A/N: It looks like it is time for us to take a journey again.
This is a prequel to my fic Requiem for an Eternal Solider. Although Requiem is not required reading, it is reccomended. But if you do read this first it will spoil Requiem.
This fic will mainly center on my background of the FF8 world. Odin, Eden, Gilgamesh, and Medarra. These are only my views for this series of fics. In no way are they the true thing.
So, with that I leave you. Please enjoy.
Disclaimer: I dont own anything, just Medarra. She is all mine.
((¯`·.((¯`·.((Zantetsuken)).·´¯)).·´¯))
The sword was black metal. It's hilt wrapped in thick black leather. Raising from its perch, it was like a silent testament to Hyne. The blade rose from a chunk of uneven crystal bathing the metal in a blue light. A pool of water surrounded it all, giving it almost a peaceful feeling.
It was so far out of reach for the man lying wounded on the ground fifty paces away. Odin Almasy kicked at the dead body of the ruby dragon.
He had been lucky, killing it with a final sweeping limit break. A gash from his destroyed sword reached from the things head to its tail.
Odin had taken a wound in the side. The dragon's talons sliced through his armor, fireaga through a snowdrift. He breathed heavily dropping what was left of the breastplate to the floor. It clattered loudly through out the cavernous room. The sound bounced off the stone walls, reverberating across the floor.
The tiny pool of water ripple a bit in response taunting him once again with the prospect of the mammoth black sword.
Odin slumped to the floor, leaning all his weight against the stone wall. He forked a hand through his dark hair ignoring the ruby dragon blood that covered it. His eyes traveled across the streak of blood on the rock floor to the broken halves of his sword and couldn't help but think of how he had come to be here.
That sword had been given to him when he was knighted. He could remember every detail clearly. Kneeling on the marble floor of the Centra castle. The knuckles of his right hand pressed hard on the floor. His left hand resting on the swordless scabbard at his waist.
The king and queen sat in their great thrones, atop their towering platform above him. Their daughter Eden stood between the two thrones a sword clutched in each hand. Along one wall sat a row of small throws, each filled with a different knight. Each night had a different suit of armor; many decorated while many remained plain.
Across the way sat the council of sorceress. There were three delicately carved thrones, each one inscribed in arcane ruin. Only one of the three thrones was filled. A raven-haired beauty graced the middle throne, white robes swirling around her to the floor.
He couldn't help but steal a glance at the men kneeling on the marble a few feet beside him.
Dressed in a red tunic, his belt sheathed three great swords. His name was Gilgamesh and he was the first squire to ever attempt to obtain the rank of four-swordsman. He had reached three and was desperately searching for the fourth sword he needed to complete his set.
There were only twelve sets of magical swords in the entire land. It was rumored that Hyne had blessed them herself. They were scattered all over the world, and one of the first tests of becoming a four-swordsman was to gather a set.
Princess Eden had walked down the stairs leading up to the thrones and stood in front of both of them. It was the first time she would ever knight someone in the name of her father.
The blue sorceress gem winked in her hand as she handed Odin his knight sword. That was same sword that was now lying broke just feet away from him.
The pain was racing through his body. He mentally checked his stock of spells damning himself for not at least having a cure spell to dull the pain. Odin touched the wound lightly hissing in pain, through his gritted teeth.
Then whispering seemed to brush across the cave.
Give yourself to me solider.
Odin looked up at the great black sword, eyes touching the hilt.
I will fight for you.
He shoved himself up slowly drawn by the voice. It echoed through the cave rasping across the stone walls. Calling to him, needing him, wanting him.
He took one step, his hand for support on the wall. Each step took him closer to the pool of water.
Odin, knight of Centra.
The wall ended and he stepped into the great cavern, almost falling forward in pain. His head was throbbing, blood running down his side soaking his pants. He tried to hold the wound closed inching forward, with tiny steps.
I will kill for you.
Odin reached the edge of the knee high water and paused rasping for breath. It was all he could do to keep moving. His heart seemed to coil in on itself in his chest. He splashed into the water, sending a spray up across his face. Immediately the crystal water was tainted with the crimson of his life.
You and I will be unstoppable.
He stumbled forward his hand reaching out for the great black hilt. It was just beyond his reach, his hand grazing the large piece of crystal instead.
He fell under the water, it engulfing up around him. It filled his lungs, his eyes, and his ears. Odin struggled in the tangle of the water, coming to his knees. Water dripped down his face, and into his wound. It screamed in response.
The knight lurched forward; propelling himself onto the tiny island that held the sword in its crystal prison. Then with one shaking hand he reached out and grasped the hilt.
An arch of lightening erupted from the crystal, flowing up his body. It seems to rattle his bones, the hurt searing into his wound. He grit his teeth and yanked the sword from the perch.
He wrapped his other hand around it and raised it to the air. Whispers seemed to fill the cave around him, echoing off the walls. Bouncing around inside his skull.
The pain was overbearing.
I am Zantetsuken, wield me.
Then in a flash, all he could see was white.
Clomp, Clomp, Clomp, Clomp.
Something warm was moving beneath him. Muscle and sinew rolling beneath his flesh.
Odin forced his eyes to open, meeting the clearest blue of the sky. He was outside, on a field of tall white flowers.
Not only that but he was perched atop a huge horse. Pure and white as the deepest snow in Trabia. There was heaviness on his leg and it took him a moment to realize that it was the sword.
Its black blade was sheathed in a plain scabbard of black leather. The hilt bumped against his waist as the horse moved slowly deliberately beneath him. They were heading toward Centra Castle. His home.
Odin brushed the sword with his fingertips and grinned.
You and I will be unstoppable.
A thought of triumph struck Odin.
Gilgamesh would never get his fourth sword.