids. They don't deserve it.

(They can't handle it.)

(I didn't deserve it. I can't handle it.)

Dunban's bravery has been a long time coming. He's thirty, which is longer than the Colony 9 kids (still plural, but two isn't much of a company, is it, now, then, or later) can actually conceive of. He's old, in some sense, but he's Dunban, so he's young in every sense except the ones that make it seem like he was born an old soul, and so on. He's impossible! But he makes perfect sense.

So they learn to associate. Eat your vegetables. Be strong; don't cry. If you do cry, don't let anyone see. (If they don't see you, you didn't cry. This'll surely never have any consequences, later.) Age is wisdom, and it's scars, too, because you once were young, except that was only a year ago, and they're talking about what they've learned like they're still children yet, and aren't they, aren't they

AREN'T THEY?

(Yelling, which isn't very mature. Outbursts of temper. Control, boys, control.)

What do you know?

They don't know anymore. They never did. They haven't the time, because they're only twelve, which makes Dunban twenty-four, and that's still so old, but if parents are dead, which they always are,

go back another ten years, why don't you, it's all the same all the way down

then what does age mean?

Wisdom. (Prudence.)

Bravery. (Enthusiasm.)

Truth. (Obstinance.)

Lovely adjectives, Dickson would say, and I hope you stick 'em in your pocket with a bunch of tulips for good luck, but what do they really mean?

They mean meaning, ascribed to living statues of human frailty and strength both in one, because even Fiora could be killed, and she was Dunban's sister, so doesn't that mean she's perfect?

Even Fiora could be killed, but her brother's invincible, he'll never die, he lived long enough to see her do and now he'll never forget it - do you think he ever will, Shulk? I'm not sure I will. I mean, I'm sure I won't.

No, Reyn, I'm not sure either. About Dunban, I mean. Except...no, I definitely am.

(What are you? Prove it to me. Do something. Do something fast, and sharp, and cool.)

Dunban is old. Older. And that means he's afraid. Because he knows what it's like, to feel just like us. He knows...too much, sometimes. And when I'm biting on my tears, trying to keep them from blurring up my visions, I can feel how tightly he's holding on.

(But he's not being careful. I know he's not being careful. I know he's less than two seconds away from falling right apart. And we haven't seen the half of it. I hope we never will.)

A person can get a whole new set of scars just from holding on too tight. So the bravery...it's not in the holding on. It's in the letting go.

(Right? Doesn't that sound right?)

You think that's it?

Might be. But it's also being brave that comes into waiting, until we can all find out.

And Dunban's been waiting a long time.