Author's Notes:

Finally. This is the novel in which Brehen's prophecy is unraveled and resolved, one way or another. I don't remember what I was thinking when I introduced it way back at the end of "The Proposal", but I'm certain I had no notion it would take this long to resolve it. I've made a note to myself to be wary of introducing long-range prophecies as plot elements; I can now see that by their very nature they tend to be drawn-out. Hopefully you'll all find the wrap-up to be satisfying.

I will endeavor to make this novel fully accessible to new readers, but if you haven't read my earlier fics and want a quick primer on Brehen's prophecy and the other events leading up to "Shining Cloud", I recommend "Ten Years Later". It's short, and covers all the essentials.

The milieu of this fanfic is property of Sega. As usual with my more recent Shining Force CD fics, there's a big mix of original characters and characters that are property of Sega, so if you don't know which is which and would like to, drop me a line and I'll be happy to respond. This story is set ten years after "Ten Years Later", i.e. about 20 years after Shining Force Gaiden II(Sword of Hajya to us in the USA, and also released as Book 2 of Shining Force CD).

Shining Cloud

plot and script - Martin III

Part 1: The Cloud's Ascent

- Chapter 1: First Born Son -

It had been a long time since Deanna had gotten a beating like this. Yet it was all coming back to him: the fists bludgeoning him from every side as he was knocked from one tormentor to another like a rag doll. He felt like he was an adolescent again, a weakling to be forever abused by those who felt the need to prove themselves strong. An individual of no worth beyond being a whipping boy to anyone who knew him.

But still Deanna continued fighting back, though he knew it only added to their amusement. He swung his fists in deft strikes, training that had ended a decade ago struggling to resurface in his memory. But there were too many of them, and even when he managed to land a blow, it seemed to reduce their numbers not at all.

"Haw! The high and mighty Deanna, savior of Iom, vanquisher of tyrants, friend of kings! A nice fight he's putting up!"

"You're nothing without your Cypress friends, aren't you?"

"Can't even put up a good fight for the sake of his precious little wife!"

Natasha. Someone delivered his knee to Deanna's ribs with all his strength, but Deanna was hardly aware of it. His one thought was the knowledge that Natasha was in their hands, and they weren't going to let her go once they were done with him.

They were going to kill her.

He seized the knee before it could part from his ribs and twisted the leg until something in the joint cracked. The thug fell to the ground screaming, crippled.

His friends momentarily hesitated at this. Deanna did not. His fist smashed into the face of the one holding onto his arm, the nose exploding a burst of blood over his face. This freed him up enough to elbow the one behind him in the stomach. His leg swung up to kick the next one in the jaw, making his teeth crack against each other and his head snap back.

They were fleeing now. Deanna ran in the direction he thought he'd most likely find Natasha. Or tried to. His legs screamed with the first two strides, and then gave out, nearly sending him tumbling to the ground. It was a monumental effort to remain on his feet, and only his love for Natasha kept him moving forward in something resembling a walk, but would more accurately be called lurching.

He was too weak. False energy had allowed him to break free, but that was nearly spent now. He had only the faintest chance of helping Natasha, unless...

Deanna looked up, and there he was, tall, strong, and resolute. An unwavering savior.

"Hindel! Help me -"

Hindel gripped Deanna by the throat and lifted him into the air. "Help you?" he answered, his voice as firm and harsh as steel. "You're out of touch, father. In your prime you were a great hero, but times have changed. Forces beyond your understanding are in motion. This time, I'm the one who is this world's salvation. So it would be a waste for me to help you, father... because you're the one who must help me. Help me achieve the power to save us all."

Deanna clutched at his son's grip, but could not break free. Simply getting enough slack around his windpipe to talk was a struggle. "Hindel... your mother... is in..."

"She's right here." Hindel gestured to a pair of stone slabs. Natasha was chained to one of them by her wrists and ankles. Iom priests stood in a circle around the two slabs. Deanna knew what this meant.

"Hindel... save her..."

"You still don't understand," Hindel muttered, and almost effortlessly tossed his father onto the remaining stone slab. The Iom priests seized Deanna and bound him in the same way as his wife.

"Deanna!" Natasha cried, her voice and her face alike strained with bitter anxiety for him. It made his heart ache beyond bearing; much as he feared death, the grief he was causing Natasha and their other children was a thousand times worse.

"I'm going to do far better than just saving my mother. I'm going to save the entire world. I'm going to save the souls of every intelligent being alive. I'm going to save the gods themselves!" He held out his palm to accept a sacrificial knife from one of the priests. "And in the process, I'll bring greater glory to our god, Iom. By his power, his gifts, we shall all be saved. And the gift of your lives shall help to accomplish that."

"Hindel, please, listen..." Natasha pleaded. "We're your parents... we -"

"I hereby bequeath you both," - Hindel raised the dagger over his head - "...to our great lord, Iom!"

The dagger descended, and his parents' blood splattered the sacrificial slabs as a single offering.

Hindel sat bolt upright, his eyes suddenly wide open, his face cool and moist.

He knew it had all been a dream. He knew he was inside his home, his bedroom. He knew the rest of his family were all within a call's reach. One of his younger brothers, Joshua, was snoring just a few feet above him, on the top bunk. But none of this reassured him.

He bent forward, trembling all over. This was something he'd felt before – this restless uneasiness, this fear gnawing at his insides like a vulture at carrion. He knew there was only one way to ease this torment.

Careful not to wake either of his brothers, he stepped out of bed and forced his shaking limbs to put some pants on. This took several aggravating minutes, and he grumbled at his mother for throwing away the box of mealworms which he had formerly kept by his bed for dealing with these... panic attacks, for lack of a better term. Now, he reflected as he pulled on some boots, there was nothing for it but to hunt something up.

He snuck out of his room and down the hall. It struck him that, while he didn't want to disturb any of his family by waking them up, he also was afraid of them finding out what he was doing. Not just because Joshua would laugh at him for his weakness, but because they'd all think he was a lunatic who would kill them all in their sleep. He wouldn't entirely blame them, either. What sort of person dreams about murdering his own parents?

He paused to steal a sharp knife from the kitchen. As his hand closed about the handle, he thought of the dagger which he used to kill his mother and father, and shuddered. Only a dream, he reminded himself. But he could not deny that there was something enticing about making such a profound sacrifice to Iom.

The front door squeaked faintly on its hinges as he pulled it open. It couldn't be helped; the house was only about as old as Hindel himself, but that was old enough. Eighteen years old, he thought. I should be getting married and moving out soon. Carla is already engaged. So why can't I seem to get interested in girls at all?

He put that thought aside, just one more weakness which would probably fetter him for his entire life. That's what people would call it, anyway. Hindel's belief was that these withdrawals from the rest of the world, these so-called "weaknesses", were symptoms of his devotion.

The cool night surrounded Hindel as he lurked. Insects sang, one massive chorus of community and communication, yet Hindel was alone. My family can't help me, he thought, shaking worse than ever. I'm their enemy.

There was a rustle, and Hindel's eyes trained on the source. There were vermin about the house, and the sound was just the right volume for a vole or mouse.

A few seconds of stalking, and then Hindel pounced, his boot slamming down to elicit a crunch of leaves and a sharp squeal. He bent down to grasp the mouse in one hand, raising his knife with the other.

"Iom," he whispered, fearful even now that his family might hear him. "Your servant Hindel offers this modest life to your great hunger. Please accept my offering. Accept my sacrifice." His hand still trembled, and he was sure he would cut himself with the knife, but he managed by holding the squealing mouse to the ground and pressing the tip into its chest.

As soon as the mouse's heart had beat its last, pumping a final trickle of blood over Hindel's hand, the trembling subsided. Hindel felt a soothing claim wash over him, and his shoulders slumped in profound relief. He soaked in the deep peace he achieved only through communion with Iom, and whispered a prayer of thanks to his god. The fear he had felt towards his family was gone; he understood with wonderful certainty that even if his parents saw him now, shocked as they would be, they would still love him.

But though he was calmed enough to function, the restlessness and dread was still well-rooted in the depths of his mind. Hindel knew this. And he knew now that the dream had in fact been a message from Iom. He knew this in the same way a man recognizes his wife's handwriting; without knowing by what signs he identified it, but with full certainty of the source just the same.

The meaning of the message was not yet clear, but at the very least, it was a summons from Iom. And such a summons could not be ignored, even if he could regain his peace of mind without answering it. Which he could not.

He hoped he could convince his father to help him do what he needed to.

"Dad?" Hindel spoke up. They were out in the garden, pulling weeds. It was a rare chance to talk to his father alone, at least without specifically asking for it.

"Yes?"

"Don't you think I'm getting too old to be still living with my parents?"

His father smiled, but his eyes and the lines of his face were pained. It occurred to Hindel that his father didn't look much like him. True, he had the same straight brown hair in the same subdued, almost clerical cut, but the face it framed was soft and rounded, not sharp and angular like his own. The nose, too, was broad and snug against the face, in contrast to Hindel's pointed one. Most striking of all, his father's eyes were warm and gentle, quite unlike the piercing and resolute ones he saw in his reflection. "Hindel, we need you here. Especially now that... Dusty is moving out."

"You and mom got along fine before Carla and I were big enough to help out. And you're both still young."

He shook his head. "That's nice of you to say, son, but..."

"Look." Hindel dropped the clump of weeds he'd been collecting. "You know I can come back here and help during harvest time if you need me to. Why won't you let me go and live my life?"

"Hindel..." He hesitated, then reached out to place a hand on his son's shoulder. The hand was heavy, yet it felt not restraining, but loving. "Is this still about... you becoming a priest of Iom?"

"I love our god, father. I want to serve him as more than just a simple layman."

"You know that that would kill your mother."

"I love Mom," Hindel sighed, "...but she just doesn't understand."

"... I..." Deanna took a heavy breath. "I wouldn't like you becoming a priest of Iom either."

Hindel glared reproachfully at his father. "Why not? You're not like Mom – you understand Iom and why we need to worship him! Why do you have to hold me back too?"

"Hindel." His father looked at him steadily. "Haven't I told you how your uncle... the one we named you after... died?"

"All the more reason! Now that your brother's a part of Iom – or are you actually blaming Iom for his death?"

"I'm not. But I... I don't want any more people sacrificed to him. Your mother and I have done what we can to end the sacrifice of sentient beings to Iom, and I certainly don't want... my own son performing such sacrifices."

"That wouldn't be the same. What Warderer did is against the law, and against what I believe. Anyone I sacrificed would be on the altar willingly."

His father shook his head. "It's still a life."

"...Fine. What if I just did animal sacrifices?"

There was an uncomfortable, unpromising silence. He was struggling, but struggling against the temptation to say yes. "...Son. Don't make promises you don't plan to keep."

He considered that. "So you understand. You know how much I love Iom, and that there's nothing you can do to make me give up my devotion to him."

His father's face was more pained than ever now. "Maybe not. But I'm... going to keep on trying for as long as I can. And so will your mother."

"Dad..." he said in an imploring tone. This is it. Now's the time to ask what I really wanted to ask him all along. "Will you at least take me to the shrine in the capital sometime soon?"

As he'd planned, his father's face relaxed in relief at hearing his petitions turn to something so comparatively unimportant. "Of course," he smiled. "We'll go tomorrow."

"Really? Tomorrow?" he said brightly, as if the timing was a pleasant surprise rather than just what he'd been desperately praying for. The thought of spending many more anxious days and nights like the one before was mortifying.

"Sure." A second later, a bit of doubt clouded his face. "But... what's wrong with the shrine down in town?"

"Come on, Dad," Hindel groaned. "You think that tiny little shrine is as good as Iom's central house of worship? They've got the big altars, frescoes by all of the nation's greatest painters, life-size statues of Iom, and there'll be hundreds of worshipers like me there, and even the High Priest himself!"

"Alright, alright." He smiled at Hindel with fondness, but it was accompanied by a dour sigh. "It's just... hard for me to see that place in a romantic light, after the things that happened to me in there."

"You can't blame a place for what people did there."

"No, you can't," his father agreed. "But... maybe it's superstition, but... I can't help but fear that bad things will happen there to people I care about... yet again."

They were finished with pulling weeds. In their accustomed silence, they went back inside.

They stood on the sand, waiting and watching the waves coming in to shore. Each wore a sword at his side.

"I miss home already," said one.

"The tales of the barbarism of this land may be exaggerated," said the other.

"I hope so."

"And even if they are not," he breathed in, "..we shall soon reform it. When we have done our task, this place will be home."

"We can't be sure of that." The other snorted in reply. "We can't be sure of how great their resistance will be."

"It does not matter. Barbarism has no power over us. We have both seen that."

"Every place is different."

He snorted at that as well. The sound of footsteps in the sand caught his ear. As he looked up, he said, "The only difference is that here, we have allies. ...It looks like they've finished unloading."

"Yes."

The two of them turned away from the ocean and walked back to where the troops were waiting.