Taran's wandering, those first few days, was not aimless. No, not in the least. He knew himself to be the kind of person who needed people around, even if he didn't interact with them - and on Centra there were no other people.

So he must obtain a chocobo instead. Not only would this provide at least minimal companionship, it would enable him to carry more and travel farther than he might alone. Also, he would be able to while away many days training the thing.

Thus his course was unerring - straight for the nearest chocobo forest. His father had made all of them learn geography by rote memorization, as well as navigation by sun, moon and star. Now he would find out just how much he had really learned of those lessons.

So, mostly, he headed east. That was easy - when the sun woke him up in the morning, he turned to face the dawn and just headed that way.

It was so easy to fall into the habits of his father, in Taran's view eerily so. Squall rose every dawn and worked through a series of sword routines with the LionHeart, facing the sunrise. Taran didn't have a gunblade, and didn't want one - but now he rose with the dawn, and worked through the kata Zell had taught him - facing the sunrise - until the stiffness in his muscles eased and he was ready for another day's hike.

He couldn't tell if it was simple practicality, or if it was some unconscious groove in his psyche - some predetermined order that said if he didn't think about it, he would become his father. It was so very easy, so damnably, unbearably easy. He even fell into the trap of getting lost in his thoughts when there was nothing to distract him.

I love you, Father, but I don't want to be you. I have seen your eyes when you look at us. I have seen your eyes stare at us as though you don't know who we are. I have seen your eyes as they watch Zell doing some simple thing, shadows of memories darkening them like clouds before a storm. Father, what have we done to you that you can look at us like that? What has the world done to you? How can I keep this from happening to me, even as I tread almost unthinkingly in your footsteps? Am I a killer, too?

But there was no way to know, short of asking him - and Taran was wary of asking his father personal questions. He wished desperately for his guitar - hoped fervently that Gwynt would get his glider built and bring Irvine's gift to him. He couldn't help many of the things he had inherited, like the need to do something with his hands to distract him from his thoughts - but he did not, would not, take up war to serve as a mental distraction. Not when music worked just as well and didn't hurt anyone.

But there was no music, though he tried singing just to see if it would work a capella. It did, in a way - it was harder to hit the notes true when all you had to go on was your memory of them - but when songs started to get muddled in his mind he stopped that course of action.

Monster fighting worked better though - so much so that again Taran feared it was his father's blood in him talking. When monsters attacked, he felt alive to the core of his being, living on the knife-edge of life and death. Buels, cactuars, death claws, and grand mantises all fell before his lightning strikes. He dismembered their bodies for usable materials - perhaps tradeable materials if Gwynt ever did return - and edible meat. A cactus thorn made a quite acceptable needle, he found, and used a death claw's guts and a buel's wing to fashion saddlebags and water skins. A chocobo would carry these for him. The waterskin he filled at every stream - though those were few and far between - and it filled nicely when he put a water crystal inside and crushed it there.

And every evening, he sent the same message: Still alive, still here, still free, and read the far more interesting reports of his siblings. This, at least, was something he was good at - for he undoubtedly had the most free time of any of them to think, and offered advice on their problems as and when he could.

Daear worried him, though. When he spoke to Irvine he asked the cowboy to keep an eye on her, and send him such reports as he could. He couldn't shake the nagging feeling that his half-sister was up to something; she was incredibly intelligent, and fearless, and that was the problem. She didn't understand hiding, or retreat. She had only one mode, and that was Full Steam Ahead. Hyne only knew what she was planning now that she was away from both her father and her brother's careful supervision.

It was more pleasant reading about Nodwydd's day, or the twins'. Noddy was more than happy to send tales of Kiel to the group - and Kiel quickly joined in the group conversations himself, providing Taran with another person to observe. And the twins were settling nicely in at Winhill, and were full of stories of Aunt Ellone. Taran sighed - it would be nice, if someday he could arrange to meet Ellone. But that would only happen if she realized who the twins really were - otherwise, meeting him would give it away. At least Kiel already knew who they were - Nodwydd said he'd had to reveal the truth to Bella practically at the very beginning. He endured Taran's chiding in good spirit, but replied that he hadn't realized Kiel couldn't keep a secret to save his life.

Irvine's contributions to the conversation were always simple and to the point; perhaps the cowboy had been a SeeD too long to really get the hang of written communication. He let them know what he knew of Seifer's movements in a general sense - never more specific than which continent they were flying near, and nothing that could be considered treasonous to his Commander. Sometimes Selphie would send messages, and these were always lengthy, gossipy things about Who was Doing What in the Gardens - as though any of the Pride had been in one since the day they'd entered Griever's realm.

Such activities distracted him from his thoughts until the chocobo forest came in sight.

Chocobo forests were said to be holdovers from an earlier world - tiny remnants of a once vast and continent-spanning habitat, now destroyed by human construction, monsters, and Lunar Cries. Only these tiny remote forests were left, and in them grew the gyshal greens that chocobos lived on. He might have settled in one - more than just gyshal greens grew in them - except that the Chocoboy would not take kindly to his presence. There must be one, he knew. Even in such a deserted place as this, there were always Chocoboys. Speculation on their origins ranged everywhere from orphans fleeing to the forests and choosing to stay there, to the Chocoboys being magically altered Chocobos themselves. There really wasn't any way to know, as the Chocoboys never answered such questions.

His father had taught him as much as he knew about Chocobo Forests, which really wasn't all that much. Squall had learned just enough to acquire his own chocobo, and that was it. Well, at least that was enough for Taran to do what he had to; he couldn't stay in such a well-known place as a Chocobo forest after all. Taran stepped just under the outer eaves of the forest, and waited. These places were highly sensitive to intrusion - the Chocoboy would be along soon.

"Who are you and what do you want here?" piped a high-pitched voice from the darkness of the forest.

Briefly Taran thought of disguising his name, but quickly dismissed the idea. He of all people couldn't be disguised by a simple name change. "My name...is Taran, and I wanted to get a chocobo. I'm alone here."

"You look familiar."

Taran closed his eyes. No, there would have been no point in taking a false name. He should have guessed his father had been here, though how this little boy (from the sound, anyway) knew what Squall looked like - seeing as he'd disappeared twenty years ago - was just another mystery. "Perhaps I only remind you of someone," he said cautiously. "I've never been here before, myself."

There was a pause, then, "You're right. You smell wrong to be him."

Well thank Hyne I can at least make my own unique stink, Chocoboy, thought Taran ruefully. What a thing to have all your own.

"Okay. I'll help you. Costs Gil though." A young boy - perhaps twelve years old - came out of the forest, watching Taran warily.

"I'm afraid I don't have Gil," said Taran. "As I said, I'm alone here - no way to make Gil, no way to spend it. But I have monster pieces, if you're willing to barter."

The Chocoboy thought about it. "All right. Half a dozen shear feathers, and ten cactus thorns."

Taran rummaged in his homemade saddlebags until he located the items requested. "Here you go," he said. "I've plenty."

The Chocoboy proceeded to tell Taran how to get his own Chocobo chick, or chicobo. He was quite surprised that Taran wouldn't take a Chocoziner, but only the whistle that would summon a tamed chocobo to its master. Taran could hear the chicks quite well when he touched his power, and since he was facing away from the Chocoboy there were no witnesses to his use of it. He soon had his own little chicobo following him around.

"Don't put your saddlebags on her right off," said Chocoboy. "She needs time to grow. I'll trade you gyshal greens whenever you need them, if you come back here. Same price - six shear feathers, and ten cactus thorns, for a full saddlebag of greens. The chick needs at least one green a day to stay healthy; a full bag should keep you going for six months."

"Thanks," said Taran gratefully. "Anything else I should know?"

Chocoboy shrugged. "Just be careful to tie her away from your campfire, and upwind of it. Any spark can catch a chocobo on fire. And be nice to her. They're very loyal to kind people. What will you name her?"

"Tika," said Taran, simply because he liked the way the word sounded.

Chocoboy nodded. "Call her only by her name, and she'll learn it and answer to you. Chocobos are very smart - you can teach them all sorts of tricks if you're patient and kind."

"Well...I imagine I'll have plenty of time to do that," said Taran doubtfully. "Thanks again for your help."

"Anytime, Taran."

The sound of his name reminded him. "Oh yes...please don't tell anyone I was here, will you? Or when I might return for more greens?"

Chocoboy's eyes narrowed. "Are you a criminal?" he asked.

"No," said Taran honestly, "But some people are hunting me who really shouldn't find me. I'll give you anything I can if it'll help."

Chocoboy scowled. "Just you don't hurt Tika," he said. "If she's all right when you come back, I won't tell anyone I saw you."

"Deal," said Taran with a relieved sigh, and turned to leave - the chicobo Tika following him obediently.

He headed southwest from the forest, because there was more land to cover that way and it would take him longer to reach the western shores. The ground quickly turned rocky, as though giants had once thrown boulders around. Although it meant less warning before monster attacks, Taran was all in favor of this - it meant he would be harder to spot from the air, even with a bright yellow chocobo chick in tow.

The wind made odd noises in the rocks, he found - almost whistling as it was forced through narrow spaces. He quickly became used to it, so it took him a while to realize it was louder in some places than in others. When he did notice it, he started trying to locate it. Perhaps it was a ravine - and ravines often had water at the bottom of them.

What he didn't expect to find were bones. Yet here they were - many bones, bleached white from the wind and ravaged of meat by monsters. His hiking boots crushed them as he walked, and he flinched. He was walking in a field of death.

Well, if a monster was the cause, he could take care of that. Even Blitzes, which were immune to his thunder-strike, fell before Zell's combat training and the strength his power gave him. He wasn't very worried though - none of the bones were fresh. All were old, fragile, white. Whatever had caused all this death and destruction was long gone. It occurred to him to wonder where the bodies' weapons were. Had these people been taken by surprise? There were still scraps of cloth, of many colors, scattered randomly in the vicinity. Weapons, had they been here, would still be here. So either all these people were martial artists, or...

Taran's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he checked over the bones. Squall taught his children many things about survival, and one of them involved identifying wound types. If you came across a corpse it was good to know if it was a man who'd died of a heart attack and then been ravaged by wolves, or if the wolves had done their ravaging while the man was still alive.

These people hadn't been killed by monsters. These people had been killed - for the most part - by weapons. And the ones that hadn't had died by magic - here and there were bones charred by fire or lightning, or brittle from freezing.

Magic, and weapons - importantly, weapons no longer here. Only one fighting force in the world took the weapons of the fallen and let the bodies lie.

SeeD. SeeD had been here, long ago. Had fought...these others...here. Why? What was there on Centra that could possibly interest SeeD enough for them to fight for it?

Fight a lot for it. There were dozens and dozens of skulls and various body parts, scattered around. What was here, in the boulders, worth so many people's lives? Was it still here?

Probably not, Taran considered. For SeeD to have come in force, they would not have left until they had what they came for. Whatever it had been. Was it worthwhile to hunt, then? Wouldn't it be gone?

Maybe not everything was gone. Maybe there was some clue left as to the whys of all this. If SeeD had come here in force once, they might do so again - and that would be bad for Taran's continued good health. So he kept a firm grip on Tika's lead rein, and continued following the howling wind. Eventually he must find its source. At the least he might gain water - at best, he might find what the SeeD had come for.

As the sun sank low to the horizon, he did. Stumbling over bones, Taran found a great steel door set into a hillside, surrounded by high boulders. It was this combination - opening, and narrow opening - that made the wind howl as it passed, but on a calm day the place would be almost impossible to find.

The number of bodies was staggering to Taran's eyes. This place had been valiantly defended, viciously attacked. Since there seemed no sign of life now, he could only assume that the dead were the defenders, and the SeeD the attackers. Had SeeD been defending they'd still be here.

SeeD had come here and utterly annihilated the place. Who had these people been, to be slaughtered so? The bones said much time had passed. Had his father ordered the attack on this place? Had he fought here, killed the residents?

Taran sank down to the ground, so overwhelmed he barely noticed the crunch of bones beneath him. This place had been littered with corpses, and now was littered with bones. No names, no faces, no identities, no burial. Just bones in the sun and wind. Absently, he did his nightly ritual of sending his 'I'm still here' message - there was no way he could describe this yet, and he didn't want to ask Irvine until he'd formed at least a minimal picture of events. The letters from the others, he held off reading until tomorrow. Too much was right in front of him right now, requiring his attention, for him to want to divide it.

He found himself absently stroking Tika's feathers as he stared at the dark, empty, cavernous doorway. He couldn't bring himself to enter - not yet. Bones outside in the light were one thing, but what he might find in the darkness within...well, that was another matter entirely.