Rating: T

Summary: The crackling of embers is what signals his new life.

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Square Enix.

Heeey

I got too excited about the trailer Rise from the Ashes and needed to write something about it... This is pure speculation on my part and this probably doesn't make any sense but ehhh anything is good pretext to write Ace :D even if he's not really... Ace, in this fic.

Enjoy!

One-shot: Born from fire

He's not dead, but he doesn't know if he's alive.

He has been brought into this world with the only certitude that he had to accomplish the tasks he is given. His memories seem so distant, so disconnected to him that he wonders if he actually lived this life. He knows his own name, of course, but he barely remembers his companions'—had they been friends? He only remembers their faces and bits and pieces of conversations they probably had at one point in their existence; he doesn't know anything for sure in this hazy whirlwind of images, but that doesn't matter. They're not here, not even in this timeline or this universe or this whatever.

His footsteps lead him to another place of another city whose name he didn't bother remembering—they are all the same to him, after all. It brings back the memories of incessant battles he took part in, in various towns with different objectives and motives, but the feeling is nowhere similar. From what he gathered, he was fighting to protect the people he loved (probably the same ones) but also because he was told to. He was told to fight and he agreed because it was the only thing he had ever known, and he wanted to make that person proud.

Now, he fulfills a mission for a person he knows next to nothing about. However he has no choice and it's not as if he had something better to do, does he? He wakes up, receives his task, fulfills it, repeat. He's supposed to protect the world by acting this way, even though he fails to see how it will preserve the world if he kills clan on clan almost every day. But it's not his place to ponder on this question—he's only the Executioner.

So he doesn't bother being discreet when he attacks these people; he charges in with a burst of his fire magic, and cuts in half every man that gets in his way. He doesn't care if this is unnecessary killing. He has a mission, he will fulfill it. His blade shines under the moon's light and the flames' blaze, he dances through his enemies and spills velvet red liquid on any surface he touches. His sword is like an extension of his arm that he wields freely, seemingly not abiding by any law and slashing, slashing, slashing. One down, two down, four down, soon enough ten down and then fifteen and finally twenty, before he reaches the main house of the residence, armor covered in patches of red and himself sporting some cuts. He drags the last body on the floor to remove his sword, wipes the blood off with that same corpse and marches towards the door that will open on a new series of murder.

He sees the faces of ten men clouded by rage and yelling profanities at him, but it doesn't affect him. The screams from earlier went unnoticed by his ears, when he thinks about it; he's so used to them now that he barely pays any attention to them. Thus, hearing words instead of simple cries don't make that much a difference.

With a flicker of his hand, he sets the place ablaze.

Words transform into the same screams and he tilts his head, looking for the man he's specifically been asked to kill. He knows from experience that the most important person to protect hides to save his life for his own benefit. He's likely not going to find his target in a house that's burning down.

He turns around, ready to search the other houses, and an arrow digs itself into his left arm, before another hits him in the shoulder and another flies beside his head. A slight wince crosses his features and he looks around, alert, before he sees in the back of the courtyard his target surrounded by bodyguards. At once he kicks on his feet and runs towards them, ignoring the rain of arrows that is threatening to fall on him as snipers are perched on the roofs—he has only one objective that makes everything else secondary, even his own health. But that in itself isn't a problem.

He can't die, after all.

The chasing takes him to a smaller house, blood dripping from his body and arms after he sustained additional injuries from the arrows, but he doesn't care. He raises his hand and shoots a ball of fire that strikes right into a bodyguard's back, then another, and another, and finally releases a burst of energy that engulfs once again the whole area, burning everything down before dissipating as smoke. His steps slow down, he's advancing steadily towards his now lone opponent, an enemy not even worthy of his time. But he can't question his actions, he just does as he's told and that's final. His fate isn't in his own hands.

His opponent trembles with fear, eyes wide with begging at the edge of his lips, and for a split second he wonders what it's like to feel the tip of death pointed at your throat. Death is something he still can't grasp with clarity—he remembers he died, in these memories, but he doesn't remember any of the sensations. He only knows the pain that comes from it, the long process to jump from one side to another, but that's all; he doesn't know anything about what is beyond, what a mortal feels knowing his life stops right here without a way to rewind.

Maybe he also felt as desperate and afraid as this man. He will perhaps never know.

He doesn't wait for the begging to start and simply shoves his sword into the body that's standing in front of him. As soon as he plundged his blade he withdraws it, sensing people coming from behind him as well as the snipers that are readying their bows. Why are they still fighting? Their leader is dead. They don't have any reason to fight anymore. He doesn't understand how petty mortals can stand on their ground until the very end, even though they know this is futile and that only death will find them at the outcome. Who in their right mind embraces death that easily? Something inside him twists but he ignores it.

He takes arrow after arrow, having more trouble hiding the pain, but he moves all the same, sword always in hand and ready to shed blood. So this is what he did; he learnt how to ignore the suffering and how to push his limits to accomplish his mission no matter what. He learnt that the mind was the important part of someone, that as long as the mind drives the inner strength for physical attacks, he's unstoppable. A body is disposable, the soul is not.

But because the body is weak and fragile, he can't dodge and charge in forever, and is bound to fall. A soldier slams him against a wall and tries to break his armor with a sword, almost succeeds, but he counter attacks instantly. His blade is tougher, rougher, and kills without fail. He gets rids of the swordsmen as easily as he did before, but this means he can't take care of snipers. They all shoot their lethal projectiles and he's hit at various places of his body, but he's still standing, swaying a bit but standing all the same, and before all energy leaves that battered body, he gathers his remaining power to cast a final spell that shoots in three directions, each laser finding a target. They are all struck in the heart and only then does he allow himself to slump on the ground, exhausted.

Mission complete.

And as usual, tiredness washes over him—not only physical, but also mental, as if his mind waits until the end of his task to remind him that all this isn't natural. In these moments he always remembers more, sees more, understands more, thinking about memories that seem suddenly within reach.

Tiredness comes with the overwhelming of emotions and as he gives his last breath, the image of his friends smiling and calling to him embody the tears that fall down his eyes.

Always, he will feel isolated and empty in his last moment.

"You did good. Stronger, you need to become even stronger to protect the world. You need to free this world of evil, the same way you did a long time ago."

He doesn't know why fire chose him; he's never felt a particular affinity with this element, but its warmth and its destructive power have something comforting, in a way, so perhaps he should be glad to be able to wield such a mighty magic.

"Rise, my knight. Your time has not come yet."

Fire envelops him. He will recognize that sensation among a thousand others, because this means a new task, a new beginning, a new chance. His body is always remade, fiercier and stronger, the prize after achieving his mission embedded in him as a token of his new powers. The black armor he wears seems to have been customed fit—the work of a higher entity without a doubt.

Wings of flame burst from his back and he stands, once again, revived by a deity he knows next to nothing about but becomes closer and closer to her with each passing day, as if he's slowly starting to merge with her or to embody what she represents.

He crushes a feather into his palm.

Again and again.

Reborn from the ashes of a vermilion bird.

"We have arrived."

I didn't want to be too explicit, but the goddess is Etro. I didn't go into detail since I don't exactly know what gods can do or want to do in Fabula Nova Crystallis, I just used the concept from FFXIII-2 because why not. :')

I hope you liked it!