If you were to ask me where this came from, honestly, I couldn't tell you. And that is for the simple reason that it's been brewing for just as long as any idea I've ever had. I first played Seisen no Keifu three years ago and played through it's entirety in a matter of a day, with crackish pairings and a fun play and all (whoever said predestined pairings are best for a first play were clearly speaking to the strategically inept). And ever since I've been thinking, 'How much fun would it be to write a fic for this?' Really, Seisen no Keifu arguably has more written potential than any other fic, because of the fact that the chapters are simply so long. Save for the dialogue between chapters and the in-game conversations, there is plenty of open-endedness to insert whatever it is you wish to insert. Development for characters, romance, drama... it's a gaping hole in the game that all but screams Feed Me. So feed I shall.
Anyway, no I do not own Fire Emblem or anything pertaining to it. That goes to Intelligent Systems, Nintendo... whoever you feel like noting.
Rating is for rather graphic violence (about as graphic as I ever get, really) and somewhat adult situations. And of course, for the necessity of an open mind, because really, you shouldn't read this if you don't have one. Don't say I didn't give you fair warning.
While the flames began to surround him, draining him of every breath and of every ounce of life within him, scorching his soul as much as his body, he began to think. There were many things to think about, unfortunately, and very little time with which to think of them. For soon he would be dead, that much he knew. Not even the reflexive defense against magic that the sword in his hand – his family's holy blade, the fabled Tyrfing – provided was enough to fend off the impending demise he would soon suffer from the flames. But that was okay, now. His son was being whisked off to a better, more peaceful place. He had finally returned to his homeland, albeit as a traitor to it's name and a prisoner of false accusations. And most importantly he had found his wife at long last, even if she was found bearing the ring and the child of another man.
Ah, Deirdre... it was a pity she knew not how her frightful stare rended his heart in two. How the way she was almost too eager to get away from him hurt him as much as parting with his only son, knowing he had condemned his son to a harsh childhood and a questionable future, had. How, even as she reluctantly parted with him, appearing as though she had the faintest idea of who he was, she had given him such hope that it was quickly forgotten that he was facing his executioner. Yes, Sigurd the Traitor thought of all these things in his last moments. As the scorching heat of the sacred Falaflame began to consume him, it was all he could do.
In his final moments, he recalled what drew him to this tragic moment.
He was but twenty-three when the neighbouring kingdom of Verdane sought to conquer Grandbell. Grandbell's army, save for very few, had proceeded northeast under the command of His Highness Prince Kurth to subdue Isaac. The nearby fief of Jungby had fallen under attack by the vanguard of Verdane's comparatively massive army, and requests had immediately been sent to both Chalphy – the fief under the rulership of Sigurd himself – and Edda, the nearby fief under the rulership his Lord Ring and his son Sir Claude. Sigurd had ignored all protests from his advisors and his knights, selflessly riding into battle for the sake of his friend, Lady Aideen of Jungby.
Through feats of heroism and valiant swordplay displayed both by himself, his men, and the reinforements acquired from the northern fiefs of Dozel and Velthomer, as well as the reinforcements supplied by Prince Cuan and his wife – Sigurd's sister – Lady Ethlin from the distant kingdom of Lenster, Jungby castle had swiftly fallen to the resisting Grandbell forces. Sigurd had valiantly pressed his luck at that moment, pushing his way onward toward the border castle at Evans, which would later serve to be his base for many days.
At Evans, Sigurd easily did away with all of Verdane's troops, conquering the castle in but half a day. What had begun as a desparate defense to save Grandbell had turned into a battle of conquest, in which Sigurd had taken it upon himself to subdue Verdane. But he did not fight for those reasons; in fact, conquest was far from his mind. Even as he was promoted to the esteemed rank of Holy Knight, he fought solely to see his friend Lady Aideen restored to his side.
The Spirit Forest, deep in Verdane territory, had been a quandary of sorts to Sigurd and his troops. The Prince of Verdane, Lord Jamka had fought to the last against them there, ultimately surrendering when Aideen had reminded him of the tyrranical state his kingdom had fallen into. Bolstered more than ever, Sigurd had been all the more motivated to see Verdane subdued for it's crimes. He remembered that this had been the first time when killing had come without remorse to him. He had been able to kill men before, perhaps easily by some accounts, but this had been the first time where he had done so without any regard for the life he had taken.
It was also here that his life changed irrevocably. At the time it had seemed like a blessing ten-fold that he should meet the Lady Deirdre, and it had been. She would go on to become his faithful wife and the person dearest to him, the mother of his son and an invaluable aid in key battles to come. She had been there no matter what he would ask of her, and the only time she ever refused his word had been when it had been asked of her that she not join him on the battlefield. Truly, her only crime had been caring too much. That care would also be the catalyst of their eventual fall from grace.
And a small part of him knew this from the moment he met her. Ever since he had met with the people of Marpha and heard of who she was, he had known. She was not an ordinary village beauty he should have been sweeping off their feet and into some gallant tale of love and valor. No, that simply shouldn't have been the case with Deirdre, and he had known. But he was a fool hopelessly in love, and like so many others before him knew, love drove someone to increasingly stupid things. Which is how, when the war had ended and Grandbell had unified the corner of Jugdral in which Verdane rested and Holy Knight Sigurd and his band of warriors had returned to their station at Evans, he took the woman who should never have left the forest to be his wife.
Never had he made a bigger mistake.
It was when he fought in desparate battle against King Shagaal of Agustria when Sigurd first bore witness to the true extent of the power granted to him by his lineage as a descendant of the Crusader Baldo. He had been locked in a battle like no other he had fought before, parrying blows left and right with reflexes that had jarred his arms more times than he could count. He had discarded his faithful steed in favor of facing off against the King in the corridors of Agusty castle, forced to wield his blade with both hands in order to maintain the sense of control he'd grown used to having when fighting on horseback, as he typically did.
"You are nothing more than a dog! A scoundrel! Now die!" Shagaal had cried, just before swinging with a might so terrible it had taken Sigurd by surprise, forcing him against the jagged stone wall of the castle's interior, cutting his back in several places. His sword had been chipped ever so slightly near the tip from blocking, but that had been the least of his worries at the time. No, at the time all he could think about was Deirdre. How she was five months pregnant and waiting for him just outside the castle, expecting to see an exhausted but otherwise unharmed hero emerging from the depths of hell, holding the head of a tyrranical King high above his head and grinning that stupid grin Sigurd couldn't help but put on in the presence of his darling wife.
That thought had brought out a strength most surprising within him. The palm of his right hand had suddenly shone a fierce blue and the crest of House Chalphy had engraved itself upon his flesh. The voice of a man clearly many years Sigurd's senior had called out to him in his mind, telling him he had the blessings of the great Crusader Baldo and that it was not yet his time to die. Fueled by those words, he had been imbued with a power that terrified him to the core. Shagaal had been defeated moments later, unfortunately fleeing through a secret passageway in the castle's depths and escaping impending death. But all Sigurd paid attention to was how he had been given a power like no other, one that gave undeniable proof of his lineage.
The six months spent watching over Agusty castle had been both sheer torture and a thousand blessings upon Sigurd.
Deirdre had given birth to a fine son and the heir to House Chalphy, whom had been named after Sigurd's grandfather, Celice. The young child had shown great promise even at only a couple month's of life and it was recognized almost immediately, either by this prodigal nature or simply by his appearance, that he would grow to be the splitting image of his heroic father. There was not a single person that gazed upon the boy and failed to see their great commander in the son's eyes. The shining blue hair that Celice had inherited from his father could draw eyes from entire rooms away, and the shimmering smile the boy always wore, despite being devoid of teeth, was enough to make Sigurd's heart warm.
Also on the positive side of things was the time spent with Eltshan, Holy Knight of Agustria and Sigurd's dear friend. Like in the past, many nights had been spent over a bit of alcohol and fond times between them and Cuan, reliving past days when such activities were commonplace. Momentarily was it forgotten that Eltshan was the commander of Agustria's fabled Cross Knights and that Sigurd was the commander of the small renegade division of Grandbell's army responsible for conquering Verdane and half of Agustria. Though serious almost to a fault, Eltshan found no quarrel with grinning like a fool and telling fond tales of his wife and his year old son, Aless, who seemed to be as much like Eltshan as Celice was like Sigurd.
The negative side of things was just as strong, however. Tension between Sigurd and Eltshan had continued to build steadily with every failed attempt to get permission for Grandbell to pull out of Agustria. 'Maintaining a presence,' huh? Bah! All the nobles cared about was the land Sigurd had painstakingly stolen from Agustria in his bid to aid Lachesis. It seemed that Sigurd's great propriety for aiding his friends – typically women, though their status as such had nothing to do with it – had been the catalyst of many a misfortune in his life, Sigurd had realized at that moment. Between Aideen, Lachesis and Deirdre, Sigurd's grave was being dug.
When Silvail castle fell to Sigurd and his ever growing band of troops, it was a hollow victory. Though cheers wrang high through the air, praising Sigurd for his monumentous victory over the Cross Knights and for being the one to rid King Shagaal of his head, Sigurd was hardly in a festive mood. The death of Eltshan, who had died trying to convince King Shagaal to take peaceful measures in settling the conflict with Grandbell, weighed heavily upon him. Weighing just as heavily upon him was the sudden disappearance of Deirdre, leaving him without a wife and Celice without a mother. Sigurd had cradled Celice tightly to his breast then, listening to the soft coos of his blissfully unsuspecting child like they were the beautiful singing Deirdre had often used to sooth him. Perhaps it was a trait Celice got from his mother, to be so soothing without even trying.
And Sigurd, for the first time since the death of his mother, had cried himself to sleep last night. He had refused to put Celice to bed that night, instead sleeping with the baby pressed tightly to him. And the baby seemed perfectly happy with this, poking and rubbing at Sigurd's chest like it was the most interesting thing in the world until finally the young boy had fallen into a happy sleep. Through it all Sigurd had cried, wondering not for the first time why his life had to be as tragic as it was. And waking up the next morning to the sight of his son's bright eyes looking up at him happily was the last time Sigurd had ever smiled a true smile.
The death of Fury's sister, Mahnya, in the skies over Silesia castle was what finally made the realization that he had gone numb dawn upon Sigurd. That night, when he heard Fury weeping for her sister and Levin weeping for her loss, finding comfort in one another not for the first time, Sigurd simply had not found it within him to shed a tear. Try as he might, he had been unable to make himself care more than the slightest bit. The only care he had was that it had caused them pain; the actual loss of Mahnya and subsequently Silesia's pegasus forces simply hadn't bothered Sigurd. Beyond that, all he'd cared for was the safety of the queen, whom had been as much his mother as she was Levin's.
And then, when finally the civil war had seen it's conclusion and Sigurd saw the vast plains of Grandbell before him, the nostalgia he felt was simply born of his desire to see his foes within the kingdom dead. He had not cared to return to Chalphy anymore, he had not cared to see their fighting end; no, all he cared about was seeing Duke Langbart and Prime Minister Reptor dead. The fact that it would bring an end to the fighting, while being an initial goal for him, had become little more than an accepted eventuality to Sigurd. Contrary to his initial goals, he cared for little more than seeing the traitors to his name dead, and seeing Deirdre back at his side once more. For this, he recognized the inevitability in his possible death through the ensuing conflict.
Sigurd hadn't smiled upon being reunited with his father, Lord Byron, though he suspected this to be on account of the fact that his father was sporting a gaping sword wound in his lower abdomen. His father's labored breathing and pale skin told Sigurd of the inevitability of his father's impending death, but that hadn't stopped Sigurd from daring to hope. He'd rushed to his father's side, mending the wound however possible in a state of near-hysteria. All his father had done at that point was laugh, place his weak hand over that of his son's, and shake his head sadly.
"No, son," he had said, eternally calm to the last. "It is too late for I. But take this blade," he had held up the shattered blade in his right hand, which Sigurd only then recognized to be his father's holy Tyrfing. His voice had failed him then, and immediately before breathing his last breath Byron had forced the Tyrfing into Sigurd's hands, collapsing to the ground and dying. And Sigurd had wept, albeit silently, the entire way back to Zaxon, where he had hoped to get the Tyrfing repaired. And the moment it had been repaired, the crest on the palm of his hand shone with a constant light, beckoning people to his side and daring his foes to flee. Much in the same way Levin's had shone a bright green the moment the sacred tome Holsety had been pushed into his hands, or how Eltshan's palm glowed a fearsome blood red as he swung the Mistoltin. It was a mark of their lineage, and of the terrible might that lineage granted them.
It had been with that sacred blade in hand, granting him an ironically magical immunity to magic and vastly hightened senses, that he pressed on toward Lubeck. Soldiers from then on had fallen like flies to his new strength, amplified as it was by the strength of the Tyrfing and the natural strength his lineage had recently presented him with. And Duke Langbart had fallen almost too swiftly, even with his frighteningly mighty defenses. Sigurd the Traitor had almost single-handedly seen to the army's triumphant return to Grandbell soil, where the only thing standing between them and the capital at Barhara was the terrible Yied Desert, the desert in which the Twelve Crusaders from whom those with holy lineage drew their strength had come to be, through the Miracle at Darna Fortress.
And later, when Sigurd took it upon himself to end things, he had felt an odd comfort. "The desert is too dangerous," he had said, by way of explanation, when he had been confronted about this decision. Which in all honesty he knew he would have been, for there was no way the plan of he and Levin going across the Yied Desert alone with support from Fury would be accepted as a good idea. And it wasn't. But he had enforced it at the time, in one of the rare moments in which he truly used his status to make the group do things that they would otherwise have rathered not do, and it had been thusly decided that he would be going across the desert alone with Levin, each aided by the respective holy weapon their lineage – from the Crusaders Baldo and Holsety, respectively – granted them.
Indeed, it had all amounted to a rather bittersweet four years. From his promotion to Holy Knight at twenty-three to his triumphant return to Grandbell at twenty-seven, going from a carefree slob to a calm and collected man, Sigurd could say he had honestly, truly lived. True it was that few of his memories were happy, but he had enough happy ones to be satisfied, at least. As at long last the flames of the Crusader Fala consumed him and Alvis' manic laughter wrang through the air, uncaring of the fact that his own brother had been amongst Sigurd's executed soldiers, Sigurd smiled the last genuine smile he would ever smile.
"Perish, Sigurd the Traitor!" Alvis laughed admist cackles, joined in sickening unison by the Roten Ritter fire mages that surrounded the condemned group of rebel soldiers. "Perish for your crimes to His Majesty King Azmur! Falaflame!" And there life threw him one final surprise, shocking him with the searing agony of another blast of the terrible flames. He could not cry out though, for his voice had already failed him. That smile remained to the last, even as he felt his skin being torn away by the flames and through Alvis saying in a hushed whisper meant for his ears only, "Your death will change Jugdral forever." And that was because, really, that thought was not one he dared have on his mind as he died.
'Farewell, Deirdre... Celice, be strong.'
And then, in the third month of the 761st year of the Gran Calendar, Sigurd the Traitor and his rebels, all parents to children of their own who were surely orphaned now, perished into the flames of Alvis' ambition. And that same year, King Azmur would die of his long-lasting illness and Alvis would become the first Emperor of Grandbell. And over the decade and a half following the death of Sigurd the Traitor, who would later go on to be known by many as Sigurd the Hero, the Grandbell Empire went from a blessing to the continent of Jugdral that brought peace wherever it went to a tyrranical Empire ruled by despotism and cruelty unlike anything that had been seen prior to the Empire's rise. And it would be that fact that would bring about many rebel groups striving to overthrow the Empire, one led by the Prince of Light...
Well... yeah. I've always loved Seisen no Keifu (as my constant references to it in other works may suggest) and I've longed to write a Seisen no Keifu fic for some time, so that's essentially what this is. If you want to be technical, it's also another project in my ever growing pile of incomplete works. Which I don't really count anyway, since I have several others I've simply made no mention of and keep to myself. But the ones I do post here take priority, and this is another one with priority to worry about. By all graces it won't be all that long, though, spanning the second half of the game and a little bit afterwards. In addition to fewer chapters than what is usually seen of me, the chapters themselves will be shorter in the grand scheme of things as well, though not nearly as short as this one was – this is merely a prologue so I don't walk into the story itself expecting everyone to have knowledge of everything that had happened prior to the story's beginning. I badger enough people for that very same problem as it is.
And pairings? None save for Celicex??? (I know who ??? is; I'm simply not saying. Not to be mistaken with me not knowing), because this fic will follow in the same general style as Gundam Seed: Redemption in that it will be solely from Celice's POV (but not first person; even if I were any good at writing from first person, rarely can I stand it). On the topic of pairings, however, the past pairings (as in the First Gen pairings) follow relatively canon tendencies (or what I see as my own canon): SigurdxDeirdre, CuanxEthlin, AideenxJamka, AryaxHolyn, LachesisxBeowulf/Fin (Delmud being Beowulf's son and Nanna being Fin's daughter, respectively), SylviaxClaude, TiltyuxAzel, and BrigidxDeu. Feel like questioning the canon-ness of some of these pairings? Go for it, because I did say they were my canon. And really, Deu being Patty's father just works.
So drop a bone, tell me what you think, or... whatever. I'm not expecting a whole lot given the lack of love Seisen no Keifu has gotten here, but getting a little bit of love always keeps a guy going, right? Right.