Old Gods (FFXII, Gabranth/Drace)
Title: Old Gods
Author: puella_nerdii
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 4,230
Warnings: Spoilers through second visit to Mt. Bur-Omnisace.
Prompt: resurrection: killed in canon, A is brought back in fic (possibly through B's extraordinary efforts
Summary: When he was Noah, he was religious.
A/N: Cliche has been subverted. You have been warned. Big thanks to threewalls, lassarina, sheffiesharpe, and wodhaund for giving me a hand with research.
When he was Noah, he was religious.
The Light of Kiltia never shone brightly in Landis, not as he remembers it. Shrines to Faram and his kin dotted mountain passes and flatlands alike, but few acolytes sat vigil by the holy light, and fewer missionaries ventured forth from the houses of the gods to spread Kiltia’s tidings. He dreamed of joining their number, once, but ceased his inquiries when he learned the monks were forbidden to carry arms or strike a fellow enlightened being, unless given special dispensation. His mother declared she was glad he had come to his senses when he told her he’d decided not to pursue an ascetic’s life. In the Archadian fashion, she cared little enough for the gods, though she doused the crystals’ glow when Longnight fell and murmured her thanks to Faram and Galtea when the first pinks of dawn bled over the horizon.
And then there were those who kept to older gods still: gods of fire, of flood, of sword, of death. Andreas, who tended the chocobos, spoke of warlike Miriam and tranquil Absalom, who split the world into six months of strife and six months of peace. His nurse Sosi whispered of how the god-king Xabaam was fashioned into Ivalice, so that Man’s ceaseless steps would mar the former perfection of his flesh. Noah awoke that night in a cold sweat as he imagined an army of tiny creatures swarming over his skin, tearing at him as they carved tunnels through his body. The crumbling shrines in the blackest forests of Landis, guarded by bestial stone figures with flat faces and hunched postures, spoke of the oldest gods of all; chthonian, with their names fallen into the same decay that blighted their temples.
His father kept twelve crystals set in stone and inscribed with numbers used in Landis’s half-forgotten counting system, circling an altar to Faram. Years later, this is what Gabranth remembers best of the gods of his youth: Berend fon Ronsenburg guiding his son’s hand to each crystal and explaining the delicate etchings adorning each, teaching him the names of the twelve apostles sent to Ivalice after the Working of the World, so that her peoples would know the will of the Light. He remembers the delicate glow rising from each crystal come Apostles’ Day, and how each seemed to shine brighter when he spoke the name of that stone’s apostle.
(“The apostles are given charge of the light,” he said.
“Yes,” his father replied.
“But not of the dark?”
“No.”
“Who rules the darkness?”
The lines on his father’s face hardened. “We do not speak their names,” he said. “To do so would give them power, and that is what they crave above all else.”)
The old altar is long gone by now. Destroyed or abandoned, it makes little difference.
Gabranth has neither altar nor stones, but he makes do with scraps of magicite arranged in a clumsy circle. He touches each and waits for the old names to rise to his lips.
He cannot recall the proper form of the death-prayer, though it should be the one to which he is most accustomed. He shudders, holds his hand firm over the incarnadine shards, and patches up the gaps as best he can.
“Loghrif,” he begins. “Grant her passage through the gates of the Holy Realm.”
No, that isn’t right. Loghrif is not the first invoked. Does he start with the oldest among them or the first Drace will encounter on her journey through-
Her journey, as though she has boarded an airship to visit her family and will return to her magisterial duties in two weeks’ time.
His palm jerks forward of its own accord and topples three of the stones. Once his hand has quieted, he sets them upright and gropes for the old thread of his thoughts.
“Halmarut. You have watched her and judged her value. May she-” He stops; the words wither on his tongue. Halmarut’s address. What is Halmarut’s address? “May she be given the measure of her worth in this, her final journey.”
Journey again.
“Nabriales. You have purged her of her impurities,” if they truly were impurities. Her dry laugh, the network of lines clustering around her mouth when her mind was set, the yellow bruises on her back after a hard day’s riding; surely Nabriales would not see fit to remove those. He does not remember the benedictory phrase.
“Fandaniel. She has been true to your laws.” True to them in her own fashion, yes, but what man or woman can do more? “See that you, too, are true to them when she is judged.”
Bile floods his mouth, drowns his tongue. He gags. He will not retch. He knows he erred in performing Fandaniel’s benediction. Of what consequence is it? part of him asks. He gives no answer.
“Pashtarot, let her not be condemned,” he whispers. He knows not what else to say.
Seven apostles remain, seven whose favor he has not begged. Their names were once as familiar to him as the names of the months, the hours of the day. When he addresses them now, their titles seem shriveled things, dust-choked winds rattling through deserted temples.
Drace did not keep to the gods. He spied no shrine to Faram in her apartments, and her Tome of the Holy Light rested at the bottom of her bookshelf, buried beneath old reports and treatises on war, opera, and every subject in between.
In Archades, the taverns and not the temples see the most business on Apostle’s Day.
“Deudephalon, guard her.” I need no other protection than what my armor and maces afford me, she told him the first day they met. Perhaps he should not have believed her. Six remaining. He raises his head from the carpet. Outside his window, daylight ebbs from the sky and yields to night. The gods give him no other sign.
“Mitron, set her back on the wheel of life.” The underworld would offer little appeal to her, he thinks; an eternity of naught but contemplation would sit ill with her, and she’d long for substance soon enough. She was never meant to be a shade.
There are five left to entreat, but he can only recite their names as a talisman: “Emet-Selch. Igeyorhm. Emmerololth. Lahabrea. Kanya.” No stone flickers; no light enters his heart.
“Blessings of the great Father descend-” And he finds his throat has trammeled up, and he cannot go on. He cannot condemn Drace to the earth. He makes his choice.
“If there are gods to guide her there,” he says, “there are gods to guide her back.”
***
Larsa enjoys the library, which gives Gabranth leisure to wind his way through the walls of books therein. He dare not divulge his project to any of the pages, for fear they will scurry back to Vayne with news of his activities; he hunts through the catalog, seizes on titles that may be of some use, and snatches the necessary tomes from the shelves. All are yellowed, their leather bindings grown stiff with age and dirt. The paper rattles and crackles as he pages through the books, but it doesn’t tear. He keeps a quill and inkpot at his elbow for note-taking. He is thorough, methodical, routine; the ninth has inscribed these patterns into his brain, and no torrent of emotion has yet worn the pathways down. His other hand beats a tattoo against the desk as he scours the books for traces of the Espers. (Surely they exist, for light means nothing unless the dark lurks behind it, waiting.) The sages skirt the issue, not wishing to lend credence to creatures that established themselves as heresies, and refer to the Fallen as cautionary tales, bedtime fables to frighten Archadian children.
Gabranth uncovers them at last in Elias the Sage’s diaries, in a passage where he speaks of the marvels that walked Ivalice before the Galtean Alliance or indeed before Kiltia himself, before the races of Ivalice first trod upon her soil.
Of the Twelve in opposition to the Apostles I will Speak little; for to Name them is to invite their baleful Eyes. Heady with Knowledge, they sought to challenge their Makers and were cast down for their Heresy. The gods secured them to the Land with the Glyph of the Beast, and any who would establish Dominion over the Espers may Call them by this Mark to do the Wielder’s bidding, as Raithwall bound Belias to Serve him evermore. A Caution: they are old and canny, the Twelve, and will not Yield to the Weak and the Greedy; countless have scoured the tallest Mountains of Ivalice for traces of the Espers and failing have plummeted to their Deaths.
He will not fail. He reads on:
Trapped in their Prisons, many Espers surround themselves with a Host of Souls snatched from Death’s Jaws-
So they can grant life, or a seeming of it.
-and force them to do their Bidding; these Creatures are to be pitied, for they are little more than Flesh and Bone stitched together by Mist-
No. He does not want that for her.
-though were the Esper Freed, I theorize it could knit Soul to Corpus once more.
There is a chance. He sets Elias the Sage aside and continues his search. Surely some scholar must have heard and recorded whispers of where the Espers lie imprisoned. But few enough of those who seek the twelve live to write an account of their travels, it seems.
He thinks at first to search for Zalera and Mateus, but though he finds legends of the underworld and of the queer deities who administer it, he sees nothing of their present whereabouts. Zalera howls from his prison of bone and metal deep beneath Ordalia’s sands, which could refer to any abandoned mine. Mateus is mewed up in a shrine to a god even older than he; Gabranth can think of half a dozen hallowed sites that would serve as suitable prisons for the old king of the Underworld. He thinks next of Shemhazai and Zeromus, but hours and hours of research yields much the same result: vague verses and obscure riddles, nothing definite. Does Shemhazai dwell in the city of the gods or at Ultima’s right hand? Is Zeromus beneath the ground or within a mountain?
Had he time, he would scour all Ivalice for the Espers’ lairs, overturn every stone and examine the branches of each tree for clues to their locations. But he lacks that. It may be that he can steal away from Larsa’s side for a short journey, but he dares not leave his lord unguarded for any longer stretch of time. He dares not break his last vow to her, for should his quest prove successful (and it must, it must), she will be cross when she sees him so far afield from Larsa.
(And yet what quest was resolved after a short flight on an airship and days of tramping through the wilds? Quests take years, decades, lifetimes. Day-trips are not the stuff of which legends are built. And he mustn’t die in the attempt, though many a hero has pledged to forfeit his life in the absence of success. What, then, does he risk to bring her back?)
Ultima, could he reach her, would be best, but the timorous sages fear to even speak of the path to her prison. One mentions a dark place deep within the city of the gods, a place as absent of light as is her heart. He falls silent after and takes to discussing theories of Mist condensation.
Just as sleep begins to cloud his eyes, he finds it.
Thus did I find myself bereft of ship and companions when the chocobo nudged my side and bade me rise, writes Phyllo the explorer of his trials in the Mosphoran Highwaste. It made for the gysahi greens tucked in my breast-pocket; I thought to feed them to the creature and thereby earn its trust. It clucked and allowed me to seat it. I clutched its feathered ruff and guided it out of the Rays of Ashen Light, but once the beast and I crossed into the Empyrean Way, it ambled to the side of the path to sniff at some exotic grasses. I dug in with my knees, hoping to steer it away, when I noticed a faint scattering of stones marking a meandering trail through the brush, as though a hume hand had laid the pebbles long ago to guide future travelers.
Phyllo gives coordinates and bearings in the margins of his notes. Gabranth’s fingers cannot flip the pages quickly enough. He marks the pages of description for later reference and skims for the next salient point.
When we reached the foot of the ridge, which I have named Skyreach (for the tips seemed high enough to pierce the realms of the gods), we began our ascent. ‘Twas not as arduous as I feared, not on chocobo-back; the peak itself was a kilometre or two above me, though the path was perhaps five times as long as that. In spite of its age, it was well-preserved, being free of loose rocks and treacherous cracks of the kind that so plague travelers. Strands of float-weed bridged gaps in the path, and though I feared the vegetation would not hold my weight, it bore my steed and myself admirably.
And at the peak-
Before me stood a wizened man with horned helm-but no mortal was he, no, for his eyes were as blue magicite, pupil-less and shining, and he sat atop a floating throne of emerald, gold, and brown stone, all emblazoned with sigils of ancient power. Great spikes protruded from his back, and he held his hands outstretched before him, as though he called down the very might of the heavens.
O traveler, what seek’st thou in this waste, accurs’d by gods and scorned by hume and beast? he inquired of me, and I, tongueless block, could not answer him.
Know, then, I judge your journey to be nothing, for action without thought shall fade away. Then fall, and leave the unknown for the concrete. The myst’ries of the world I shall not yield, not unto one so bound by laws of time.
The peak of the mountain trembled hard beneath me at his words, and the path, once so certain, cracked and split at my feet. Another violent tremor shook me, and I tumbled down, down, down: away from the seat of one who was once godly and back, once more, to the earth, where a kindly pilgrim healed my wounds with potion and elixir.
“Exodus,” Gabranth breathes. The Judge-Sal; unseen, yet from him nothing is hidden.
It is fitting.
***
“Zargabaath,” Gabranth says, “you will see to Lord Larsa’s safety in my absence?”
Zargabaath sets his book aside, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Business of the ninth?”
“Yes,” he says. It is the truth, of sorts. “I will be gone days at most, certainly no longer than a week.”
“I will watch Lord Larsa.” Zargabaath taps his nail against the book’s cover. “You will promise to do nothing foolish while you are gone? Lord Larsa would miss you terribly were any misfortune to befall you.”
“I will see that I am safe,” Gabranth promises. “For his sake.” And hers. She will be safe. I will see to it.
“Gabranth,” Zargabaath says. “We are not close, you and I.”
“No,” he agrees. “We are not.”
“Still, is there nothing more you wish to say?”
“I’ve said my piece.”
He sighs. “I knew Drace well. We were students together at the Academy. I thought her quite beautiful for a long time, though I dared not tell her as much.”
Gabranth is silent.
“I miss her,” he says. “But I must hold to the oaths I swore long ago. She would expect no less of me.”
“I keep my oaths,” Gabranth replies, and wishes there was no lie in his words.
“Indeed.” Zargabaath’s fingertips are stained bright blue from the ink in his well. “Do not tarry too long. I am ill-equipped to mind children, even ones as brilliant as our young lord.”
“Play castles with him,” Gabranth suggests. “He enjoys that.”
“I do need to train a new opponent,” he says, mulling it over. “I’ve not been properly bested since Zecht’s days.” At that, Zargabaath looks up again; the shadows on his nose and beneath his eyes give his features a keen edge. “You are not planning to follow his example?”
“It is not in my nature.”
“To abandon?” Zargabaath asks. “No. I suppose it isn’t.”
***
Phyllo laid out the path to Exodus in excruciating detail; surely Gabranth cannot have been the first to follow his instructions. Few enough have read the man’s private diaries, yes, but even those few would be tempted. It may be that another has claimed Exodus’s power before him.
It may be, but he must see for himself.
There is no chocobo stable when he disembarks at the Babbling Vale. He has exchanged his judge’s plate for a set of carabineer mail and a dragon’s helm, and though his armor is of better quality than the battle-stiffened leather worn by most travelers here, he does not stand out. The wastes, however, are thick with the wild breed, and though they regard him at first with wary red eyes, an offering of gysahi greens makes them amenable to his unspoken request. He buckles a light harness around the most placid of his possible mounts-in heavy armor, he dare not ride bareback-and takes his seat on the chocobo. The bird doesn’t mind his presence; it is more intent on sampling the grasses growing between the crevices of the rocky outcroppings to either side of him.
The path to Skyreach Ridge has altered little since Phyllo trod it. Floatweed still patches up the path’s roughest areas, and when he reaches stretches of tall grass, he searches for the mark of a chocobo’s talons to show him the path. He is not disappointed.
It should be harder than this.
He fends off vultures, slaven wilders, and the odd pack of worgens, but as he draws nearer to Phyllo’s mountain, the beasts thin. He wonders what Drace would make of it. She worked long with the Imperial mastiffs, and when their duties called them into the wilds of Ivalice, it was she who crouched down to examine scattered tracks in the dust and explained their meaning to Gabranth. He would have anticipated that he’d know the wilds better than she-she was Archades-born, while he spent his youth tramping around the forests and streams-but he supposed nature exerted more of a pull on her than he first realized.
There is so much about her he never learned, never asked. He will have a chance to have his questions answered. He must. That is Exodus’s purpose.
He plies the chocobo with more greens as their ascent grows steeper; he thinks his mount was domesticated, once, but its master must have been waylaid in the Highwaste, and the chocobo went feral in his absence. He sidesteps pebbles and faults in the path, vaults over fallen branches, edges along the narrowest parts of the trail, when the sheer drop is less than a metre to his right. The chocobo’s feathers feel damp under his hands when he examines them, and he cannot tell if the slickness comes more from the bird or from his palms. Gabranth loops the reins around his hand to secure them and continues his ascent. Phyllo claimed the path stretched on for five kilometres or thereabouts. Phyllo clearly must have used a different method of measuring distance than the one employed in modern days. His thighs and buttocks grow sore with each jostle of the chocobo’s hips. It has been too long since he last rode.
He thinks it a trick of his mind when the trail starts to flatten out; when he realizes it is no illusion, the chocobo’s soft warks ebb away, replaced by the drumbeat of his pulse. He grabs a potion and feels the liquid soothe away the cracks in his throat. Soon.
The chocobo shies when he tries to urge it on further. Grunting, he dismounts and tethers the bird to a rock. Onward he climbs, always onward, never resting. He ignores the swelling in his feet, the complaint in his knees, and thinks of Drace at his side. She says nothing, but he imagines he can hear her fall into step with him, their boots navigating the last stretch of the mountain.
The peak finally flattens before him, and he is alone, looking through a thin mist at all of Ivalice stretched below him, with no voices save the wind’s whisper.
And then there is a voice, ancient and dry as the stones beneath his feet. It resonates in his bones and shakes him from head to foot.
O traveler, what seek’st thou in this waste, accurs’d by gods and scorned by hume and beast?
Exodus descends, and he is all Phyllo described and more. Gabranth’s gaze strays to the long horns adorning his helm, longer and flatter than any ram’s could be. He feels a poor champion in his spare armor.
He is aware that he speaks, though the words do not seem to issue from his mouth. “I seek the Judge-Sal,” he says, “and would have knowledge of him, knowledge of one who was and ought once again to be.”
Now he could be the proper hero of a tale.
The light in the center of Exodus’s chest pulses slowly, and a rattling sound fills the air, like a massive indrawn breath. The flow of time-you would seek its reversal.
He shakes his head; a shrill voice in his head chides the rest of him for this, that he would shake his head to an Esper. “I seek…” He stops himself. “It is said you know the value of all things. You know, then, what she was to me.”
And for this, you would have me give her life. He detects no inflection in the Esper’s voice.
“I would honor her.” Gabranth adds more steel to his voice. He must not waver, no, must not crack.
You slew her; now you wish to do her honor.
“I would set what I did to rights.” He dares not speak above a whisper, here.
Another rumbling breath. And yet, in time, your sins will fade to nothing. If you gain mas’try of me, she might live-but oblivion lurks, and will take her again.
“Even that, even only a little more time.” He swallows. “I want only that.”
So do we all. But time only erodes.
“Gain your mastery.” His hand strays to his blades. “If that is what I must do-”
And he lunges, cleaving into the base of the Esper’s throne with twin overhand strikes. It yields to his swords as flesh might, but Exodus regards him in stillness and silence. Then Exodus rolls forward slowly, palms outstretched, and Gabranth barely rolls out of the way in time; he hears the Esper grind past him, hears the horrible creak of stone against stone and wonders how more horrible the sound would be if it were accompanied by the snapping of his limbs. He is still dizzy from the sun beaming in his face during his ascent, still sore from the saddle. Gabranth flexes his fingers and murmurs the incantation for a curative, almost tripping over the syllables in haste, for Exodus has reversed his direction and is traveling towards him once more, and this time his entire body pulses golden as arcane phrases tumble from his open mouth. He gets to his feet with a groan of metal and unleashes another fury of blows, but though his assault is relentless and he loses the number of his strikes, forgets how many times he has scored Exodus’s chest, the Esper still advances. Gabranth is of no more note to him than a fly buzzing at his feet, and even Hasted he is not fast enough to halt him; he must rely on the power of his blows, not on their speed, and his power is of no account now, not when he is faced with this.
Then Exodus’s chants reach a crescendo, and the bolt of light spears him through the chest, and his head is filled with nothing, blissful nothing. It is only when the brilliance clears that he realizes he is falling, plummeting down the mountain’s slopes and he promised Drace he would care for Larsa, that he would live though she could not, and yes, it would be best to have both of them alive, but he was so sure, so sure he could sway Exodus to his cause (and why? What made his cause so worthy, other than Drace’s involvement?), and must he break this oath to her, too? Must everything be for naught?
As though in a dream, the incantation for Float bubbles from his lips; buoyancy trickles through his veins as his descent slows, slows, and then stops altogether when he is less than a metre from the jagged rocks littering the Ridge below.
It is a long time before he rights himself.
Author: puella_nerdii
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 4,230
Warnings: Spoilers through second visit to Mt. Bur-Omnisace.
Prompt: resurrection: killed in canon, A is brought back in fic (possibly through B's extraordinary efforts
Summary: When he was Noah, he was religious.
A/N: Cliche has been subverted. You have been warned. Big thanks to threewalls, lassarina, sheffiesharpe, and wodhaund for giving me a hand with research.
When he was Noah, he was religious.
The Light of Kiltia never shone brightly in Landis, not as he remembers it. Shrines to Faram and his kin dotted mountain passes and flatlands alike, but few acolytes sat vigil by the holy light, and fewer missionaries ventured forth from the houses of the gods to spread Kiltia’s tidings. He dreamed of joining their number, once, but ceased his inquiries when he learned the monks were forbidden to carry arms or strike a fellow enlightened being, unless given special dispensation. His mother declared she was glad he had come to his senses when he told her he’d decided not to pursue an ascetic’s life. In the Archadian fashion, she cared little enough for the gods, though she doused the crystals’ glow when Longnight fell and murmured her thanks to Faram and Galtea when the first pinks of dawn bled over the horizon.
And then there were those who kept to older gods still: gods of fire, of flood, of sword, of death. Andreas, who tended the chocobos, spoke of warlike Miriam and tranquil Absalom, who split the world into six months of strife and six months of peace. His nurse Sosi whispered of how the god-king Xabaam was fashioned into Ivalice, so that Man’s ceaseless steps would mar the former perfection of his flesh. Noah awoke that night in a cold sweat as he imagined an army of tiny creatures swarming over his skin, tearing at him as they carved tunnels through his body. The crumbling shrines in the blackest forests of Landis, guarded by bestial stone figures with flat faces and hunched postures, spoke of the oldest gods of all; chthonian, with their names fallen into the same decay that blighted their temples.
His father kept twelve crystals set in stone and inscribed with numbers used in Landis’s half-forgotten counting system, circling an altar to Faram. Years later, this is what Gabranth remembers best of the gods of his youth: Berend fon Ronsenburg guiding his son’s hand to each crystal and explaining the delicate etchings adorning each, teaching him the names of the twelve apostles sent to Ivalice after the Working of the World, so that her peoples would know the will of the Light. He remembers the delicate glow rising from each crystal come Apostles’ Day, and how each seemed to shine brighter when he spoke the name of that stone’s apostle.
(“The apostles are given charge of the light,” he said.
“Yes,” his father replied.
“But not of the dark?”
“No.”
“Who rules the darkness?”
The lines on his father’s face hardened. “We do not speak their names,” he said. “To do so would give them power, and that is what they crave above all else.”)
The old altar is long gone by now. Destroyed or abandoned, it makes little difference.
Gabranth has neither altar nor stones, but he makes do with scraps of magicite arranged in a clumsy circle. He touches each and waits for the old names to rise to his lips.
He cannot recall the proper form of the death-prayer, though it should be the one to which he is most accustomed. He shudders, holds his hand firm over the incarnadine shards, and patches up the gaps as best he can.
“Loghrif,” he begins. “Grant her passage through the gates of the Holy Realm.”
No, that isn’t right. Loghrif is not the first invoked. Does he start with the oldest among them or the first Drace will encounter on her journey through-
Her journey, as though she has boarded an airship to visit her family and will return to her magisterial duties in two weeks’ time.
His palm jerks forward of its own accord and topples three of the stones. Once his hand has quieted, he sets them upright and gropes for the old thread of his thoughts.
“Halmarut. You have watched her and judged her value. May she-” He stops; the words wither on his tongue. Halmarut’s address. What is Halmarut’s address? “May she be given the measure of her worth in this, her final journey.”
Journey again.
“Nabriales. You have purged her of her impurities,” if they truly were impurities. Her dry laugh, the network of lines clustering around her mouth when her mind was set, the yellow bruises on her back after a hard day’s riding; surely Nabriales would not see fit to remove those. He does not remember the benedictory phrase.
“Fandaniel. She has been true to your laws.” True to them in her own fashion, yes, but what man or woman can do more? “See that you, too, are true to them when she is judged.”
Bile floods his mouth, drowns his tongue. He gags. He will not retch. He knows he erred in performing Fandaniel’s benediction. Of what consequence is it? part of him asks. He gives no answer.
“Pashtarot, let her not be condemned,” he whispers. He knows not what else to say.
Seven apostles remain, seven whose favor he has not begged. Their names were once as familiar to him as the names of the months, the hours of the day. When he addresses them now, their titles seem shriveled things, dust-choked winds rattling through deserted temples.
Drace did not keep to the gods. He spied no shrine to Faram in her apartments, and her Tome of the Holy Light rested at the bottom of her bookshelf, buried beneath old reports and treatises on war, opera, and every subject in between.
In Archades, the taverns and not the temples see the most business on Apostle’s Day.
“Deudephalon, guard her.” I need no other protection than what my armor and maces afford me, she told him the first day they met. Perhaps he should not have believed her. Six remaining. He raises his head from the carpet. Outside his window, daylight ebbs from the sky and yields to night. The gods give him no other sign.
“Mitron, set her back on the wheel of life.” The underworld would offer little appeal to her, he thinks; an eternity of naught but contemplation would sit ill with her, and she’d long for substance soon enough. She was never meant to be a shade.
There are five left to entreat, but he can only recite their names as a talisman: “Emet-Selch. Igeyorhm. Emmerololth. Lahabrea. Kanya.” No stone flickers; no light enters his heart.
“Blessings of the great Father descend-” And he finds his throat has trammeled up, and he cannot go on. He cannot condemn Drace to the earth. He makes his choice.
“If there are gods to guide her there,” he says, “there are gods to guide her back.”
***
Larsa enjoys the library, which gives Gabranth leisure to wind his way through the walls of books therein. He dare not divulge his project to any of the pages, for fear they will scurry back to Vayne with news of his activities; he hunts through the catalog, seizes on titles that may be of some use, and snatches the necessary tomes from the shelves. All are yellowed, their leather bindings grown stiff with age and dirt. The paper rattles and crackles as he pages through the books, but it doesn’t tear. He keeps a quill and inkpot at his elbow for note-taking. He is thorough, methodical, routine; the ninth has inscribed these patterns into his brain, and no torrent of emotion has yet worn the pathways down. His other hand beats a tattoo against the desk as he scours the books for traces of the Espers. (Surely they exist, for light means nothing unless the dark lurks behind it, waiting.) The sages skirt the issue, not wishing to lend credence to creatures that established themselves as heresies, and refer to the Fallen as cautionary tales, bedtime fables to frighten Archadian children.
Gabranth uncovers them at last in Elias the Sage’s diaries, in a passage where he speaks of the marvels that walked Ivalice before the Galtean Alliance or indeed before Kiltia himself, before the races of Ivalice first trod upon her soil.
Of the Twelve in opposition to the Apostles I will Speak little; for to Name them is to invite their baleful Eyes. Heady with Knowledge, they sought to challenge their Makers and were cast down for their Heresy. The gods secured them to the Land with the Glyph of the Beast, and any who would establish Dominion over the Espers may Call them by this Mark to do the Wielder’s bidding, as Raithwall bound Belias to Serve him evermore. A Caution: they are old and canny, the Twelve, and will not Yield to the Weak and the Greedy; countless have scoured the tallest Mountains of Ivalice for traces of the Espers and failing have plummeted to their Deaths.
He will not fail. He reads on:
Trapped in their Prisons, many Espers surround themselves with a Host of Souls snatched from Death’s Jaws-
So they can grant life, or a seeming of it.
-and force them to do their Bidding; these Creatures are to be pitied, for they are little more than Flesh and Bone stitched together by Mist-
No. He does not want that for her.
-though were the Esper Freed, I theorize it could knit Soul to Corpus once more.
There is a chance. He sets Elias the Sage aside and continues his search. Surely some scholar must have heard and recorded whispers of where the Espers lie imprisoned. But few enough of those who seek the twelve live to write an account of their travels, it seems.
He thinks at first to search for Zalera and Mateus, but though he finds legends of the underworld and of the queer deities who administer it, he sees nothing of their present whereabouts. Zalera howls from his prison of bone and metal deep beneath Ordalia’s sands, which could refer to any abandoned mine. Mateus is mewed up in a shrine to a god even older than he; Gabranth can think of half a dozen hallowed sites that would serve as suitable prisons for the old king of the Underworld. He thinks next of Shemhazai and Zeromus, but hours and hours of research yields much the same result: vague verses and obscure riddles, nothing definite. Does Shemhazai dwell in the city of the gods or at Ultima’s right hand? Is Zeromus beneath the ground or within a mountain?
Had he time, he would scour all Ivalice for the Espers’ lairs, overturn every stone and examine the branches of each tree for clues to their locations. But he lacks that. It may be that he can steal away from Larsa’s side for a short journey, but he dares not leave his lord unguarded for any longer stretch of time. He dares not break his last vow to her, for should his quest prove successful (and it must, it must), she will be cross when she sees him so far afield from Larsa.
(And yet what quest was resolved after a short flight on an airship and days of tramping through the wilds? Quests take years, decades, lifetimes. Day-trips are not the stuff of which legends are built. And he mustn’t die in the attempt, though many a hero has pledged to forfeit his life in the absence of success. What, then, does he risk to bring her back?)
Ultima, could he reach her, would be best, but the timorous sages fear to even speak of the path to her prison. One mentions a dark place deep within the city of the gods, a place as absent of light as is her heart. He falls silent after and takes to discussing theories of Mist condensation.
Just as sleep begins to cloud his eyes, he finds it.
Thus did I find myself bereft of ship and companions when the chocobo nudged my side and bade me rise, writes Phyllo the explorer of his trials in the Mosphoran Highwaste. It made for the gysahi greens tucked in my breast-pocket; I thought to feed them to the creature and thereby earn its trust. It clucked and allowed me to seat it. I clutched its feathered ruff and guided it out of the Rays of Ashen Light, but once the beast and I crossed into the Empyrean Way, it ambled to the side of the path to sniff at some exotic grasses. I dug in with my knees, hoping to steer it away, when I noticed a faint scattering of stones marking a meandering trail through the brush, as though a hume hand had laid the pebbles long ago to guide future travelers.
Phyllo gives coordinates and bearings in the margins of his notes. Gabranth’s fingers cannot flip the pages quickly enough. He marks the pages of description for later reference and skims for the next salient point.
When we reached the foot of the ridge, which I have named Skyreach (for the tips seemed high enough to pierce the realms of the gods), we began our ascent. ‘Twas not as arduous as I feared, not on chocobo-back; the peak itself was a kilometre or two above me, though the path was perhaps five times as long as that. In spite of its age, it was well-preserved, being free of loose rocks and treacherous cracks of the kind that so plague travelers. Strands of float-weed bridged gaps in the path, and though I feared the vegetation would not hold my weight, it bore my steed and myself admirably.
And at the peak-
Before me stood a wizened man with horned helm-but no mortal was he, no, for his eyes were as blue magicite, pupil-less and shining, and he sat atop a floating throne of emerald, gold, and brown stone, all emblazoned with sigils of ancient power. Great spikes protruded from his back, and he held his hands outstretched before him, as though he called down the very might of the heavens.
O traveler, what seek’st thou in this waste, accurs’d by gods and scorned by hume and beast? he inquired of me, and I, tongueless block, could not answer him.
Know, then, I judge your journey to be nothing, for action without thought shall fade away. Then fall, and leave the unknown for the concrete. The myst’ries of the world I shall not yield, not unto one so bound by laws of time.
The peak of the mountain trembled hard beneath me at his words, and the path, once so certain, cracked and split at my feet. Another violent tremor shook me, and I tumbled down, down, down: away from the seat of one who was once godly and back, once more, to the earth, where a kindly pilgrim healed my wounds with potion and elixir.
“Exodus,” Gabranth breathes. The Judge-Sal; unseen, yet from him nothing is hidden.
It is fitting.
***
“Zargabaath,” Gabranth says, “you will see to Lord Larsa’s safety in my absence?”
Zargabaath sets his book aside, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Business of the ninth?”
“Yes,” he says. It is the truth, of sorts. “I will be gone days at most, certainly no longer than a week.”
“I will watch Lord Larsa.” Zargabaath taps his nail against the book’s cover. “You will promise to do nothing foolish while you are gone? Lord Larsa would miss you terribly were any misfortune to befall you.”
“I will see that I am safe,” Gabranth promises. “For his sake.” And hers. She will be safe. I will see to it.
“Gabranth,” Zargabaath says. “We are not close, you and I.”
“No,” he agrees. “We are not.”
“Still, is there nothing more you wish to say?”
“I’ve said my piece.”
He sighs. “I knew Drace well. We were students together at the Academy. I thought her quite beautiful for a long time, though I dared not tell her as much.”
Gabranth is silent.
“I miss her,” he says. “But I must hold to the oaths I swore long ago. She would expect no less of me.”
“I keep my oaths,” Gabranth replies, and wishes there was no lie in his words.
“Indeed.” Zargabaath’s fingertips are stained bright blue from the ink in his well. “Do not tarry too long. I am ill-equipped to mind children, even ones as brilliant as our young lord.”
“Play castles with him,” Gabranth suggests. “He enjoys that.”
“I do need to train a new opponent,” he says, mulling it over. “I’ve not been properly bested since Zecht’s days.” At that, Zargabaath looks up again; the shadows on his nose and beneath his eyes give his features a keen edge. “You are not planning to follow his example?”
“It is not in my nature.”
“To abandon?” Zargabaath asks. “No. I suppose it isn’t.”
***
Phyllo laid out the path to Exodus in excruciating detail; surely Gabranth cannot have been the first to follow his instructions. Few enough have read the man’s private diaries, yes, but even those few would be tempted. It may be that another has claimed Exodus’s power before him.
It may be, but he must see for himself.
There is no chocobo stable when he disembarks at the Babbling Vale. He has exchanged his judge’s plate for a set of carabineer mail and a dragon’s helm, and though his armor is of better quality than the battle-stiffened leather worn by most travelers here, he does not stand out. The wastes, however, are thick with the wild breed, and though they regard him at first with wary red eyes, an offering of gysahi greens makes them amenable to his unspoken request. He buckles a light harness around the most placid of his possible mounts-in heavy armor, he dare not ride bareback-and takes his seat on the chocobo. The bird doesn’t mind his presence; it is more intent on sampling the grasses growing between the crevices of the rocky outcroppings to either side of him.
The path to Skyreach Ridge has altered little since Phyllo trod it. Floatweed still patches up the path’s roughest areas, and when he reaches stretches of tall grass, he searches for the mark of a chocobo’s talons to show him the path. He is not disappointed.
It should be harder than this.
He fends off vultures, slaven wilders, and the odd pack of worgens, but as he draws nearer to Phyllo’s mountain, the beasts thin. He wonders what Drace would make of it. She worked long with the Imperial mastiffs, and when their duties called them into the wilds of Ivalice, it was she who crouched down to examine scattered tracks in the dust and explained their meaning to Gabranth. He would have anticipated that he’d know the wilds better than she-she was Archades-born, while he spent his youth tramping around the forests and streams-but he supposed nature exerted more of a pull on her than he first realized.
There is so much about her he never learned, never asked. He will have a chance to have his questions answered. He must. That is Exodus’s purpose.
He plies the chocobo with more greens as their ascent grows steeper; he thinks his mount was domesticated, once, but its master must have been waylaid in the Highwaste, and the chocobo went feral in his absence. He sidesteps pebbles and faults in the path, vaults over fallen branches, edges along the narrowest parts of the trail, when the sheer drop is less than a metre to his right. The chocobo’s feathers feel damp under his hands when he examines them, and he cannot tell if the slickness comes more from the bird or from his palms. Gabranth loops the reins around his hand to secure them and continues his ascent. Phyllo claimed the path stretched on for five kilometres or thereabouts. Phyllo clearly must have used a different method of measuring distance than the one employed in modern days. His thighs and buttocks grow sore with each jostle of the chocobo’s hips. It has been too long since he last rode.
He thinks it a trick of his mind when the trail starts to flatten out; when he realizes it is no illusion, the chocobo’s soft warks ebb away, replaced by the drumbeat of his pulse. He grabs a potion and feels the liquid soothe away the cracks in his throat. Soon.
The chocobo shies when he tries to urge it on further. Grunting, he dismounts and tethers the bird to a rock. Onward he climbs, always onward, never resting. He ignores the swelling in his feet, the complaint in his knees, and thinks of Drace at his side. She says nothing, but he imagines he can hear her fall into step with him, their boots navigating the last stretch of the mountain.
The peak finally flattens before him, and he is alone, looking through a thin mist at all of Ivalice stretched below him, with no voices save the wind’s whisper.
And then there is a voice, ancient and dry as the stones beneath his feet. It resonates in his bones and shakes him from head to foot.
O traveler, what seek’st thou in this waste, accurs’d by gods and scorned by hume and beast?
Exodus descends, and he is all Phyllo described and more. Gabranth’s gaze strays to the long horns adorning his helm, longer and flatter than any ram’s could be. He feels a poor champion in his spare armor.
He is aware that he speaks, though the words do not seem to issue from his mouth. “I seek the Judge-Sal,” he says, “and would have knowledge of him, knowledge of one who was and ought once again to be.”
Now he could be the proper hero of a tale.
The light in the center of Exodus’s chest pulses slowly, and a rattling sound fills the air, like a massive indrawn breath. The flow of time-you would seek its reversal.
He shakes his head; a shrill voice in his head chides the rest of him for this, that he would shake his head to an Esper. “I seek…” He stops himself. “It is said you know the value of all things. You know, then, what she was to me.”
And for this, you would have me give her life. He detects no inflection in the Esper’s voice.
“I would honor her.” Gabranth adds more steel to his voice. He must not waver, no, must not crack.
You slew her; now you wish to do her honor.
“I would set what I did to rights.” He dares not speak above a whisper, here.
Another rumbling breath. And yet, in time, your sins will fade to nothing. If you gain mas’try of me, she might live-but oblivion lurks, and will take her again.
“Even that, even only a little more time.” He swallows. “I want only that.”
So do we all. But time only erodes.
“Gain your mastery.” His hand strays to his blades. “If that is what I must do-”
And he lunges, cleaving into the base of the Esper’s throne with twin overhand strikes. It yields to his swords as flesh might, but Exodus regards him in stillness and silence. Then Exodus rolls forward slowly, palms outstretched, and Gabranth barely rolls out of the way in time; he hears the Esper grind past him, hears the horrible creak of stone against stone and wonders how more horrible the sound would be if it were accompanied by the snapping of his limbs. He is still dizzy from the sun beaming in his face during his ascent, still sore from the saddle. Gabranth flexes his fingers and murmurs the incantation for a curative, almost tripping over the syllables in haste, for Exodus has reversed his direction and is traveling towards him once more, and this time his entire body pulses golden as arcane phrases tumble from his open mouth. He gets to his feet with a groan of metal and unleashes another fury of blows, but though his assault is relentless and he loses the number of his strikes, forgets how many times he has scored Exodus’s chest, the Esper still advances. Gabranth is of no more note to him than a fly buzzing at his feet, and even Hasted he is not fast enough to halt him; he must rely on the power of his blows, not on their speed, and his power is of no account now, not when he is faced with this.
Then Exodus’s chants reach a crescendo, and the bolt of light spears him through the chest, and his head is filled with nothing, blissful nothing. It is only when the brilliance clears that he realizes he is falling, plummeting down the mountain’s slopes and he promised Drace he would care for Larsa, that he would live though she could not, and yes, it would be best to have both of them alive, but he was so sure, so sure he could sway Exodus to his cause (and why? What made his cause so worthy, other than Drace’s involvement?), and must he break this oath to her, too? Must everything be for naught?
As though in a dream, the incantation for Float bubbles from his lips; buoyancy trickles through his veins as his descent slows, slows, and then stops altogether when he is less than a metre from the jagged rocks littering the Ridge below.
It is a long time before he rights himself.