Rating: Upsetting things ahead-- you've been warned.
Spoilers for the game ahead.
Two Historias. Two worlds. Two stories, told from the perspectives of two harrowing shadows-- their influence on the other beyond their knowing.
First Chapter | Previous Chapter
Read it from the beginning on AO3
Chapter 25
Dullahan took another slow spoonful of pottage. Though he was stumbling a lot less, his hands still shook from using even the simplest of tools. Lady Sonja told him it was a regular side-effect from being struck by lightning-- not that he had any prior experience to reinforce her claim.
He grimaced. Did he really lose to mere animals? He was losing his touch.
The bigger problem is the orcan. Are these people aware? It could be here any minute now. Dullahan stared into his bowl’s soupy contents.
“Y’know, if you keep up that face any longer, it’s going to stick,” his chaperone called out to him from the kitchen, rubbing her hands on her apron. “How’s the food? Not too shabby I hope?”
Dullahan looked up, shrugging. He didn’t have the energy to speak-- especially not when, to his dismay, Aht and the Queen seemed to be avoiding him.
Raynie gave a helpless grin. “Cheer up, man,” the raven-haired woman said, edging closer to the table. “Just... Don’t worry too much? We’ll sort everything out eventually. I think.”
“Easy for you to say,” Dullahan muttered simply.
When he saw Raynie edging dangerously closer to him, perhaps within a few feet, Dullahan scooted across his bench to maintain their distance, his bowl in tow. This wasn’t the first time his chaperone tried to pull this sort of trick-- he caught her once trying to watch him sleep.
He had absolutely no idea how to deal with this woman.
“I was really surprised, y’know? Bumping into you again after that time in Alistel,” Raynie huffed, crossing her arms disappointedly. “You’re in one hell of a ride now that we know about you.”
“I’m in hell already.” Dullahan buried his face in the bowl, not wanting to make eye contact. So what if they were interested in him? It was none of his business.
Everyone should just go away and leave him be.
“... You’re really not,” she said with a sigh. “I, uh, heard quite a bit about you from Aht. Where you come from, sounds like hell too. I mean, Vainqueur’s pretty messed up too, but. I can’t imagine living in a world without any traces of magic, just sayin’.”
“And I, you.” Can he just go away already? Was there an application for a change in watchers? Even better, can his legs support him far enough to escape this mad house, at the very least?
Raynie, however, was watching his every move. He could hardly remember his earlier encounter with the woman, considering the events that followed-- three months in Vainqueur felt like decades-- but she was being unbearably fixated on him.
The woman suddenly put a hand on his forehead, taking him by surprise. It was by sheer miracle he did not choke on his food. Dropping his spoon, he gently tried to pry her fingers away from him. “Oh good, the fever’s receding,” he heard her say, but he wasn’t really listening.
“Y-yes, I’m fine,” Dullahan replied quickly, standing a bit too abruptly, eager to keep his distance. His legs gave way from the short notice, and Raynie quickly went to steady him.
“Oh, shit, sorry!” Raynie jerked back immediately after watching him flinch from her clutch on his wounded arm. If anything, majority of the support came from Dullahan’s own palm on the table. He shook his head repeatedly.
“I lost my appetite. I’m heading out for a walk.”
Raynie diligently tailed after him with a cloak and a scarf.
-------
Rosch uncomfortably watched his raven-haired subordinate follow the foreigner around Celestia as the man took in the sights. “Sonja...”
“What is it?”
“Are we... really sure that’s not him?”
Sonja sighed exasperatedly behind him. “He had a different sets of scars. It’s not him. Unfortunately. Also, that’s the fourth time you asked me the same question.”
“... But--”
“Rosch. While I can’t blame you for being distracted, please remember the reason why we’re gathered in Celestia in the first place.”
Rosch turned around to look at his wife-- but the person who greeted him back was Director-General Sonja, her eyes solemn with the weight of her research. Scattered all across the table before her were notes on Mana preservation and rejuvenation of the continent. It had taken her three years to gather this much from the few clues Stocke left behind, and it was time for her to present her findings to the few who gathered who still remembered the man.
“... I’m sorry,” Rosch replied, scratching his head. The foreigner’s arrival was by far the biggest surprise of this year’s gathering, even if the Queen did warn them in her correspondences beforehand.
He merely wasn’t ready to greet such a man while the same man was dying, that’s all.
Though neither of them said anything, the couple were struck by a painful sense of deja-vu. Logic-- history-- dictated the impossibility of their memory.
He and Sonja were not alone. Marco, who first noticed the discrepancies, had worked for the past three years to compare versions of events that their tightly-knit group recalled. While astonishing if interpreted alone, the nature of the parallel events ceased to be mysterious when the Queen told them outright on the possibilities of the White Chronicle.
His wife folded her arms before him, but let out a reassuring smile. “The Chroniclers’ meeting this year will make a breakthrough with that foreigner, I’m sure of it.”
======
Over supper in camp, Stocke gave the Maxwell household-- Elena, Rosalyn, and Pommel-- a brief rundown on Vainqueur, the concept of Mana, and the difficulties he had faced here in his short stay. For the benefit of the younger member of his small audience, Stocke made sure that his explanations were brief and concise.
Though Rosalyn was excited to hear more, her sentiments were not shared by the others. Pommel tilted his head incredulously, and Elena outright shook her head.
“You are mad,” Elena said simply. “The power of enchantments belong only to the Goddesses, and its rights granted to only the most loyal of their subjects. It is beyond the reach of commoners such as you and I.”
“These people, can you lead me to them?” Stocke paused. “Is Mort one of these… subjects?”
Elena pursued her lips. “The ‘subjects’ were our ancestors, members of the Capitolina Empire. To use magic and enchantments now, as a commoner, is a sin.”
Stocke frowned, but held a hand to his chin. “The Empire?” The two worlds share a Historia, dissimilar in appearance they may be... are they really that different?
Elena nodded slowly, putting down her mug. “Our ancestors once made a grave mistake, the price of which is still being paid by us today.” She gestured to the village around them. “This includes the loss of our ancient knowledge in magic. Not a trace has been found since the destruction of the Empire. We essentially had to rebuild civilisation from naught since the day of the Reckoning.”
“Reckoning?”
“Raccooning!” Rosalyn chipped in. She had wandered across the fireplace, coming to rest her head on Stocke’s from behind him. “The End of Capitolina!”
Stocke froze in place, not wanting to make any movements in case Rosalyn lost her balance.
“We must learn from their mistakes, which is why we record them dutifully,” Pommel agreed, folding his arms. “And that is the Sect of Principality. Most of us are devout followers of the Sect’s teachings.
“Eight hundred years of history from the day of the Reckoning, and it grows daily. That is the duty of the Sect-- to record history in the making, and to prevent history from repeating again.”
======
Dullahan concluded the boring religious narrative heard a million times in his childhood, and another million times from his own wife. He met his gaze with the small crowd before him.
The “Chroniclers”, they called themselves-- a group with seemingly unknown relations banding together to solve Vainqueur’s greatest mysteries. Dullahan made diligent effort to learn each name, but there were familiar faces all round regardless.
Prime Minister Raul.
Director-General Sonja of Alistel’s Military Hospitallers, with her spouse, General Rosch of the Regular Army.
Viola, ex-Field Marshal of Alistel’s Regular Army.
Patriach Barranca, the leader of the Celestians, flanked by Aht and Elm.
Raynie and Marco, the kind strangers from the Alistellan bar.
Kiel, the jailer from the Sand Fortress.
Lastly, Queen Eruca and Marie, representing Granorg.
Notes: Recording special thanks to @quicksilver-ink for being my first ever beta. If you have any comments/feedback/rants/etc, do drop me a message on it; I'd love to hear it. :'D
Freed of my obligations, I intended to follow his adventure to the end-- a journey not entirely unexpected, but one that pained my heart so.
Major spoilers from start to finish. || Read it on AO3
The skies in the far west shone one night, the familiar glittering of stardust converging on barren lands. Unbeknownst to the few who resided in the castle nearby, I-- and from the traces of crushed grass scattered across the fields, others-- visited this innocent spot, the implications of the stone monument before us known only to far too few.
Like the decades past, I caught myself wordlessly gazing at the flakes of granite loosening itself into the winds, the trail they left behind revealing a steady alphabet. Two. Three. Soon, I knew, it would be populated by names of the final actors for this unnecessary play.
I wasn’t turning a blind eye.
Though I may feign impartiality, I knew truly that I felt otherwise. His last words haunted me so. Freed of my obligations, I intended to follow his adventure to the end-- a journey not entirely unexpected, but one that pained my heart so.
It was beyond my wildest dreams to be so shaken after many years of hardship, almost believing that I hardened to stone.
=====
I barely had to stay long in the tavern to get what I needed. Excited chatter-- between overexaggerated historical plays-- yielded the location of their enemy, allowing me ample time to make good use of their headquarters’ facilities.
Wisely, I avoided the runemaster’s, knowing fully well who would be there in greeting.
A child tugged at my cloak as I tried to leave, flailing as she did about the dangers of the outside world. I smiled gently in return, pointing out that the feathers on her helmet were ruffled.
I was gone before she could give me a second look.
=====
I thought I would’ve been used to Sindarian ruins by now, but surprisingly, I still am not. Braving the foul smell of molded vegetation and dry cobble, I was rewarded with a glimpse of what I, retrospectively, would rather have not to have witnessed.
Even the deplorable artificial frost did little to comfort the chill growing in my bosom, as I have just witnessed what will become of myself if I were to lose my own tether to this forsaken realm.
=====
The venerable army, though blessed by the stars, was graced with a redhead strategist that would shame all of his predecessors. One after another, I watched them spread their rune bearers thinner, and on separate ways-- and surely enough, it came with disastrous consequences.
It was perhaps the sheer hand of fate that I was there, following the youngest of the new bearers, to witness his enemy’s grandeur speech.
Was he talking about me... ?
=====
The weary army rested, and so did I; yet, my mind refused to release its grip on the words that echoed ever since. In my own weariness, I was already caught by a familiar face.
I didn’t wait for her to finish wiping her glasses before I disappeared from sight.
=====
The dilapidated castle became unbearable immediately when I spotted a familiar dragon knight. Pride initially swelled in my throat at the size of his new steed, while faintly recalling the man being nothing but a child, arguing with a dear friend over trivial matters in an era long past.
Our flight to an isolated island.
Our first meeting with a mage of the wind, apprentice to the master of constellations.
The very same mage who now wished for destruction.
======
I jokingly suggested to myself to maybe offer my own accursed rune to him.
Then, like the sick joke I made, I was bluntly reminded that I would cease to exist, with not even a body to be remembered by.
======
I smirked, watching the mage’s irritation at children feebly defending his twin.
This child is actually much better at keeping an army together than me and the other combined.
My eyes crept back to the vagrant, watching his face seethe in rage as another rune was recovered from his little band of misfits. Such irony, huh?
======
An empty world. A desolate world.
Hearing Luc’s speech-- he sure has taken to that recently-- reminded me that I, too, shared the fate of immortality-- that I was never alone in this twisted world.
The end where the spectrum of grey shall claim Gregminster is still horrifyingly real. Yet, no one knew what to do with such disturbing revelations. A despondent Sierra Mikain had merely shrugged-- life went on, regardless of whether one was graciously blessed by a True Rune or not.
All of a sudden, I remembered that I was only human.
Days spent as a delinquent son of a general, leading my own band of misfits housed in the middle of a lake, were memories dear enough to me, yet were slowly fading. In those fleeting moments darting between the careful watch of a bodyguard and juggling the role of an army commander, I have confided many times with an aloof boy standing stiffly by a stone tablet, bound by nothing beyond the sheer duty to guard that dumb piece of masonry.
Then I saw him again, in a different place, under a different leadership. My heart only ached even worse.
Luc... Is this really what you wish for, after all I have told you?
======
Disappointing though it was, I bear no resent for your actions.
Thinking back, if I hadn’t made my grievances to you over the years, I myself could easily have filled your shoes. My regret was that I never inquired into your own past, nor considered the ramifications of my selfish desires for an empathic listening ear.
I’m sure your other leader would have told you the same thing, though, given the number of nights he had tried to strike a conversation with you. Perhaps it really was destiny that led you to this end.
But hey, at least you gained yourself a cute little apprentice. Your journey from here on won’t be as lonely, at least.
The blue-uniformed men, upon their first visit to a rundown mansion, was approached by an unlikely visitor one night.
Spoilers for Chapter 4/5 of the game. || Read it on AO3
He tested his footing at the edge of the bed, as if to make sure it was solid before he dared rely his weight on it.
The window framed for him the nondescript plains stretching beyond the broken mansion walls, the deceptively quiet image seeping into his mind, accompanied by the comforting glow of moonlight.
Near the door, his aide lay sprawled in a couch, engaged in a fitful rest. Rightfully so, Sasarai recalled dimly– their journey to the Brass Castle had admittedly been ill prepared, and frustration mounted amongst their dwindling ranks when Luc once again slipped past the bishop’s grasp.
The edge of his lips twisted. Luc. Sasarai hurriedly stopped his train of thought there, not entirely ready to address his newfound revelations. He slumped to the nearest chair, hearing the aged oak creak under his weight.
He ignored the reflection of himself in the mirror– a harrowing reminder of his own despicable nature.
Fortunately, there was soon a knock on the door– but he was not expecting visitors. His left fist clenched on the table before him.
Dios sprung out of the couch like clockwork, meticulous in all but his efforts to dispell traces of sleep. “Who goes?” he called out, his throat unusually coarse.
“Ah, umm, it’s Thomas,” a voice replied in turn; Sasarai briefly picked up the unsteady shuffling of feet across marble. “A-am I interrupting anything?”
Thomas. Who? Sasarai’s brows furrowed, until his aide caught his attention.
Master of this castle, Dios signed.
Right.
“State your business,” his aide continued.
“Ah, no, I was just wondering if I could have a word with, um… t-the Lord Bishop.”
“On what grounds?”
“Oh, no no, if you are not free, I-I can understand,” Thomas stammered.
The bishop sighed, motioning for Dios to open the door. I could use the distraction.
===============
Thomas’s heart threatened to leap out of his throat when the door creaked open, the tiny slit revealing the silhouette of a distinctive nose. The bishop’s aide eyed Thomas suspiciously, scanning for any others. Frankly, Thomas brought no one else with him; this was his own silly idea, one that he was beginning to regret with every passing second.
He was soon allowed into the room, by far the largest in the castle– there was mutual agreement to house the Harmonians as far away from the others, and the Flame Champion, ever the wise man, relinquished his own to the bishop. I’ve no need for it anyway, Thomas recalled the imposing figure of the Champion as he told him as such. My men can live for a few days without a large room to get pissed in.
He briefly noted that the candles were not bothered to be lit by its current inhabitants, and the room was chillier than he had ever remembered. The seated figure was seemingly unfazed by this, although Thomas himself was beginning to feel the ends of his arms tingling in search for warmth.
Thomas instinctively set his eyes on the back of Sasarai’s right hand, but the bishop quickly pulled it out of his view.
Sasarai cleared his throat. “What brings you here, child? At an ungodly hour, no less.”
Thomas blinked. It may be quiet in this room, but it was barely two hours after sundown– but he tactfully refrained from correcting the Harmonian. “Um, are you feeling better?”
Sasarai’s eyes narrowed, and his aide was suddenly standing in his full height next to the castle lord. “Will that be all, Master Thomas?”
Thomas inwardly sighed. So much for icebreakers to calm my own nerves. His grip on the journal he held only became tighter. “I-I would just like to see if there are any opportunities to… ah, work with… the Holy Harmonian Empire after… this…”
It sounded better in his head. He swore it. Thomas had everything worked out ever since Brass Castle. Now that he had voiced it to someone else– nay, the representative from Harmonia himself– it felt nothing more like a naive child’s dream.
Instead of full-blown ridicule, though, the bishop merely gave a wry smile. “Surely you know of our situation? Holy Harmonia knows nothing of our current association with the Fire Bringers. We are merely here on our own personal accord.”
“Lord Bishop, if I may interrupt– are you sure they should know about this?” Dios said.
Sasarai shrugged. “Why not? They would have known in the morrow. I have no intentions of concealing this from them.”
Thomas suddenly felt out of place. These men were men of politics– and men of calibre beyond what the Zexen Council was capable of pulling. If anything, his own inexperience may cost him Budehuc, or the entirety of the Grasslands that held it.
But he had to try. The Destroyers or no– there needed to be a longer lasting solution beyond truce amongst generations of warfare.
“I understand,” Thomas managed, “but that does not mean you are no longer a Bishop of Harmonia. My p-proposal still stands, regardless of your current standing in Budehuc.”
“Oh… ?” the bishop responded, but Thomas could not for the life of him tell if it was feigned or genuine interest. It mattered not. “Leave us, Dios.”
“But my Lord, I–”
“I’d like to hear what this youth has to offer… in my personal capacity.”
Thomas took a deep breath.
“If your interest is genuine, Lord Dios should also remain to hear what I have to offer,” the ‘youth’ said boldly. He may be young, but so were Hugo and Caesar; he was not ready to be ousted from this room as a child. Not yet.
Thomas caught Sasarai’s jaw hanging slightly, but he was quick to regain his composure. “Well then, have a seat,” the bishop offered, waving at an empty chair.
Thomas accepted the offer gladly, wiping his palms on his cotton pants. Oops, I might just be a bit jittery here.
===============
Though the door was closed, Sasarai noted the presence of an eavesdropper, excitement evident in the mild tapping of a finger against sleeves. Though stripped of the True Earth, the inferior counterpart now embedded in where it used to be– a poor example of a stop-gap, if you will– informed him of his immediate surroundings far better than any scout would. This included Sir Eavesdropper Latjke.
Years of exposure to the nature of a True Rune does that.
By this point, he was no longer sure whether he was representing the will of the True Rune, or if his thought process had any sense of human-like autonomy at all.
Meanwhile, the young master explained in great lengths on his proposition through the journal he brought in with him, spread neatly across the table. Truth be told, he hadn’t paid attention to the details– though he did catch Dios’s interests, which was a rarity in itself.
The ideology, however, was something Sasarai could see as groundbreaking.
“I-I think that Holy Harmonia would benefit from Grassland’s excess supply of wool and grain, s-setting up a formal trade agreement is a good way to get started,” Thomas concluded, looking as if he could flee like a frightened animal at any given second. “I-I’m not asking for anything political! Just…”
“Economics run hand in hand with politics, child,” Sasarai said gently, quite empathic by this point. This isolated mansion– Budehuc– was theoretically Grasslands in title, but the terms of the lease made it effectively a no-man’s land. However… “Alas, the name may be a problem in itself.”
“I am ready to change it if Holy Harmonia accepts the proposal,” Thomas declared, almost immediately. One of Sasarai’s eyebrow raised.
“I’m surprised you are offering a vacant tradepost here to us,” the bishop said, leaning back against his chair, eyes closing in a surprising bout of fatigue. “Would you not incur the wrath of your current tenants?”
Thomas’s features softened further– as improbable as it looked. “Yes, but your mere presence here has already begun to change that.”
Sasarai paused.
===============
Thomas looked at the bishop thoughtfully. Given the circumstances at the time, Thomas was expecting the need to defend the Harmonians from a murderous mob of Zexens and Grasslanders in his castle grounds–
– but they didn’t. Whether it was due to the sudden need to unite against an even more dangerous foe, or out of sheer pity at the Lord Bishop’s horrible excuse of an entourage, the Fire Bringers were oddly accommodating of the two. Thomas had an inkling why, though.
On their tiring trek back to Budehuc from a siege in Brass Castle merely days earlier, the toll on the bearers devoid of their True Runes was becoming apparent. Hugo was dead silent throughout the journey, his chirpy demeanor only returning upon arrival; the mighty Zexen Knight commander’s movements were sluggish, the poor control of her mount masked only by the stallion’s training; and even the Flame Champion himself found the need to rely on a supply wagon, weariness in his usual stout frame evident.
To reduce any chances of scuffles, Thomas rode alongside the two Harmonians, far behind in the flanks of the army. Cecile, still fresh from their lack of direct engagement, trudged dutifully beside them. They waited at the outskirts of the castle until everyone else was at least minding their own business before heading in– that was the plan, at least.
The Bishop Sasarai never made to his assigned quarters on his own two feet.
===============
Sasarai paused. I really haven’t thought this through.
While Holy Harmonia flourished as a political superpower on the continent, relations were understandably sour with the other nations. While the Grasslands was the closest in proximity, endless troubles in vassal-states under the empire’s banner had oft been resolved with an iron fist in the common man’s living memory.
To be seen as a party capable of negotiation on equal footing was likely beyond the rational thinking of the sane.
“… Is this some sort of elaborate blackmail?” Sasarai suggested snidely, giving a light chuckle. Thomas looked briefly offended by the notion.
“There is no need for you to accept right now, ser,” Thomas reply was good-natured, putting the journal in his arms once more. “Just your kind consideration is more than I can wish for.”
“How many people know of this little plot of yours?”
“Just the three of us in this room, Lord Bishop.”
Four, Sasarai corrected him mentally.
“Very bold of you to propose this without prior consultation with your adjutants.”
“I-I agree as well,” Thomas said sheepishly, his nervous smile returning.
Sasarai let out a smirk, clasping both hands together on the table. It hadn’t occurred to him that the room was so chilly.
“Tell me, Master Thomas– just what lofty goals are you aiming for, trying so feebly to win Holy Harmonia’s favour?” Sasarai tilted his head, catching Dios sighing silently in relief. Looks like your curiosity is to be sated, Sasarai mused inwardly.
“… I want a glimpse of the scenery beyond this hill,” Thomas replied, after much pause. The bishop blinked, as did his aide.
“Excuse me?”
“I wish for this castle to be the connecting point between people of different backgrounds and values. This includes citizens of the esteemed Holy Harmonia.” His voice was even lower, now, as if it was addressed to himself than to the foreigners. “To meet, to learn, and to settle differences– but not with swords.
“Aren’t you curious, Lord Bishop? A future where– through the language of trade– Harmonians co-exist peacefully with the rest of the world?
“A future beyond this hill of war?”
All activity seemed to stop as Thomas finished his sentence. Sasarai finally managed to make eye contact with Dios; his aide, too, was shaking his head in disbelief.
===============
Thomas returned their perplexed gazes with an earnest smile. “It’s fine if you do not agree; after all, I haven’t done anything of note to substantiate my claims yet.” The young castle lord gave a bow. “This is only the beginning– and I have only recently figured out what I wanted to do.”
Thomas began to bid his leave, but Sasarai’s straight gaze held him briefly.
“… I look forward to your future endeavours, young Thomas.” Sasarai’s response was brief, but Thomas could feel the weight behind the bishop’s words.
Thomas gave a bow once more, and closed the door behind him… only to be stopped by another Harmonian outside. “Kid…” Nash began.
“What is it, ser Clovis?”
The blond spy ran a quick, gloved hand through his hair. “You’re whacked. Trying to strike a deal with Harmonia is just crazy, y’know? People don’t normally do that.”
Thomas heaved a sigh. “I didn’t realise you were eavesdropping…”
“H-hey, it’s my job. Don’t feel too bad about it.”
“But aren’t you curious, too, ser Clovis? The scenery beyond the hill?”
Nash squinted. “Mmmmmmaybe.”
“Good!” Thomas declared, as if giving himself a mental pat in the back, and headed down the stairs, leaving Nash to fester with his thoughts.
I could throw the ball back in your camp and make you realize that you truly brought a whole new level of awesomeness to RH's worldbuilding through your fic, 'specially on the political side of things.
oh my god hearing something like this from you is great honor thank
Rating: Upsetting things ahead-- you've been warned.
Spoilers for the game ahead.
Two Historias. Two worlds. Two stories, told from the perspectives of two harrowing shadows-- their influence on the other beyond their knowing.
First Chapter | Previous Chapter
Read it from the beginning on AO3
Chapter 24
Eruca blinked back to awareness the moment she felt the slouch in her posture. Marco’s late. Eyeing the Satyros huddled up in a corner, buried in the bulk of the child’s cloak, Eruca suppressed a small smile.
Sleep never had come easily to her since her brother’s death, but she had not expected the nightmares to return to her after the ambush. After all, it was clearly, logically, rationally established that he was a foreigner; he had no kin here.
Her mind immediately presented her with dizzying, disorienting recollection of the few moments she remembered.
“Your Majesty...?” Viola’s tone was urgent. The veteran’s eyes darted between the groggy Elm and the Queen. Eruca hadn’t noticed the white-haired woman entering the clearing; her eyes were straining to follow the foreigner, who could no longer be seen.
In Viola’s arms, the fragile form of Aht tugged helplessly at her own cloak with a grimace. Before Eruca could speak, Elm, bolting up at the sight of her lady, willed herself forwards to claim Aht from Viola’s grasp. “There’s one more back in the woods. They were ambushed,” she heard Viola say.
With Aht under Elm’s attentive care, Eruca followed the former field marshal back into the woods. Moonlight scarcely pierced through the thick canopy; she could barely see where they were going. Her breath came in short rasps, her mind presenting her with the worst possible imagery that she was not willing to entertain. The Queen’s grip on the fingers of her gloves grew tighter. Her throat went dry, as if bracing herself for what she instinctively knew was coming.
No mental preparation was enough for what she found.
Father… Father was fond of lightning, she unwillingly reminded herself. The smell of charred flesh, the residue of crackling sparks, the blond lying in the fresh pool of red--
--the bitten-off scream that escaped from her own lips, hand heavy with a tome she did not want to hold. “Release the binds of the Black Chronicle!” Father roared, his impressive form towering over his children-- or what remained of them. Smoke billowed from the tip of his Mana rifle, the royal heirloom, spark residues barely escaping the confines of its firing chamber.
So fixated on the sparks was young Eruca, she could barely understand the instructions that her own Father had just given.
“Do you want Ernst to die for naught, Eruca?!” Victor roared once more, waving the firearm. The royal halls were terrifyingly cold that night, but Eruca’s fingers was warmed by the red seeping into her gloves-- a warm red that bubbled from her brother’s lips.
She was powerless before the Chronicle that soon consumed her whole, the preconditions to the Ritual of Flux met.
Not again. Not again.
Don’t die on me, not again.
Eruca squeezed her eyes shut, willing for it to go away. She buried her face in her palms, unwilling to disclose to the world that she shed tears.
It was true; it was all true. Marie was right; the similarity was uncanny. His skill with archery, his habit of research, his skill in politics-- it made this one stranger closer to the brother she had lost, even more so than Stocke. Heiss had robbed more of Ernst from her than she initially thought.
But Stocke is your brother, not this... man! What are you thinking! Eruca bit her lip, her brows sinking in anguish.
She slowly traced the edges of her eyes with a thumb to dry them, but paused suddenly at the sight unfolding before her.
“No good,” the boy whispered, removing his hands from Dullahan’s forehead. “I can’t get to him.”
His twin sister bit her lip. “This has never happened before,” the child spoke softly in return, her gaze marred with worry. “We can’t lose our sole connection left to Vainqueur. If this keeps up, our efforts...”
The twins’ interaction was interrupted by a blade pressed against Lippti’s throat.
“Aht!” Eruca said, standing quickly from her seat. “Wait!”
“Give Stocke back,” Aht said, her tone seething with hatred. The twins, ignoring her threat, only gave a passing glance to Eruca before continuing their hushed conversation.
Aht grabbed Lippti’s wrist, a clear ringing sound reverberating across the room as entities of Flux mingled with Mana. Despite Aht’s small stature, she was still taller in comparison with the twins; and Lippti was yanked away, her eyes being forced to meet with the shaman’s.
“Give Stocke back,” Aht repeated, tears threatening to flow even as her knife shook. Eruca sincerely doubted that the knife was of any threat to the ephemeral twins, but part of her was somehow rooting for the Satyros.
... But no, this had to stop.
“You won’t talk to her, but you’ll talk to me, won’t you, children of Historia?” Eruca addressed the twins, her arms folded. “It’s been a while.”
The twins said nothing.
“You have a lot of explaining to do,” Eruca continued.
Silence was still their response.
“Speak to me,” Eruca said sternly. “I’m a wielder of a Chronicle too, aren’t I? Why won’t you speak to me?”
She glared at the twins.
“Why only the bearer of the White Chronicle? Why not me?” Eruca shook. ”You’ve spoken to Heiss, haven’t you?”
Lippti took a deep breath. “We’re sorry, Stocke. It would seem that we cannot leave your sister in the dark, after all,” she whispered.
What?
Teo clicked his tongue in mild annoyance at his twin, but Lippti ignored him. “Eruca… bearer of the Black Chronicle,” she declared, flicking away the dagger pressed against her throat, sending it skywards and burying into the shack’s thatched ceiling. Aht yelped in surprise, but that didn’t give pause to Lippti as she continued. “By the Empire’s final Ordinance, the jurisdiction of Historia and all associated therewith are to serve as guides solely to the bearer of the White Chronicle...
“... But--”
crackle
The twins were suddenly assaulted by sparks, arcs which carried the clear trace of Flux. Eruca hurriedly stood, but was unsure of what she could do. She shot an accusatory glare at Aht, but Aht shook her head. Historia is…?
“--But… Stocke… is here… no… longer,” Teo completed his sister’s sentence, visibly flinching from the effort. “Eruca… we are sorry.”
A flash of light later, time resumed… and all traces of the twins were gone.
The queen was inconsolable for the next few minutes.
-------
Unbeknownst of the chaos that he had wrought into Celestia, the foreigner made his escape when he confirmed that the cottage was empty.
The air was too thick for comfort. The sun was too bright. Everything ached, and his legs refused his pleas for mobility. Dullahan awkwardly stumbled through the bushes, his belongings in tow: a satchel bereft of the Black Chronicle, and the clothes draped on his back.
His eyes soon met with Beth in a series of makeshift stables; the one creature that he could rely on to get him out of here. “Good girl,” he muttered, staggering over to the horse.
“And where do you think you are headed?” a woman’s voice called out to him, taking Dullahan by surprise. It came from behind him. ... It wasn’t a voice he recognised.
“None of your business,” Dullahan spat, waving her off with his only working arm. The woman’s surprisingly firm grip caught his arm, turning him around and making him lose his footing, sending him crashing towards soft grass.
“Look at you. You can barely stand.” Dullahan squinted against the bright sun to catch the woman’s features-- a mercenary by the garb, her hair a mat of unyielding, glaring silver. Just taking in the sight of her was giving him a headache. She sighed. “Half of them expected you to run away, which is why I am here in the first place. And you certainly met their expectations... ser Dullahan.”
There was, once again, the trace of doubt in the woman’s tone to his identity that he had grown so accustomed to hearing in Vainqueur by this point. But the foreigner elected to ignore it, focusing instead on trying to get back on his feet. He failed--miserably.
Dullahan drew out his breath slowly, before smashing his fist into the grass. “Why can’t you all just leave me alone,” he snapped, his patience at its limits. Vainqueur must see him like a sick joke. Failures at every turn, unexpected consequences at every juncture-- it was sufficient to drive him mad. Was his request so unreasonable? Was the universe out to torture him? Did the world derive enjoyment from his suffering?
He flung his satchel at the woman, but the satchel missed his mark completely. Unwillingly, he reached to clutch his arm-- the arm that he forcefully pulled the makeshift splint off of, and also the arm that he reflexively used to do the idiotic toss.
The world spun for quite a bit before it welcomed him once more into the embraces of darkness.
----
“--at this rate, he’s going to need a chaperone.”
Dullahan squinted; he was back in the bloody cottage. He made sure he made no sound, as painful as it may be. His arm felt like it had been burned twice over, though there seemed to be something cool resting against it under all the bundle of white. The splints were, annoyingly, back in place.
The strangers’ conversation moved on. “Do you not think your sentiments are getting in the way? Just because the Queen is bewitched by this man’s appearance, does not mean that the rest of us have to follow suit.” This voice... the woman from the stables. Not realising that Dullahan was awake, the woman continued. “Many of us couldn’t care less if he decides to seek his own death. This applies to you two, as well.”
Dullahan dared to take a look at the other two in question. One of them was a ridiculously tall man with a pale blond ponytail-- and an arm of gold. His back was turned to him-- his broad shoulders effectively blocking the silver-haired woman from Dullahan’s sight.
The man tapped his foot in annoyance, arms folded across his chest. “Look, it’s not all about sentimentality,” he said, and a woman next to him-- her brown hair also in a ponytail-- put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s... there’s reasons, okay. Especially with what Eruca told us.” There was a long pause. “There’s nothing wrong with us wanting answers from this foreigner.” Even from Dullahan’s vantage point, it was clear that the man was visibly shaken.
Just then, a pair of emerald eyes emerged above the side of Dullahan’s cot, staring at him, hugely intrigued. The boy’s tiny gloves followed, fingers resting on the feathered quills.
“Ma! He’s up!”
If Dullahan could manage a facepalm, he would have done so. Stupid kid... He groaned.
“Stocke, no, leave the poor man alone,” the soft-spoken voice could have only come from the other woman, quickly approaching to drag the small child away from him. She gave an apologetic smile to Dullahan before giving a private reprimand to the boy.
The other stern woman huffed, turning to walk out. “Rosch, Sonja... It’s been three years. I am slightly disappointed.”
Dullahan caught the man-- Rosch-- tightening his fists into balls by his sides.
---
“Sorry about that,” Sonja said, with a hand on his forehead. Dullahan frowned in response; but Sonja’s gentle smile merely widened. “You probably shouldn’t have tried to run off while you’re still battling with the infection, you know.”
They made him sit up in the bed, his back propped up by something oddly soft and comfortable. It was the same thing they made his head rest against, earlier, too-- akin to something found only in the bedrooms of the highest order of nobilities. Not that he was in the position to complain about anything.
Across the room, Rosch brooded in a chair, his golden arm absently patting the poor boy’s head. Somehow, Dullahan could not shake off the feeling that the giant of a man was staring straight into his soul.
“Don’t let Rosch get to you,” Sonja whispered in his ear, giving his good shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Well, that was unexpected. Then again, it was a trend he should have recognised earlier amongst healers: Anything to make sure the wounded stay put. He grimaced briefly, remembering the last time he had an encounter with a genuine healer from his home world. At least this woman doesn’t try to shower me with hugs or solicit pets from me.
“There are people eagerly waiting for your recovery so that they can finally have a chance to talk to you,” Rosch’s shouted across the room, his frustration evident in his deep tone. “You better be prepared.”
“Rosch!” Sonja scolded, clicking her tongue. She pointed at the doorway. “You. Escort the son out of here.”
Dullahan swallowed, but was otherwise unwilling to let anyone know that he was slightly intimidated.
Notes: Recording special thanks to quicksilver-ink for being my first ever beta. If you have any comments/feedback/rants/etc, do drop me a message on it; I'd love to hear it. :'D
EDIT: Also thanks to downtroddendeity and jikanet-tanaka for their awesome proofreading and feedbacks!
Rating: Upsetting things ahead-- you've been warned.
Spoilers for the game ahead.
Two Historias. Two worlds. Two stories, told from the perspectives of two harrowing shadows-- their influence on the other beyond their knowing.
First Chapter | Previous Chapter
Read it from the beginning on AO3
Chapter 23
Sonja sighed, retying her hair neatly back in the short ponytail she now favored, and flicked her fingers, renewing the room’s spell against infections.
Gentle, warm light filtered into the room, the endless glow masking the true hour-- it was almost two in the morning. She had already sent Marco to bed, knowing his tolerance against anti-sleeps; she didn’t need another patient to look after on a third-day marathon with one already.
Her eyes flickered to the form occupying the fresh sheets, the swollen arm struggling weakly against the restraints of the bloodied splint. She made the mistake of lingering on his familiar face, sending her mind back to the times she tended to someone else; an elusive blond who was no longer with them.
It’s like a ghost coming back to haunt us all.
But no. Enough of that, Sonja told herself, slapping her own cheeks. She returned to her station, one hand reaching for the cold compress that had long since warmed to the patient’s feverish forehead. Her mind had not stopped turning since Eruca’s arrival into quiet Celestia-- Celestia that soon came alive with whispers of anxiety.
This man was lucky that Alistel’s Director-General of Research was the one overseeing his care, and not anyone else.
Sonja frowned. Normally, the process of disinfection was quick and simple-- the mixing of a few common herbs, infused with a tiny wink of Mana before consumption or application. But it was clear that it had failed to take effect when his fever did not disperse soon after. In fact, it should have been obvious to her from the beginning when the usual salves failed to seal the gashes.
Sonja sighed.
It was only by sheer luck that he survived the first night. It wasn’t until the next day that Eruca met with Sonja, when she was informed of the… peculiar qualities of this particular patient.
Sonja repeated to herself the words she had said to the Queen of Granorg. “But how is this possible?” Not once in her almost-- almost-- thirty years of age had she encountered an individual not blessed with the gift of Mana. With few details from the monarch thereafter, Sonja had no opportunity to pursue the matter further.
She sniffed at the air, taking in the waft of fresh herbs she was cooking on a makeshift stove. Not ready yet. “If this doesn’t help you, then I don’t know what will,” Sonja muttered, sighing as she replaced the compress with a fresh one.
It had been two years back when Sonja, by some unknown surge of courage, approached Queen Eruca-- Stocke’s sister-- for access to Granorg’s royal archives, as the world scrambled to replenish Vainqueur’s ever-waning pool of Mana.
She was no expert in politics, but it was clear that competing interests were what first drove Alistel to split away from Granorg. Fueled by the Prophet’s visions and charismatic courage, certainly. Unfortunately, with the split and Granorg’s restrictive policies on Imperial knowledge, some things-- things that could have benefited mankind as a whole-- were shut away from the eyes of the world forever.
It would be unkind for Sonja to not give credit to Viola, whose personal accounts of the Prophet was the unexpected opportunity for Sonja to identify alternate medicinal sources to Mana.
One of those lost arts went by the name of traditional herbology.
Modern medicines were built on the assumption that the Mana required was already present in certain types of plants. Most only required further mixing, and possibly a spell from a healer, to achieve desired effects. The prevailing problem was the dwindling wild population to harvest-- attempts to farm the herbs had failed, and even Celestia’s rich soil was beginning to have troubles meeting the entire continent’s demands. The bounties Alistel offered for wild medicinal harvesting to meet the military’s supply shortage did not help, either.
It was said in Imperial texts that herbology was abandoned by the contemporaries due to its tediousness when compared with Mana-infused herbs, then in huge abundance, and Mana’s positive effects well-received by the people of the Empire. But we will continue to fall ill, Sonja thought idly. Anything that can alleviate Vainqueur’s burden, we will have to try.
And ‘lo and behold, she had herself the first guinea pig. Well, not exactly one by choice, she mused, catching the man’s flailing good arm before he could harm himself further. She rubbed a clean hand on the bridge of her nose. Gods, for the sake of the both of us, I hope you get yourself together soon.
----
As much as she took pride in her career, eighty hours was just too much for Sonja to swallow, even with the help of anti-sleeps.
However, she did not approve of the candidate that offered to relieve her of her shift. “You look terrible, Aht. Go back to bed,” Sonja groaned, rubbing her temples at the tiny figure standing in the doorway.
“I wanna stay,” Aht whimpered. The child’s request came through to Sonja as something both selfish and selfless at the same time. Right, the poor sod saved her from the goblins.
“Not when you’re still that unwell, no.” Sonja sighed, hobbling over to the jug and pouring herself another hot cup of tea. “Have you looked at yourself?”
The child, dragging herself to a nearby mirror, confirmed her suspicions. One could barely recognise the usually jovial child, her accessories forgotten, her hair let down in a messy mat its owner couldn’t be bothered to comb. When Aht stared into her reflection, her sunken eyes and slack jaw greeted her in return. She wrapped the clean, oversized cloak-- the man’s-- around herself tighter.
Sonja knew, though, it wasn’t something brought on by Aht’s lack of sleep. Children of all races were specifically susceptible to Mana burn-- especially one with such a huge Mana potential as Aht’s. Not only was it deemed unethical to inflict on children, it became a highly contentious issue when Specint utilised it on adults in their interrogative process a few years back.
Under the reign of Heiss, of course.
It’s going to take her a while to recover, Sonja sighed and patted the child on her head. “C’mon, we’re getting you out of here.”
Aht blatantly refused, but had no energy to resist even a tired Sonja’s shove. They didn’t have to walk out the door before being stopped by someone else. “You look terrible,” Sonja heard the woman say, but her tired eyes, blinded by the sudden glare of the outdoors, refused to tell her at a glance who she was talking to. Thankfully for her, though, the tone was all too easy to distinguish. “Rest as and when you are able, Lady Sonja. I’ll keep watch until Marco returns.”
“... Your Majesty.” Sonja bowed simply, not in the mood for courtesies. “Surely you are needed elsewhere?”
Eruca shook her head. “It’s fine. He’s my charge, after all,” the Queen muttered, patting Aht on her tiny shoulders. “Aht, if you want to stay, you’ll have to promise not to push yourself too hard.”
The Satyros nodded as vigorously as she could.
Sonja frowned. “You are all terribly childish, you know that?” she managed, handing Eruca her stack of notes. “Do you know what to do?”
Eruca gave a tight smile. “Your handwriting is not that bad, Sonja. Give yourself more credit.”
----
“But it’s true, Patriach,” Elm declared, well within the earshot of those gathered in the elder’s hut. “Call me mad if you will, but it does not absolve the foreigner from possibly playing a part in the ambush. He is dangerous,” the Satyros hissed. “He’s a danger to Lady Aht-- to all of us. Look at him! He has no Mana. This is our best chance to get rid of him!”
Frowns came all around the table, but Patriach Barranca said nothing.
While details of the ambush was sketchy at best, the damage to Eruca’s caravan revealed a minimum of three assailants-- goblins, as Aht had informed them. However, goblins arranging sophisticated ambushes of this scale-- down to using sleeping gas-- was unprecedented.
“But what if the goblins just became real smart? Y’know, like us,” the raven-haired woman said. Viola watched her thoughtfully. This one. I know her. I was about to say she was in Stocke’s brigade...
But he didn’t have a brigade... did he?
“What were the chances of the Queen’s expedition being leaked, Elm? Perhaps they were being hired by someone?” Rosch tried to argue. The gruff, now middle-aged man huffed, arms crossed. He’s having less of a trouble doing that, ever since he adopted the civilian Gauntlet, Viola mused briefly.
It was apparent that no one else in the room was willing to accept Elm’s theory, but the feisty Satyros was undeterred. “If they’re being hired, then they’re being hired by him, to play him up as a victim!” Elm roared, her anger impressive-- but not unfounded. She had been, after all, played for a fool in the ambush.
Viola let out a sigh, realising it was time for her to speak up. “So you are saying that what I have witnessed was invalid?” she offered, her tone even.
All eyes in the room turned to the former Field Marshal, dressed in plain gambeson and tunic-- a far cry from her days serving in Alistel’s military. “W-Well...” Elm stuttered, jarred by the unexpected interruption from the retired Valkyrie.
“There was a Gutral,” Viola repeated, though she had already made the facts of her encounter clear a few days earlier. “And the goblin spoke clearly in our tongue. Neither party noticed my presence. The ambush was not an instigation on the part of the foreigner.”
Viola raised a finger. “Organised ambush.” Another finger. “Goblins with a Gutral.” A third. “They dispersed immediately when I made my presence known. I can’t say much about their motives, however…
“... They’re after the foreigner, and with all due respect to the citizens of Celestia, the unfortunate Shaman was bait.”
Notes: Recording special thanks to quicksilver-ink for being my first ever beta. If you have any comments/feedback/rants/etc, do drop me a message on it; I'd love to hear it. :'D
EDIT: Also thanks to downtroddendeity for her awesome proofreading!
Rating: Upsetting things ahead-- you've been warned.
Spoilers for the game ahead.
Three years after the Ritual, Vainqueur showed signs of relapse into desertification. Tensions flared amongst the fragile Alliance superpowers, as time began to run out for both the continent and the people living on it.
Even as the fate of a key person to the Ritual remained a mystery, a homesick foreigner's journey in Vainqueur was set to influence the course of true history...
First Chapter | Previous Chapter
Read it from the beginning on AO3
Chapter 22
As soon as the man opened his eyes, he was greeted by blurred vision. He was surrounded by the vast silence of an ethereal space, the dead air punctuated only by the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. There were no walls in sight; just an endless pitch of black, with the rest of the landscape dotted by lime platforms of various sizes.
... But this was not Historia.
“Took me a few tries, but still it turned out well.” The voice of a woman echoed through the void. The voice’s source made her way into the light-- the eerie glare of white that refracted painfully into his still-adjusting eyes. “I usually do not welcome long-stay visitors,” she continued, not bothering with eye contact, “but circumstances dictated me to ensure you are aware of yourself before I send you world-bound.”
He stood, squinting at the woman. Her hair, bleached in unnatural silver, accompanied eyes of blue steel underneath a large hood. Resting against her shoulder was a pole, almost nine feet high. The banner hanging off the top edge was similar to the shade of green that dyed her cloak.
Her feet made no noise during her advance.
And although he was confident he had never met her before, he could not shake off the feeling of familiarity emanating from the woman. “... Who are you? And where am I?”
She sighed. “You currently exist in the interstice of time, the juncture between dream and reality.” She regarded him with disappointment. “You are in the company of Heather.”
He observed her for some time, quietly turning over questions in his mind. Oddly, he could not remember how he arrived here. “Why am I here?”
Heather shrugged. “Good question.”
Glaring at the woman, his hand reached for his satchel, which was nowhere to be found. “Worldly belongings don’t exist here, you fool,” Heather said dryly. “Will you be making your introductions, or shall I be referring to you as Nameless?”
The man gave it some thought, scratching his chin before making his reply.
“... It’s Stocke.”
Heather’s face contorted slightly in response. “That is not even a proper name. I pity you.” She paused. “Though I suppose Dullahan isn’t, either,” she added, nonsensically, as an afterthought.
“Is this place in any way associated with Historia?” Stocke pressed, leaning against the nearest railing. The potential drop to the nether abyss from a slip did not bother him.
“... This ‘place’ is not in any way associated with one of the Governing Goddesses, no,” she said, folding her arms. Her banner was forgotten, seemingly planted into the dull limestone a few paces behind her. “How are you feeling, after being watched over like a pathetic child ever since your mysterious arrival? Feel ready to take on real life yet?”
The blond’s brows furrowed. The last thing he remembered was being in the hills near Alistel, making his way homebound after three agonising years. Calendar years, he corrected himself. “How long have I been here?”
Heather put up a hand to count off her fingers. “Three months, perhaps? Could be more. Time moves strangely in your presence.” All traces of her sarcasm dropped soon after. “I suppose you are lucky you landed here first, and not straight into our lands immediately.”
“Your lands?” Stocke repeated, his suspicions rising, a sense of dread to hear the outcome growing by the second. “Am I no longer in Vainqueur?”
She nodded briefly. “And you will do well to use your Mana sparingly, seeing as you almost suffocated from our dead air when you first arrived.” Heather wagged her index finger at him. “Luckily for you, you seem to be in good hands, after all.” She reached into her cloak, withdrawing an object that Stocke had grown all too familiar with in recent years.
The White Chronicle.
Stocke immediately stepped forward to reclaim it.
“It’s a different hue from what I’m used to,” Heather said coolly, watching him inspect the book for damage. “I’d keep it out of sight if I were you.”
He ignored her, thumbing through the Chronicle quickly. His hands wavered at the last annotated page of the tome. No new nodes yet. His fist clenched. I can’t return now. Not yet.
How long more do I have to play by your rules, White Chronicle?
“A light note before I deposit you off in Terrano, then, Stocke,” Heather said, reaching for her banner. “I’m looking for a lost lamb by the name of Eric. Return my favour by looking for him-- and probably also help look out for his family in the meantime, can you?”
“... And what if I said no?”
Heather smiled. “You don’t seem the type. Help this poor, trapped lady out, wouldn’t you?” It didn’t take her for long to drop the smile. “If this ‘Vainqueur’ you speak of is a land that man had conquered, chances are it would be well-documented.” Stocke could barely hide his groan at the thought of extended reading.
“Otherwise, seek out a woman by the name of Mort. I believe Elena knows where she is.”
Stocke’s eyebrow raised. “And who are these people?”
Heather’s grin returned, waving her banner in a wide arc before his eyes. “You’ll see.”
-----
The pleasant smell of baked herbs roused him.
Immediately alert through well-honed habit, Stocke raised himself to his knees in a single move, disturbing the rushes padding the oaken bed underneath him. The blond paid no heed to the rough blanket that made its way onto the floor.
His eyes quickly took in his surroundings and, more importantly, searched for Historica’s distinctive shade of emerald, or his satchel. They were not in the room with him. Though the smell of food told him otherwise, he sensed no other living presence within the vicinity.
The woman that walked in soon after confirmed his suspicions.
It was hard to tell her build from her baggy attire, but the worn pair of armguards the short-haired woman wore betrayed her combat experience. She sighed, her brown hair bobbing with her. “Grumpy-faced already, eh? Good morning.” She curtsied, lifting her skirt slightly with one hand, the other balancing a serving tray. She wasn’t very tall. “Are you well enough to eat? I made sure the pottage’s soft enough, at least.” She gestured with her tray, taking a few measured steps forward.
Stocke lowered his guard, but frowned in confusion. The air-- it was missing a layer.
She gently took hold of his wrist, and deposited the wooden bowl into his hand, making sure he did not drop it before she let go. It was only then he realised he had a change in clothing. He could not help but stare at her.
The woman gave a reassuring smile. “Sorry. The healers said the clothes were partially the reason why you were sick, so I did the honours.”
Stocke kept silent. Dreadfully silent. He reached into the bowl to devour its contents.
------
“So your name is Stocke? How interesting,” the short-haired woman said as she added some herbs to the fire. “I’m Elena. And just so you know, I’m married.” She gave a wink.
When Stocke failed to respond to her playful demeanor, Elena shrugged.
“How did you find me?” Stocke said, attempting to focus. It proved difficult; the thin air was not what he was used to. The herbs Elena burned in the fire helped, but it was clear that something was missing here in general.
He looked at Elena, willing forth his gift of Mana Sight received from a certain young Satyros. He saw nothing.
... There wasn’t any Mana. Anywhere.
“Ah, well, our wagon was following a trail to this village, and you fell out of a tree,” Elena said, laughing lightly, bringing Stocke’s attention back into the conversation. “It was quite a surprise, really.” She looked at Stocke thoughtfully. “... On many accounts.”
Stocke tilted his head, but did not pursue further; his mind turned to other, more pressing, matters. A world without Mana. This is why I couldn’t detect her presence.
“As for your belongings, I believe they’ve been confiscated by our store master,” Elena continued, taking her eyes off of him. “Said it’s, uh,” the woman raised two hands, her tone suddenly a pitch higher, “‘too dangerous for a sick man like you!’, I suppose.”
His responses were sluggish, but he stood as quickly as he could.
“Where is your store master?”
She pointed at the door, her smile never fading as she watched him rush through it.
------
“No!”
Stocke took a deep breath, taking another firm step forward. The store master-- the child-- before him gripped Historica tighter. He’d had no troubles reclaiming the satchel with the White Chronicle in it, but... “It’s dangerous,” he managed; but he wasn’t sure if she understood his meaning.
The girl pouted, dragging the sword-- about her own height-- away from the man. It wasn’t the only thing the girl held onto, either-- part of his prized collection of belts dangled loosely from her shoulders. “It dangerous for YOU!” she shouted, her cheeks puffing.
Stocke frowned. What was she babbling about?
“Lil’ Rosa’s just concerned for you,” a jovial voice greeted him behind. Stocke whirled without warning, grabbing the... thing... by an ear. “Ow! Ow, ow, stop, ow! They’re sensitive, gosh!” the Beastkind protested at its ear from being so violently pulled. It -- he? -- was unlike any other Beastkind Stocke had encountered before. A dog?
Stocke let go; the white-furred creature took a few unsteady steps towards Rosalyn, its hands nursing its wound. “Hail, doppelganger,” he said reluctantly, folding his arms. “C’mon, we’re all just worried about you. The healer said you shouldn’t wield a sword with a breathing illness, y’know? Well, no worries, I’ll bet you can, just judging from your reflexes.”
Stocke gradually registered that the child was busy kicking at his calves, apparently disapproving of his act of self-defense. “Stop bullying Pom!” she said.
The image of another child came to mind, one who constantly warned Raynie not to resort to violence.
Using his height advantage, Stocke easily took the blade from Rosalyn’s grasp, much to her frustration. When she realised she could not possibly win against an adult, she slumped her shoulders.
“Okay! Okay! You take it, but you head right back to bed!” She pointed at him. Stocke knew he was exhausted. He merely nodded.
Later, after Rosalyn had finished tucking him in with blankets and left the room (with her mother going “Good girl!” beyond the mortar walls), Stocke slid the White Chronicle out of its leather clasp and ventured into Historia.
--------
“... How did you get in here?” Heather interrupted Stocke’s sight-seeing in her home grounds.
“And you claim this is not Historia,” Stocke retorted in return, holding up the White Chronicle. “I have questions for you.”
Heather remained silent.
“Where are Lippti and Teo?”
The white-haired woman frowned. “I do not know them,” she said. “Though... Their names are familiar.”
He tapped his fingers on the Chronicle. “Are there any other residents in this space?”
She shook her head, her grip tightening on her banner.
“Who-- or what are you?”
“Unfortunately for you, that is none of your business.” She paused. “However, I will tell you this.”
Stocke waited patiently-- he knew he had all the time in the world here.
“A game is afoot. Eric’s disappearance, your appearance, and the similarities you both share... cannot be a coincidence.”
“And this ‘Eric’-- I’m supposed to look for him.”
“I suppose you can try, though if my guess is right, he is no longer of this world.” She pointed at the White Chronicle. “After all, you, and this Chronicle, are not.”
A world without the White Chronicle... And a world without Mana. “Does this mean the Black Chronicle exists? Who is its wielder, and where is it now?”
Heather pursed her lip. “Black? ... Right, it is.” She paused once more. “The last I knew, Eric. Alas, the Chronicle disappeared together with him.”
More questions had arisen from his exchange with Heather, but Stocke decided to let them simmer in his thoughts for now. “Do you have any way of knowing how I can return to Vainqueur?”
Heather shrugged. “Until we find out the nature of this phenomenon, we shouldn’t act rashly,” she said. “Keep your Chronicle out of sight. Find Mort. Elena knows where she is.”
“The one I just met?”
“The very same.” She appraised him from head to toe, garbed in the set of clothes Elena put him in. “... Gosh, you couldn’t look any more identical to Eric than this, dressed in his rubbish sense of fashion.”
“His clothes? I’m assuming he is related to Elena?”
“What, it wasn’t obvious enough? Or has Rosalyn not doted all over you yet?” She frowned, arms folding.
“... O-oh,” Stocke said, feeling like a fool.
Things were going to be awkward from here on.
“Well, off you go.” Heather waved at him. “You know where to look for me if something crops up. Now let me enjoy my imaginary cup of tea in peace.”
Stocke quietly moved towards a portal of light summoned by the White Chronicle. There were no doors in sight in this Historia... And he needed time to think things through, as well.
-------
Stocke’s eyes widened the moment he stepped out of the shack.
The village square of Mede was bustling with activity, with the women gathered around the communal well, drawing water out of it in buckets. Not a mechanical or thaumatech-powered pump in sight, they relied on a simple pulley and a heavy rope. As they worked, the women gossiped over their latest visitors-- and at the sight of Stocke, they toned down their voices significantly. Their voices rose again as the topic changed to the use of the communal oven.
Next to him, young Rosalyn stretched, grabbing hold of Stocke’s hand with her own. “Pick fruits with me,” she said, waving a hand-stitched basket hanging loosely from her arm. “We’ll be back just in time to catch Ma put bread in the oven. C’mon!”
Stocke reluctantly followed, unsure of himself. There were too many things to take in; he could not decide on what to try and understand, first. From the dead air and the altered state of Historia, to the very nature of these alien lands-- Stocke soon decided to let time pass normally and play by the ear.
He stepped into the woods with the child, and almost stumbled in surprise.
The air within the forests was more breathable; he inhaled deeply, his nostrils filling with the sweet scent of fresh, ripe fruit-- clearly fruit, but no variety he’d ever encountered, even in mystical Celestia. The woodland flourished with warmth, growing eagerly out of rich soil that was denied from the fauna found on Vainqueur.
To him, it was like entering into a different realm altogether.
Off the tall trees, Pommel-- the Beastkind-- could be seen bouncing deftly through the trees, sling in a furry hand. For every branch he bounced off, ripe fruits fell eagerly onto the dried, leaf-carpeted floor, within easy reach of Rosalyn. The Beastkind disappeared from sight soon after, but returned with a few furry mammals. Stocke squinted through the sunlight poking through the leaves, but could not identify what they were.
He was absently on alert for stray goblins and monsters, Stocke realised; but none of that appeared in their short trip.
Back at Mede, Elena welcomed their return with a smile. “Alright, Stocke, pick what you know how to do: Either you skin the hares, or you get to knead the dough.”
Stocke blinked, looking down at the animals Pommel was holding. “... Are these not your kin?” he said questioningly.
“I’m a Pup, not a rabbit, though we both have long ears,” Pommel guffawed. “Never seen a hare before? Where on Terrano are you from?”
Stocke frowned, but decided that it was best he stuck with kneading bread.
-----
Stocke was no master of pastry even back in Vainqueur, but even he knew that an oven could be heated easily to a preferred temperature with the help of a good fire mage-- he was, back in the days of the Rosch brigade, he was the “camp’s most ideal man for cooking fire”, even without him being a cook.
What he was seeing in front of him, however, were a few men, armed with rakes, clearing the oven of firewood and ashes, after painstakingly observing the strength of its flames and ensuring it was not too hot to burn the entire village’s bread. There were no mages, no Mana influence in the entire process at all.
Unsure of whether it was the heat emanating from the oven or from the revelations of this crude, but efficient world, Stocke could feel hair rising along his arms.
At one corner of the room, Stocke watched Elena thank the village women profusely for the borrowed use of their communal oven. “It shouldn’t be too obvious if it’s just an extra two or three loaves, luv,” a woman replied, patting Elena on the shoulder. “The lord shouldn’t find out, given how often he comes around these parts! Ha ha!”
“Alright, you’re up.” One of the men beckoned to Stocke, pointing to the many doughs resting on the table. The foreigner licked his lips-- but set to spade each dough carefully into the oven.
Rosalyn had the graceful opportunity to seal the oven door, and everyone soon dispersed to return to their chores.
------
“Did you have to pay for these amenities?” Stocke asked, looking at Elena as she refilled his bowl of meat stew.
“Of course,” she replied, “it’s only fair to them.”
Pommel nodded, shrugging. “We traded them a few of our skills for it, so you’re fine. I’ve been doing the hunting for their recent increase in supply of elk, for example,” he said. Yes-- apparently Pommel was a male of his kind.
“And I helped out with people’s chores!” Rosalyn quipped, before returning to slurping out of her bowl noisily.
Stocke’s throat immediately went dry. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“What, with your sword?” Elena’s features turned grave. “Please, don’t.”
Uncomfortably, the blond recalled Heather’s words. “I make a fine bodyguard. Are you headed somewhere?”
“Yeah, we’re heading home!” Rosalyn said, tapping her bowl happily with her wooden spoon. Elena shot her daughter a look, and Rosalyn immediately stopped tapping.
This cannot go on.
“Elena, I have a question,” Stocke began, and Elena turned her full attention to him, patiently waiting. Never once did she mention his similarity with her husband-- that fact alone, and the resemblance with his own sister’s unending trail of suffering, left a dry taste in Stocke’s mouth. “Do you know a person by the name of Mort?”
All activity seemed to stop at the sound of the uttered name.
“... H-hey, who did you hear that name from?” Pommel said uneasily, his eyes shifting between Stocke and Elena in rapid succession.
“I’ll be honest with you. Heather told me to ask you on Mort’s whereabouts.” Stocke pulled free a chunk of bread, dipping it into his bowl. “Whoever Mort may be, I’ve been told that I will find answers if I meet them.”
“What are you talking about?” Elena whispered, her face contorting with unexplained furor. “Who is Heather? Just what answers do you need so desperately from Lady Mort that you have to ask me?”
Stocke paused. Was this a good way to go? The last he checked, the White Chronicle once again failed to gain a new node. All decisions he had made in the past three years-- he had no opportunity to make amends. He had grown so used to the White Chronicle’s powers that he was, admittedly, beyond the point of abuse.
The blond took a sip of the stew. “I am not from this world, Elena. I... need to go home.”
Notes: Recording special thanks to jikanet-tanaka for her guest review of this chapter and quicksilver-ink for being my first ever beta. If you have any comments/feedback/rants/etc, do drop me a message on it; I'd love to hear it. :'D
