Chapter Text
Year of the Realm 878
The rain drums ceaselessly down upon the Reverie. Odin has fallen. His power, sharp and callous, thrums beneath Clive Rosfield’s skin now. Its former owner lies before him, body consumed by the ashen pallor of the Curse. Tharmr looks to the skies, up at his beloved God. A zealot to the very end.
Clive doesn’t know what it is that compels him to watch. Respect, perhaps, for a fearsome opponent. Or if not for the man Clive met, then the man he must have been, once upon a time. A man who had possessed virtue such that Cid had willingly served under him as his lord commander. And if not respect, then fear, although Clive Rosfield will not manage to interpret this strange, roiling sensation in his stomach as such until much later. For who could be afraid of what was already dead? But fear it is all the same — the seeping dread of humanity’s vestigial animal instinct. A warning that claws at his hindbrain. The man — if he can even still be called as such — could have been Clive in another life. He shudders instinctively.
Tharmr’s body sublimates into aether; bright blue sparks that soon lose themselves to the rain. For all Barnabas Tharmr renounced his humanity, his human will — to the point of willingly turning himself into one of those hollow puppets — there had been no mistaking the expression on his dying face. No mistaking the childlike joy. A moral victory for Clive. Its satisfaction tastes like ash on his tongue.
I’m coming home… mother.
Tharmr’s last words linger in the air like smoke, before they too are washed away by the rain. The water trails down Clive’s armour, flushing the puddles that eddy at his boots pink. His own blood. Thamr did not bleed. The King of Waloed, the Black King, Odin — he fell on this day by Clive’s sword.
But Barnabas Tharmr, son of Man, died a very long time ago.
In some time after this evening, Clive Rosfield lies on a beach and looks up at the same sky. The stars are beautiful.
Year of the Realm 826
The harvest is scarce this year.
Mother says it is because of the disbelievers of the other villages. That their arrogance, their rejection of our Creator is what spurs the Blight, that it creeps ever further towards our fields and forests. It chases away the chocobos and the antelopes too. Vampire thorn stew has become common as of late.
It tastes disgusting. I am grateful for the sustenance the Lord provides us.
Mother is tending the fire. The thickest of the furs we own she has foisted upon me. She claims that I will need them more as a warrior of the village. She pulls the leftovers she wears closer around herself when she thinks I cannot see.
“I am going hunting,” I declare as I open the door. She stands and rushes towards me to wrap me in her embrace.
“Stay safe, dear.” Her breath is warm against my cheek, but the fingers that graze my jaw are cold.
“As the Creator wills it.” Her face was tense but now it splits wide into a smile. The invocation of the Lord makes her happy where I can not. The Lord must feel powerful, to be able to take her spirit away to somewhere so much warmer and more comfortable.
She relinquishes me, and our door rattles shut.
Little Eir is waiting for me outside. She is a small child of seven summers, and the cloak the Chieftain has given her nearly swallows her up. Her straw-blonde hair is combed by the Kostas family down the street, and the shoes she wears are cast-offs from young Hildr. Yet again I brush by her to collect my sword from where it leans against the side of my house, and yet again she runs after me.
“Are you going hunting again Barney?” she asks with a sparkle in her eyes. “Are you going to catch a chocobo this time or—” Her voice lowers to a hushed whisper. “A griffin?”
I stare at her again in the hopes that my gaze will scare her off. It is a technique I employ most often against the other villagers, but it has historically also proven successful against all manner of wild antelope. She grins a wicked grin back at me.
“It will most likely be a vampire thorn,” I tell her. Most of the creatures that are considered both delicious and safe to hunt have been driven further west than is practical for those from our village to pursue. Even the surrounding villages of Forsän and Tømmerby, with their prideful warrior-bands have been consigned to the same fare as us — namely vampire thorns and the rare wolf. A griffin is beyond the abilities of most mortal men. Would that I had been gifted by the Lord… “And I have told you before to call me by my proper name. Unlike yours, mine is sacred.” She pouts at this, as if my statement of fact vexes her. I was not half as immature when I was her age.
This time, she does not run after me as I walk away.
The forest is nigh silent. It is little wonder, when the frost has stripped the trees and shrubbery of their leaves. There is little left but the wind that whistles through in its wake. I was right, as I oft am. A small crop of vampire thorns lie in the clearing before me, their signature pink leaves peeking through the snow. I ready my sword as I approach.
The one closest to me bursts out of the ground in a flurry of snow, and I bisect it in the next breath. Its precious sap stains the snow a murky green. The rest follow in due course — a good half-dozen, enough to feed Mother and I and little Eir for as many days. To my shame, it is not a creature that fells me at the end, but a gnarled tree root, and as I lay with my cheek to the ground, eye-to-maw with one of my latest conquests, I am forced to consider the merits of a short rest before returning to the village. Not too long, I warn myself, because otherwise Mother would start to worry. It is during this brief period of time, where the snow drifts down upon the world in a haze, that my mind starts to wander.
I miss Father sometimes.
I do not speak as such to Mother, because his mention makes her upset. He died on the crossing over when I was a child. It has been twelve summers since then, but I remember it clearly. How he had wasted away on the ship, the flesh of his body receding back from the skin until you could lay your head on his chest and his bones would leave imprints on your face. I had watched as over the course of weeks the strands of consciousness slowly drew out of his body, as his grief and pain turned into resignation and finally, peace. He was with the Lord, Mother had told me. He had surrendered his will, and so in his final moments, was freed from the torment of mortality. He had achieved salvation.
At that time, Mother’s idea of salvation frightened me. But now, as a bold warrior of eighteen summers, Barnabas Tharmr is no longer scared of— I jest.
I am still afraid.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the grey sky. These are the thoughts of a heretic, I know, which is why I cannot voice them to anyone else. Only to the ‘me’ inside my own mind.
It is a smell that draws me out of my waking dream. Its acrid bite is familiar. I frown. To start a fire in the forest in the middle of winter; when the leaves cannot shroud the smoke from the sky is to have a death wish. I get to my feet and start gathering up the vampire thorns in my net with haste. It is not merely humans that the Blight affects. Short of easier prey, many of the forest’s larger predators have taken to hunting the strange hairless creatures with the sharp metal sticks. I do not wish to be numbered amongst the idiots and the unfortunates that have been eaten by a griffin.
Vampire thorns are deceptively light despite their large bulk, and as such once the endeavour of securing them safely within the net is completed there is usually little difficulty in transporting them back to the village. I haul my hunt behind me, and by the Lord’s providence I am not followed by piercing cries or the flaps of wings.
It takes but a few minutes before the trees give way to the rocky outcrop that overlooks my village. There are times when I linger here to watch as my people go about their activities. From this distance they look like ants with grey-cloth carapaces. Usually the village square teems with the smallest ones, where their parents send them so that the Chieftain's wife might mind them while they hunt or toil on the farms.
And yet the square is empty now.
Instead, the wooden houses that line its sides have been set ablaze, unseemly tendrils of flame twisting into the sky. Damp wood produces more smoke, and in the wake of this morning’s snowfall the fires belch great grey clouds. The rope of my net slips through my fingers, and I find myself hurtling down the hillside with the wind tearing at my face.
The distance to the village is but a rôst and yet the buildings almost seem to drift further away with every step I take. By the time I arrive the fields are empty, save for an ard left abandoned by the path. The fires have puttered out, and although their smoke haze still lingers it is second to an iron tang that hangs thick in the air. I race through familiar streets, lined by the blackened wreckages of once-familiar houses. My foot catches on something, and I nearly fall to the ground again.
Oh.
It’s young Hildr.
Her eyes stare right through me.
I stumble backwards, and the frightened figure in her eyes does so too. Hildr doesn’t comment on it which is odd and her body is twisted at a strange angle and I tear myself away and start running in the direction my house is and although it is not far it takes so long to reach it. There are other people lying on the ground too; dotted here and there, and I recognise some of the faces and do not recognise the others the others they are wearing strange clothes like those from the other villages.
I near my house and I hear shouting. The clang of steel rings through the air and I draw my sword without thinking. The Chieftain is outside, which is not strange since he and Mother are good friends, but he has his sword drawn, which certainly is. He swings his sword at the neck of an unfamiliar man and it strikes true, but before he can pull it free the unfamiliar man’s friend shoves his blade into the Chieftain’s back. The Chieftain cannot reach him at that angle, but it is alright, since in the next moment I embed my own sword into the attacker’s stomach and pull it upwards. I kick the man off my blade and he does not get back up. The clothes he wears… their make is identical to those of Forsän’s.
“Where is Mother?” I ask as I yank the knife out of the Chieftain’s back. It comes away mostly clean, courtesy of the thick furs he drapes himself in. His eyes flick to the door, where it lists open. He says something as I step inside I think, but the words slip away before I can catch them.
It is dark inside, and very quiet. The fire must have gone out.
“Mother?” I call out. At this time of day the light from the entryway does not reach far, and without the light of the fire the rest of our home is dyed in darkness. “I’m back. Where are you?” I call out again, though it is hard to hear a response through the ringing in my ears. I step further inside, running my hand along the wall and meet an empty alcove where a candle should have been. There is something else there though — some substance that causes my gloved fingers to stick to the wall — although in the absence of light I can’t quite see what it is.
It is then that a horrible thought occurs to me. What if one of those men — those invaders from the other villages — had broken in and captured Mother? Mother has a strong will, but she does not have the strength to wield a sword as I do. But as quickly as the thought comes do I banish it. The Lord would not allow that to happen. He would not allow his most faithful to suffer so.
I turn into my bedroom, and thankfully, the lamp I had lit that morning still flickers on. A sign then, from the Lord. Much like how our home was one of the few untouched by the flames, this was surely a sign from the Creator that Mother was safe. Why then, does my heart still beat so furiously in my chest?
I cradle the lamp as I round the corner into the prayer room. Mother would not like it if I disturbed her while she was with the Lord, but she would surely forgive me if she saw the state of things outside. It is dark like the rest of the house, but my lamp sheds just enough light that I can see her hand lying on the floor. “Mother?” I ask, but she doesn’t move. She must have fallen asleep.
Someone is breathing very loudly and quickly, and I want to tell him to be quiet but the words get stuck in my throat.
“Mother.” I reach toward her. The lamp drops from my fingers and cracks open on the ground.
“Why are you lying on the floor?” The oil spills everywhere, and flame greedily laps at the naked wick.
“You might catch a cold.” The ringing only gets louder and louder.
“Here, let me help you to bed. It will be much warmer.”
“Mother.”
“Why won’t you look at me?”
“You’re going to catch a cold if you sleep out here Mister.”
Clive Rosfield wakes to the impetuous gaze of a little girl hovering over him. He blinks up at her bright blue eyes and at the ashen skies beyond and part of him can’t help but admit he’s a little disappointed.
“Where are the singing angels?” he rasps out. Founder, his mouth tastes horrible.
“What?”
“Never mind.” He groans as he sits up. The girl before him can’t be more than ten years of age; the tininess of her stature only emphasised by the thick layers of cloth and fur draped over her. She takes a wary step backwards at his movement, leaving little footprints in the snow.
Snow?
There’s a thick blanket of it over the land as far as the eye can see — which is quite far. They seem to be in the middle of the plains, although he can also see a smattering of trees to his left. If he squints. The girl combs a few white chunks out of her hair with her fingers as she watches him, mouth pursed as if hard in thought.
“Where—”
“Do you want a cloak Mister?” Clive pauses. The girl is already tugging off one of her layers, staring down at him with an expression of abject pity. “You have holes in your clothes.”
Clive looks down and frowns. The leather looks intact — somehow none the worse for wear despite what happened at Origin. There’s sand in more of its crevices than he would like, but otherwise— ah. He half-heartedly pulls at the laces at his chest. It does nothing, of course — his father had a markedly leaner frame at his age. “No, I— I have one of my own, actually.” He reaches backwards and pulls it over his shoulder to show her. “Thank you though. It’s very kind of you to offer.”
“Oh… alright.” She eyes the material with suspicion, but she stops trying to divest her own.
It strikes Clive then that her accent is vaguely familiar. It’s not a Rosarian one, nor Dalmekian, or Sanbrequois for that matter. No, its odd lilt is more reminiscent of a certain tyrant king’s. A niggling suspicion starts chewing at the back of Clive’s mind.
“We’re not in the afterlife, are we?”
Her gaze somehow turns even more pitying, if possible. Clive sighs and rubs his hands over his face.
“Right, sorry. That was a strange question.”
Her eyes widen and she giggles. She slaps a hand over her mouth, but her body continues trembling all the same. “Sorry,” she forces out. “It’s just that… you speak so strangely.”
Clive’s ears heat up. “Alright then. If we— are we in Waloed by any chance?”
“Wa… loood?” She sounds out the syllables with an odd expression on her face. “Where’s that?”
“…Over in Ash. I guess we’re not there after all—”
“Oh!” She claps her hands together. “No silly. Of course we’re in Ash. You must be very silly to have forgotten where you are. Ash is sooooo big.” She stretches her arms out wide for effect.
Clive blinks. He can feel the beginnings of a headache setting in— a regular one, thankfully — not an Ultima-induced one. The colour drains from his face a split second later.
He springs to his feet, and the girl makes a little squeak as she stumbles backwards. But no… surely not. A knot of dread starts forming in his stomach. “Tell me,” he intones, trying to keep his voice from wavering. “What do you know of the Mothercrystals?”
“Oh… those.” She looks up at him nervously. “They are a gift from the Creator, that ordinary people may also use the blessing of magic.” She speaks carefully, as if reciting from a play.
The pounding in his head intensifies. “They… are?” Not were.
She nods.
Clive exhales sharply. He looks skyward, where Fate is surely cackling down at him right now, and tries to quell the molten surge of emotion bubbling up within his chest. It is grief, it is anger. It is betrayal.
”Breathe, lad.”
A rough voice, a gentle clap on the shoulder.
The magma cools, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. Years. Years of hiding and planning and hoping and fighting and fighting and fighting and fighting. Clive had climbed to the top of a mountain built from his friends’ bones, waded through a sea of blood until he was drowning in it. It clings to him even now; a phantom tackiness between his fingers. And now… and now…
”I don’t know if I can do this again, Cid.”
Cid smiles back at him with sadness in his eyes.
“So… uh. What’s your name, Mister?” Her voice is noticeably more timid than before. “Mine’s Eir.”
“Ah… I’m Clive.” There’s not much point using an alias, is there. Clive’s not sure if there’s much of a point to anything, really. If he can just wake up tomorrow and find all he’s ever worked for erased without a trace. “Nice to meet you, Eir.”
“Nice to meet you too Clive,” she chirps back, although her eyes remain wary. She pauses. “Hildr says we’re not supposed to talk to outsiders.”
“Your mother?”
She shakes her head. “Hildr is like… my big sister. I have a lot of big sisters. And big brothers too.” Eir narrows her eyes at him for a few seconds. “You seem like a nice person though. Even if you do make scary faces sometimes.” A beat. “Like Barney.”
“Mm.” Clive hums, half-listening. He scans the horizon and finds what looks to be a small settlement nestled amongst some rocks. “Is that your village over there?” Eir follows his gaze and shakes her head yet again.
“No, my village is much further away than that. That one’s Forsän. It’s one of the…” She hesitates. “…Heretic villages. They don’t accept the Creator there.”
Clive feels a little nauseous. “I see,” he says in what he hopes is an even tone. “In that case, how about I walk with you home so that your brothers and sisters don’t have to worry?” Ultima worshipper or not, this was an innocent child before him, one surely too far from home for it to be safe for her to make her way back alone.
She smiles back up at him, excitement alight in her eyes. “Sure, then let’s—”
The earth trembles.
Clive looks to the horizon and he beholds a great black horse, and he that sat upon it, his name was—
“Odin.”
A scream pierces the air beside him, reedy and thin.
“Eir,” he hears himself saying. “I want you to run and find a place to hide. Blend in with the trees, or stay behind some rocks. Can you do that for me?”
She stares up at him, face as pale as parchment. “Where are you going to go?”
Clive’s mouth sets in a grim line. “To do what I must.”
It’s not much of an answer, but something in Eir seems to understand anyways, and she turns and runs off — slowly at first but with increasing surety and speed with every step.
And so Clive takes his own steps forward. The snow melts under his boots as he runs, until leather and metal shift into giant jagged claws. Forsän shrinks before him even as he approaches, footsteps thundering into the ground.
But Odin is faster.
He raises a gauntleted arm and cleaves Death upon the village.
The black wave sunders the ground, flinging clods of dirt and wooden shrapnel into the air. A split second later the shockwave hits and the earth shudders again, buildings tilting on their axis as the two halves of the village tear wider apart. Clive wraps himself in Ifrit’s flames before he launches himself at the Eikon in a bright-hot blaze. “Odin!” he cries, rearing back with Ifrit’s claws clenched into a fist as he draws close. Odin looks towards him with electric-yellow eyes. Too slow. Too late.
Ifrit’s punch connects cleanly with Odin’s jaw, sending him tumbling to the ground. Sleipnir rears up onto his hind legs, and Clive takes this chance to gouge his claws into the egi’s flank. Odin clambers to his feet, but he is so slow, so… clumsy that Clive manages to catch him with Ifrit’s tail as he turns, sending Odin stumbling back. Odin stabs his blade into the ground to steady himself, drawing another long gash into the earth.
This Odin is a far cry from the man Clive faced atop the Reverie. Even in the depths of his battle-frenzy Barnabas Tharmr had been precise with every one of his incisions, each slice and stab and gouge flowing into one another in an efficient dance. Clive sidesteps Odin’s lunge, before he clenches onto a horn on his opponent’s helm with his claws and wrenches him off-balance in one smooth movement. This Odin flails. Unfortunately for Forsän however, even the flailing of an Eikon is enough to destroy an army, never mind a small village of civilians.
“Stop this Odin!” Clive roars. “You cannot win!”
Sleipnir whinnies as he canters around the side, aether streaming from his ragged flank but no slower for it. Odin reaches for the saddle and hauls himself astride, not even sparing Clive a glance as he urges Sleipnir around Ifrit’s bulk. Clive gathers Ifrit’s aether into a fireball and flings it at him, but in the last moment Sleipnir veers to the side, sending it sailing over Odin’s shoulder. Odin raises his sword again, and Clive raises his arms before him to brace for the impact but— he’s not aiming for Ifrit. No, Odin’s blade points straight at the village. Shit.
Clive launches himself forward as the blade begins its descent, and the obsidian wave it draws slices into Ifrit’s chest. It doesn’t hurt any less than the first two times. It also doesn’t make any sense. What could Odin stand to gain by attacking a defenceless village in the first place? Why would he turn away from another Eikon — a real opponent — in the middle of battle? Clive grits his teeth and leaps towards Odin once again, crashing into his torso and sending them both tumbling off Sleipnir in a writhing mass of armour and gnashing fangs. As unskilled as this Odin is compared to Tharmr’s, the collateral damage he could cause— has already caused — is much too great for Clive to continue fighting him here. He needs to end this quickly. Clive raises his head for a moment, pinning down Odin’s with a paw, and scans for something, anything he can use.
There in the distance lies a familiar expanse of grey rock and withered trees. The Deadlands. Clive has got to be the only man alive to feel a spark of joy at the sight of the Blight. Odin finally shoves Ifrit off, but Clive manages to grab hold of an epaulet with his claws and he drags Odin with him as he falls. He hauls Odin up and wraps his arms tight around the Eikon’s torso, an action which causes the other to freeze for a moment. Unexpected, but welcome. Clive uses it to envelop them both in Ifrit’s flames, and by the time Odin seems to realise what’s happening they’re hurtling towards the Deadlands in a fiery comet.
The air seems to ripple as they cross the threshold; the air turning stale and cold and most importantly, free of aether. Ifrit’s flames extinguish almost immediately, and Clive watches with a glimmer of satisfaction as Odin’s blade disintegrates in a similar fashion. Their bodies follow soon after— evaporating into twin clouds of blue motes. Clive blinks as Ifrit and opens his eyes as a man. And Odin…
It’s him.
There are lines missing from his face, and his stubble is patchy in a manner archetypal of youth, but it’s unmistakable. Barnabas Tharmr, newly a man, king of a nation that does not yet exist, takes a single, staggering step towards Clive before collapsing to the ground.
Founder help them all.