Ovelia Wins.
.
Title: To Seal the Hydra's Heads
Author: Mithrigil
Fandom: Ivalice -- 40% FFTactics, 40% Vagrant Story, 20% FFXII.
Characters: Ovelia, Orran, Delita, Valmafra, a narrator from New Valendia, discussion of Ashe.
Rating: PG
Warnings: A little blood.
Theme: AU, Canon what-if: What if Ovelia had taken a more...active role in politics?
To Seal the Hydra’s Heads
final fantasy tactics
Mithrigil Galtirglin
The blade strikes true. It had been Lady Agrias’; how could it not? And like her, like Ovelia’s loyal knight of old, now ash on the wind, the blade not only strikes true but remains true, does not flinch from the King’s abdomen though black blood wells up around it, though the royal cloth sags slack and dead and wet. Ovelia watches her husband’s hands shiver, watches his cold eyes lose their granite shimmer-but listens, cannot watch, as the course of the blood diverts out his mouth and stifles his vocal incredulity.
“Just like Ramza,” she repeats. “You would have done this, to me, as to him.”
Delita speaks; all rounded blood, no words. This is to kill him, Ovelia thinks; he dies with his whet tongue, and his body follows. His hands close on the true dagger’s hilt-so true to her, it seems, that Delita cannot use it.
It is a long death; it is a wet death. She has not killed before, but has seen men die. Delita takes longer to fall than the brigands he once slew to save her. The swathe of his blood runs over stone and grass, gathers in the ruts around fallen columns, ruins. When it nears the hem of her skirt, Ovelia backs away, gingerly as she may; it will not do, for him to stain her any deeper than he has.
-
It is regicide. It is also defense of self and honor. It is, according to some, the madness of a barren queen, a jealous queen. It is, according to several contemporaries of mine, an act of emancipation, an attempt to reclaim equality lost to time. They cite the rule of the Mad Queen Ashelia, prying her stolen desert paradise from the jowl of the Solidor Dragons, with the swords of her fathers as chisel and lever; they conjecture Queen Ovelia strove to do the same.
However, Ashelia the Mad was a seasoned fighter; there are accounts of her direct involvement in the Dalmascan resistance effort, and of her contacts and consorts among the ancient underworld. Queen Ovelia was neither of royal blood, nor of blood particularly hardy, and her liege’s, when she slew him, was cold. The comparison is neither apt nor empowering.
-
“Your Majesty-”
“Orran, we haven’t much time.” The guards are true to her as well, truer than the keys would be in her own hands; they uncouple the stocks around Orran’s wrists and neck, lift the vile beams. For a moment, Orran does not move-shocked, perhaps, oh, he knows not their peril for his freedom-but when he does, it is timeless-quick. He staggers, cracks his joints, and stares.
“What have you done,” he asks, intent upon her eyes.
“I have saved you,” she says. “I have saved everyone.”
-
Queen Ovelia had no direct claim to Ivalice. A substitute herself-a practice that is still in place in the south-and, as stated, of common blood, she differed from her husband Delita in only ideals and ability, not circumstance. King Delita’s short reign is marked by great change, both due to the plurality of his roles in the War of the Lions and to his iron-sheathed pacifism in his years on the throne. By murdering him, and ultimately succeeding him, Queen Ovelia replicated this, but not without dire consequence. King Delita adopted for his sigil a Hydra three-headed; cut one off, and two spring forth, and Queen Ovelia had not the craft to seal the Hydra’s heads.
In the journals of the King, to which the Queen was most assuredly privy, he expressed radical opinions that are incongruous with the apparent conservativeness of his rule. However, these are expressed in the context of patience; he believed the people were not ready to live without a monarch, and that, in time, perhaps they would be educated and equal. Perhaps he was not a hypocrite, but a man born out of time. Evidently, this has some relevance to his murder; when the war that confirmed Queen Ovelia was over, her earliest proclamations divested her of much of her power and sowed the seeds of the Federation that would persist until the change of the calendar.
-
When Orran replaces the crown upon her head eight years after it fell from her husband’s, it remains there. Orran is consort, and she is Queen, and the Church of Glabados is an impotent husk, as impotent as the clipped boys it conducts in song. And they sing; new songs are written for a Queen, returning to this land of Kings.
She will not be a Queen to populate it; a surrogate, a child sired on the silent Valmafra, will succeed her. It is, perhaps, apology for how much Delita once took from her; how much Ovelia is taking from her now; but Valmafra does not complain, and the child will know of the magic in his blood.
-
Queen Ovelia’s reign, even accounting for the years of contention, far outstripped that of her husband’s for duration. Between the miraculous circumstances that allowed for its inception, and the subsequent radical reorganization of the provincial governments, it similarly outstripped King Delita’s for sheer force of change. Her bloodline initially adopted for its sigil a dagger upturned-the symbol of her supposed freedom won-blocked by the cross of a torch and a pen. The rood has since been simplified.
-
Valmafra has become as true to her as Agrias, as Orran. Her skill with knife and needle and potion is not to be disputed, and though her magic is silent and cold, and not without pain, neither is it without tenderness. Here, she passes the mark on to the prince-who is as dear to Ovelia as if he were her own-and the prince does not cry. Perhaps he knows the maternity of the gesture, or perhaps it is acknowledgement of his gifts, of the magic in his blood.
The rood upon the baby’s back will grow with him. Now, it is only as large as Valmafra’s dainty hand, the red magic of the words staining only just beyond and between her fingers. She mouths a name.
“Alduous,” Ovelia translates, with finality. “May you bring the change to this land that I could not.”
“You discredit yourself,” Orran says to her-with marked unease, his fingers brushing the baby’s fair hair, utterly unlike his own. “You discredit us, even.”
“There is a limit to what we can accomplish.”
“But what more change do we need?”
“None now,” Ovelia proclaims, “but the world will change without us.”
-
The Atkascha were Kings until the sundering of the states. Peripheral lines that claim ancestry with the family remain, but the direct male line is most likely broken. Nevertheless, Queen Ovelia’s legacy of change and adaptability continues to serve Valendia, and, in an idealistic fashion, all of Ivalice.
-Joshua Johnsson, Valnain
---
.
Title: To Seal the Hydra's Heads
Author: Mithrigil
Fandom: Ivalice -- 40% FFTactics, 40% Vagrant Story, 20% FFXII.
Characters: Ovelia, Orran, Delita, Valmafra, a narrator from New Valendia, discussion of Ashe.
Rating: PG
Warnings: A little blood.
Theme: AU, Canon what-if: What if Ovelia had taken a more...active role in politics?
To Seal the Hydra’s Heads
final fantasy tactics
Mithrigil Galtirglin
The blade strikes true. It had been Lady Agrias’; how could it not? And like her, like Ovelia’s loyal knight of old, now ash on the wind, the blade not only strikes true but remains true, does not flinch from the King’s abdomen though black blood wells up around it, though the royal cloth sags slack and dead and wet. Ovelia watches her husband’s hands shiver, watches his cold eyes lose their granite shimmer-but listens, cannot watch, as the course of the blood diverts out his mouth and stifles his vocal incredulity.
“Just like Ramza,” she repeats. “You would have done this, to me, as to him.”
Delita speaks; all rounded blood, no words. This is to kill him, Ovelia thinks; he dies with his whet tongue, and his body follows. His hands close on the true dagger’s hilt-so true to her, it seems, that Delita cannot use it.
It is a long death; it is a wet death. She has not killed before, but has seen men die. Delita takes longer to fall than the brigands he once slew to save her. The swathe of his blood runs over stone and grass, gathers in the ruts around fallen columns, ruins. When it nears the hem of her skirt, Ovelia backs away, gingerly as she may; it will not do, for him to stain her any deeper than he has.
-
It is regicide. It is also defense of self and honor. It is, according to some, the madness of a barren queen, a jealous queen. It is, according to several contemporaries of mine, an act of emancipation, an attempt to reclaim equality lost to time. They cite the rule of the Mad Queen Ashelia, prying her stolen desert paradise from the jowl of the Solidor Dragons, with the swords of her fathers as chisel and lever; they conjecture Queen Ovelia strove to do the same.
However, Ashelia the Mad was a seasoned fighter; there are accounts of her direct involvement in the Dalmascan resistance effort, and of her contacts and consorts among the ancient underworld. Queen Ovelia was neither of royal blood, nor of blood particularly hardy, and her liege’s, when she slew him, was cold. The comparison is neither apt nor empowering.
-
“Your Majesty-”
“Orran, we haven’t much time.” The guards are true to her as well, truer than the keys would be in her own hands; they uncouple the stocks around Orran’s wrists and neck, lift the vile beams. For a moment, Orran does not move-shocked, perhaps, oh, he knows not their peril for his freedom-but when he does, it is timeless-quick. He staggers, cracks his joints, and stares.
“What have you done,” he asks, intent upon her eyes.
“I have saved you,” she says. “I have saved everyone.”
-
Queen Ovelia had no direct claim to Ivalice. A substitute herself-a practice that is still in place in the south-and, as stated, of common blood, she differed from her husband Delita in only ideals and ability, not circumstance. King Delita’s short reign is marked by great change, both due to the plurality of his roles in the War of the Lions and to his iron-sheathed pacifism in his years on the throne. By murdering him, and ultimately succeeding him, Queen Ovelia replicated this, but not without dire consequence. King Delita adopted for his sigil a Hydra three-headed; cut one off, and two spring forth, and Queen Ovelia had not the craft to seal the Hydra’s heads.
In the journals of the King, to which the Queen was most assuredly privy, he expressed radical opinions that are incongruous with the apparent conservativeness of his rule. However, these are expressed in the context of patience; he believed the people were not ready to live without a monarch, and that, in time, perhaps they would be educated and equal. Perhaps he was not a hypocrite, but a man born out of time. Evidently, this has some relevance to his murder; when the war that confirmed Queen Ovelia was over, her earliest proclamations divested her of much of her power and sowed the seeds of the Federation that would persist until the change of the calendar.
-
When Orran replaces the crown upon her head eight years after it fell from her husband’s, it remains there. Orran is consort, and she is Queen, and the Church of Glabados is an impotent husk, as impotent as the clipped boys it conducts in song. And they sing; new songs are written for a Queen, returning to this land of Kings.
She will not be a Queen to populate it; a surrogate, a child sired on the silent Valmafra, will succeed her. It is, perhaps, apology for how much Delita once took from her; how much Ovelia is taking from her now; but Valmafra does not complain, and the child will know of the magic in his blood.
-
Queen Ovelia’s reign, even accounting for the years of contention, far outstripped that of her husband’s for duration. Between the miraculous circumstances that allowed for its inception, and the subsequent radical reorganization of the provincial governments, it similarly outstripped King Delita’s for sheer force of change. Her bloodline initially adopted for its sigil a dagger upturned-the symbol of her supposed freedom won-blocked by the cross of a torch and a pen. The rood has since been simplified.
-
Valmafra has become as true to her as Agrias, as Orran. Her skill with knife and needle and potion is not to be disputed, and though her magic is silent and cold, and not without pain, neither is it without tenderness. Here, she passes the mark on to the prince-who is as dear to Ovelia as if he were her own-and the prince does not cry. Perhaps he knows the maternity of the gesture, or perhaps it is acknowledgement of his gifts, of the magic in his blood.
The rood upon the baby’s back will grow with him. Now, it is only as large as Valmafra’s dainty hand, the red magic of the words staining only just beyond and between her fingers. She mouths a name.
“Alduous,” Ovelia translates, with finality. “May you bring the change to this land that I could not.”
“You discredit yourself,” Orran says to her-with marked unease, his fingers brushing the baby’s fair hair, utterly unlike his own. “You discredit us, even.”
“There is a limit to what we can accomplish.”
“But what more change do we need?”
“None now,” Ovelia proclaims, “but the world will change without us.”
-
The Atkascha were Kings until the sundering of the states. Peripheral lines that claim ancestry with the family remain, but the direct male line is most likely broken. Nevertheless, Queen Ovelia’s legacy of change and adaptability continues to serve Valendia, and, in an idealistic fashion, all of Ivalice.
-Joshua Johnsson, Valnain
---
.