Chapter Text
I. Prologue: On a Fire-Lit Night
Once upon a time, in the faraway lands of Coerthas, a brave and benevolent king ruled over his loyal subjects. Together with his faithful knights, the king vanquished an evil dragon driven by unending scorn. While the king sealed away the dragon’s seething crimson eyes so they would never see the light of day again, his people had learned to fear and abhor the old enemy, and all that reminded them of those dark, war-torn times.
It came to pass that those who carried the legacy of dragons were exiled, driven from the promised lands, hunted and purged as an unacceptable taint upon the blessed peace the good king had brought. Sadly, such is the way sometimes. Deep-seated fear and zealous conviction make a potent poison, one that is not easily remedied.
Yet after years of deceptive tranquillity, a hooded figure happened to arrive at the city’s grand gates. Under the cloak of the darkest night, this clandestine visitor ascended to the highest levels of the city, entering the palace without the notice of a single guard.
Before the king’s throne, the figure threw off the shroud of rags. She appeared as a witch of terrible power, and these were the words she spoke to the saviour of Ishgard:
“Dull and murky are the jewels that crown thy head, king of kings. Faded are thy golden years. Bear witness to my verdict, for this is the fate which awaits thee: Thy hard-won peace shall descend into the chaos of mad men, vultures fighting for power before thy body has gone cold in the grave. Thy throne shall crumble, thy city shall burn as all thy sins, all thy secrets are dragged into the light. And upon the ashes of thy misguided reign shall stand the child of the dragon. A child spurned and disparaged, baptised in fire but possessed of a heart unspoiled, and a voice that rings as true as the bells tolling in the new dawn.”
“Lies and heresy!” cried the faithful knights. But the king stayed silent.
Few of his most trusted protectors were present to hear the ominous prophecy, yet they lunged as one at her whom they thought a witch, ready to slay her where she stood. Never did they reach her, for she disappeared into a pillar of blinding light, and the bells of the grand cathedral tolled without cease, echoing her portentous words.
“Silence them!” one of the knights commanded. “The witch desecrates our Fury’s holy bells –“
“Let them ring,” the king said. For he alone had glimpsed the true nature of the visitor within the radiant light, and he knew Her judgement was upon him at last.
…Ah, but our tale does not end here. On the contrary. Who would both king and knight be, if they accepted their fate blindly?
The bells had not yet stopped their resonant song when the Twelve went out into the city, determined never to allow the prophecy to become true. Even more viciously they hunted the children of dragons, dragged them out of hiding, banished them into the unrelenting winter outside the gates, until almost none remained.
What makes an evil man? Is a deed in itself evil when the hand which carries it out is guided by pure intentions? Who can say what dwelled in the hearts of the noble knights as they set out to protect their beloved king? Surely, they thought they were doing right by him. Surely, they believed their cause to be just. Were they evil then, or simply misguided?
‘Tis for us to judge, we who bear witness to their descent, if those who do malicious deeds retain a spark of humanity inside… or if they don’t. The blood the Twelve spilled and the lives they destroyed, some few would take as a necessary taint upon their souls, and live henceforth on the razor’s edge between guilt and duty.
Others… others would never return from the corruption of their violent ways, forsaken within the yawning chasm of wickedness. They would stay fiends, and raise more fiends to follow in their wake. When the king realized what they had done in his name, how they had tarnished themselves with sin out of loyalty to him, it was too late.
They were beyond redemption in the eyes of the Goddess who watched over all. And so was he.
The Au Ra, Souillé – the Sullied – as the people named them, all but disappeared from King Thordan’s realm. As did their songs, ancient melodies which sang gorgeous verses of what had been and what might be. Their voices were silenced, no longer heard across the streets and squares of Ishgard.
This is where our true tale begins, in a night as black as pitch, moonless and hopeless. Two frightened figures fled the city, running frantically between the towering shadows of houses fast asleep, unnoticed by God-fearing people who slumbered soundly in their warm beds. Their desperate flight was a futile endeavour, and yet what choice did they have but to try, even at the risk of losing their lives?
Infinitely precious was the bundle they carried, the little girl wrapped in the cleanest rags they possessed, her beating heart more vital than either of theirs. For her, they tried; tried to flee the city for the sake of their child, even as they knew that their passage had not gone unnoticed. A great black bird tracked their path between the winding alleys, the creature’s muscular haunches carrying it much faster than the poor fugitives could ever hope to run.
Upon the massive warbird’s back sat a rider clothed in purest white, his robes shining in the lightless surroundings, a blinding veil to hide the monster that dwelled within. Another rode with him, smaller and holding on to the man’s hulking form, a boy who counted perhaps a dozen winters.
Sightlessly the hounded couple tore through the streets, struggling to avoid the slippery patches of ice that would lead to a treacherous fall, the thuds of the warbird’s clawed feet coming closer and closer. Each angry caw of the hunter’s mount was a taunt, a threat, a mocking cackle, like a crow laughing at the fates of the condemned being led to the gallows.
Without mercy the run-aways were herded towards the walls of the great cathedral, yet no succour would they find in the Fury’s sheltering shadow. The first devastating spell of fire burst forth from the robed man’s hands, a rolling barrage that illuminated the night and burned away last day’s snow, scorching the cobblestones as it flew.
One of the two figures, the larger one, threw himself protectively into the path of the flames, and the quiet of the sleeping city was rent apart by a horrible scream. The force of the blast flung the second fugitive several yalms back, hood torn and singed to reveal a woman’s face. Curved horns of magnificent ivory framed her features, scales of the same colour gracing both her brow and her cheeks, which were smeared with soot and dirt.
She clutched the small, bundled-up body to her chest, shielding her child with her arms, tears running down her face at the sight of the lifeless, smouldering body lying in the blackened snow at the foot of the grand cathedral.
The rider stood motionless in the square, the breaths of his mount forming misty clouds in the biting cold. With an elegant motion, the robed man slid from the saddle, a long, gold-crowned staff in his hand as he walked towards his prey unhurriedly. His apprentice stayed upon the mount’s back, eerie yellowish eyes fixed on the scene with an avid fascination.
“There is no point in resisting, Souillé,” the executioner spoke, his voice soft, making the menace in it all the more spine-crawling. “I will not allow your kind to taint this sacred place, this Holy See. My brothers may frown upon my methods, yet… the only way to excise the root of evil is to burn it out. Isn’t that right, my boy?”
“Yes, High Inquisitor,” the lad sitting the bird replied dogmatically. The inquisitor stared down at the woman as if she was something disgusting stuck to the sole of his boot.
“Démon,” she hissed out, grimacing as she came to her feet. There was no escape. Nowhere she could run. Nowhere to hide. The tiny body trembled against her, and she held it tighter. Until her dying breath, until she lay broken and burned, until her world ended, she would defend her little miracle.
The mother ran, leapt, stumbled, in one last attempt to flee the monster who would hunt her down like an animal.
Behind her, the inquisitor sighed in an impatient manner, lifting his staff.
“They always try. They always fail.”
“Live, Ivoire. Live and remember… You were loved.”
Scarlet flames engulfed her, but she didn’t scream. She died protecting her child, on the steps of St. Reymanaud’s cathedral, beneath the Fury’s sorrowful gaze. And the overcast heavens broke open with a storm that night, weeping for one more orphan, left alone in the world by the hand of a once honourable man.
Lightning forked violently across the skies above, and the doors to the cathedral were thrown open, revealing the Supreme Priestess of Halone’s Will, her robes ridiculously modest in comparison the inquisitor’s sumptuous garb. She looked upon the horrific sight, taking in the heinous crime committed right at her holy sanctuary’s doorstep. Still in her mother’s arms, the child was sobbing pitifully, curled up into a ball, the clothes swaddling her scorched away by the vicious attack.
“What have you done?” the priestess demanded, blanching when she saw that the girl’s face was severely burned, one of her horns broken by the impact with the stone steps. Gathering her robes, the woman flew down the steps and kneeled beside the unmoving mother, cautiously lifting the small body into her arms. As she rose again, her eyes pierced the inquisitor with a damning stare.
“Is this what the king commands you to do? Murder without compunction and disfigure innocent children? You are out of control, Enferaux.”
The inquisitor scoffed, lifting his chin arrogantly. “He need not command us, for we of the Heaven’s Ward are His will made manifest. I bear no blame for pursuing those who run from justice. You know full well that the Souillé carry the legacy of the dragons. Heretics and treacherous snakes, all of them. Don’t you dare give them a voice, priestess. Have you forgotten how far the wyrms made it into our beautiful city? How close we came to extinction? ‘Tis only due to His Highness that the walls of your cathedral still stand, and you yet draw breath.”
The supreme priestess was unfazed by his tirade. “The horrors of eld do neither justify nor excuse this crusade of violence. When you stand before the Fury’s seat to receive punishment for your sins, you will remember that.” She turned to leave, but Enferaux called after her, his voice sharp as a blade.
“No Au Ra is permitted within this city, supreme priestess. You had best throw that child down the next well, or you will sorely regret it one day – if it even survives.”
The woman looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes filled with revulsion. “This is a sacred sanctuary of Halone. You have no jurisdiction here, High Inquisitor. And if you intend to stop me even so, I shall go to the king himself. How far would you debase yourself to carry out your so-called justice, I wonder?”
The High Inquisitor was not a man anyone threatened lightly, yet even he drew the line at harming a woman of the clergy. And she was aware of that.
“I wish you luck in that endeavour. His Highness receives no visitors these days,“ he spat back at her.
“Oh, he will receive me,” the Supreme Priestess said softly under her breath, turning towards the anxious deacon waiting at the cathedral gates. “See to it that those two poor souls are properly laid to rest. I will try and do what I can for the child.”
“Bitch,” Enferaux murmured to himself, before walking away from the scene to mount his bird.
Perhaps none in the Holy See had a reach as great and wide as the Supreme Priestess of Halone’s Will – although she rarely employed it. This time, she not only called on the nation’s sovereign but literally summoned him to her cathedral, and he arrived a few days later, standing in the small chamber where the girl was convalescing from her ordeals.
“Angelique,” Thordan greeted the priestess, who was in the middle of changing the bandages covering half of the girl’s face. The king was a fine-looking man, tall and statuesque, with piercing blue eyes and grave features which were slowly but surely showing his years. His golden curls were generously marbled with silver, yet more of it sprinkled throughout his full beard. Having forgone to wear the heavy royal regalia, a simple, informal coronet sat upon his brow. His austere but high-quality attire had been chosen to befit a visit to the head of the clergy.
“Your Royal Highness,” the supreme priestess gave a perfunctory bow, then returned to her task. She had always been a thoroughly pragmatic woman with little patience for fanfare and formalities.
Briefly, the king faced the pair of knights accompanying him, who had difficulties cramming their heavily armoured bodies into the small chamber.
“Leave us,” Thordan instructed them. They hovered for another instant before retreating from the room, and the king closed the door quietly behind them.
“The persecution of the Au Ra has gone too far, Thordan,” Angelique began without preamble. “Look what your honourable knights are doing to the innocent. To children! Who should be protected, not orphaned and disfigured in the most atrocious way. Put a stop to this madness, before it is too late.”
There was a long silence in which the king gazed at the child lying on the cot. His expression was pained.
“Enferaux, I suspect…” he said at length, heaving a sigh. “I cannot stop him, nor the others. Not anymore. I have lost control over them a long time ago, Angelique. My beautiful Twelve… all but fiends now.”
“How can you say you have lost control? You are the king!” the priestess exclaimed furiously, but quieted her voice at once when the girl stirred.
“If you only knew the full extent of our sins… Of my sins. What I have wrought cannot be undone. Not by me.” The king’s words were bereft of hope, and the priestess knew he had consigned himself to whatever fate awaited him. He was too far gone.
“’Tis never too late to try for redemption,” she told him evenly nevertheless. “This child may very well be the last Au Ra in this city. Do not let her blood be on your hands. Save her. Save at least one of them. What if it were your child, your flesh and blood? Would you let this happen to your son?!”
Thordan winced as if he’d been physically stabbed, his handsome features twisting. “I have no children.”
Angelique stood abruptly, pointing an accusing finger at him, her words ringing like divine judgement. “You can lie to yourself and your knights. You can hide behind your mantle of royalty and deceive your subjects. But you can never lie before the all-seeing gaze of Halone.”
The king closed his eyes, a long, heavy breath leaving him. “I know that. What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t let your knights come for the child. Give her sanctuary,” Angelique replied seamlessly.
“Sanctuary where? The Au Ra are banned from the city. She will be stoned and driven into the biting cold once she puts a foot out onto the streets.” He gazed to the ceiling pensively. “Let her live with you in the church, then. Hidden away from the outside world, beneath the Fury’s protecting hand. Let her learn to ring the bells, and sing along with that sacred symphony. Mayhap someday… someday she will be free. Mayhap someday, they will all be.”
And the king gave the child a name, for her old one had been lost in a fire-lit night. A name that echoed both the truth of his heart and the truth of his nation, written plainly upon a face forever marked, carved into a soul too young to understand its meaning:
Riven.
For twenty long years, she lived sheltered within Halone’s blessed church, unbeknownst to the people in the city below, whose days began and ended with the bells of St. Reymanaud. She watched the lively bustle in the streets and squares from high above, longing to be a part of them, to step out of the shadows and walk in the light. Yet she was Souillé, and the ruin of her face was bound to send people into fits and make children cry with fright. Therefore she stayed concealed from the eyes of the public, passing unseen even within the cathedral’s walls.
But… on some days, the humble petitioners seeking prayer and sanctuary would tell the supreme priestess this:
“She answered me. As I bowed my head and spoke of my worries… I heard the Fury answer me.”
“What did She say?” Angelique would ask gently. Yet the people could give no coherent reply to her question. Most of them simply answered:
“She just… sang to me. And I felt… lighter. Bless you, revered mother.”
Ah, the priestess thought then, her heart heavy with sadness. ‘Tis not the Fury’s voice you hear, my dear flock. It’s the Dragonsong. Do you truly not remember?
How quickly people forget their own past, especially when the living reminders have vanished from their midst.
Time took its course, and the king grew old, a younger generation of knights taking over the task of protecting the realm. Where the original Twelve went after retiring from their duties, no one knew. Yet the seasons turned and turned again, as did the gears of fate, approaching a crucial point… The people of Ishgard were troubled – for it became clear that their beloved ruler lay dying, without an heir to take the throne after his passing.
Never had he married, as kings are supposed to (if history is to be believed). And isn’t that just a little strange? Pious as he may have appeared, wagging tongues among the nobility certainly praised and cursed his more immoral pastimes in equal measure – and let me tell you, the stories of his exploits were rather too vivid to be passed off as mere rumour… Yet never had a Queen reigned at his side.
So it came to pass that when King Thordan departed for Halone’s hallowed halls - presumably -, he left behind a great deal of unfinished business.
Knights who knew not right from wrong. A vacant throne, a headless nation. A people paralyzed by confusion and grief. A deep-rooted anger within the hearts of the shunned and the exiled.
A lonely young woman, a child sundered and saved by the bell…
…and a lonely young man, a tragic prince, a son unacknowledged.
This is their story.