Disclaimer: I don't own Voldo, Namco does. But I do own a little Todd McFarlan figurine of him... that counts, doesn't it? Of course I'm not trying to steal profit where profit is due, of course I'm not genius enough to make up characters as cool as the ones in Soul Calibur, yadda yadda... I have no money. Please don't sue me. -
Summary: Voldo treks across the European countryside seeking vengance for his long-lost wife. Little does he know his guide, Ivy Valentine, has a few old scores to settle as well. But a surprise appearance by Cervantes' youngest daughter, spoilt Ignazia deLeon, throws a kink in both their plans.
Sorry about the long interem between updates. For those of you who have been keeping up, I love you! You should start reading from the end of chapter 3. The rest of you, please enjoy! I do have the whole plot written in my head, so I promise I'll finish this thing!
Cookies for all who review!
Sunlight exploded over the trees along the rocky coastline. Its rays stretched like a mother's arms, embracing the sleepy creation beneath it, gently coaxing it awake from its slumber. Birds, always the first to respond, began to chirp from their perches, their voices raspy from rest. Other creatures, stirred by the morning chorus, stretched their lazy bodies and began to scurry about under the sun, anxious to begin the day's game of eating and being eaten.
Morning light reached out to another sleeping creature. Its warmth burnt the unnaturally pale skin on his back. The sweet avian harmonies rang as an abrasive alien cacophony in his keen ears. The vibrations from bestial squirming, crawling and quarreling set his nerves on high alert. For one terrible moment, Voldo forgot where he was. Grabbing his trusted scissor blades, his only loyal companions, he jumped up, sending out an eruption of fleeing birds and creatures. His eyes were wide open, yet they might as well have been missing entirely. Surrounded by light and color, Voldo lived in a world of perpetual darkness.
Struggling to calm his rapid breaths and excited heartbeat, Voldo welcomed the recollection of his surroundings. He sat back down heavily, allowing the distant melodic rush of tide to soothe his mind. Tide… something familiar. For countless years he heard its ghostly echoes inside the cave he had called home. Now it remained his strongest source of constancy in this new world of chaos and he hated to leave it behind. But something stronger than comfort and familiarity goaded him on his journey. Something more insistent than his need to understand, even to survive entwined itself around his heart like tentacles, dragging him along to a mysterious destination.
But not just yet. Still exhausted from a night of troubled sleep, Voldo lay back and closed his useless eyes. Yes, travel could wait for a few hours. It had already waited for many years, perhaps decades. His days in the dank loneliness of that pit seemed to melt together in his mind and left him with no concept of time past. It seemed a short while from the time his aged master sealed them both in that vast underground treasure chamber to the day the senile old fool finally died, leaving Voldo completely alone. After that… well, it was probably best to forget just what it felt like to lose his sanity. Why had Master trapped him down there in the first place? Another thing Voldo couldn't remember. Had it been for protection? Punishment? Revenge?
REVENGE. The word repeated in his mind as it had ever since he relearned how to speak. That word invigorated him, electrified him, tantalized him. That was the reason he left his confines in the first place. Now he remembered. He remembered his reaction to that strange and sudden visitor: torment on the one hand for allowing an intruder into Master's sanctuary, and on the other, anticipation of nourishing human contact… and human flesh. He remembered how he had surprised her in the darkness, how he lunged, blades thirsty for blood. He remembered the shockwave of her words that overcame his body, that slammed into him like a stone wall, that crushed him into the ground and erased all other thoughts, replacing them with one overbearing overwhelming obsession: REVENGE!
He had killed hundreds of others more intimidating than she, other stronger invaders with huge weapons and muscles to match. But she had destroyed his deadly rage without a single blow, cut him off at the knees by uttering those four precious words… Now wholly unable to return to sleep, Voldo chuckled to himself as he appreciated the irony. Having lived in silent wordlessness for so long, having even forgotten how to speak, it was nothing short of miraculous that he had understood her at all. Voldo yawned as he stretched his travel-weary muscles and scratched at sun-scorched skin. It had only been a few days since he entered the foreign world outside his doorway and now she, his guiding angel, had seen fit to give him a destination and a purpose: Kill the challenger who awaits you at the nearest village. He would accomplish this first goal by nightfall tomorrow. He stooped to collect his meager belongings and set off on stiff legs, shivering as those four words once again gave him power and pushed him along his way. As he journeyed farther into the world of darkness that awaited him, he repeated them once more in his heart: Your wife is alive!
Ignazia Alejandra Espinosa deLeon's stomach heaved and churned in crude mimicry of the ocean she traveled. Her head swam with curses for the situation she had somehow fallen into. Surely she had chosen the ricketiest of her father's ships on which to make her escape. She cursed her initial excitement over this God-forsaken voyage. "An adventure!" she sneered to herself, the very words tasting like vomit as they dribbled from her mouth. How she hated the sea! She hated the stench of salt and dead fish, loathed the din of those vulgar sailors as they ran about on the deck above her head. Above all, she detested the darkness of the claustrophobic storage cabin that had already served as her home for the past… how long had it been? A year? Six months? No, it couldn't have been more than a few weeks. Or was it days?
Tears flowed freely down her dirty cheeks and plopped onto her rumpled, once-regal dress. If Father saw her in this state, he would give her such a scolding! But, as it was, she would gladly have accepted a thousand punishments if it meant she did not have to endure one more day on this cursed craft.
So, why did she not just go home?
An image of Charles flashed before her mind's eye. She promptly became violently ill on the floor. "Disgusting!" she coughed, frantic to rub off the bit of bile that had splattered on her skirt. What sins had she committed to warrant such conditions?!
Stomach woes temporarily forgotten, Ignazia began to nurse a different type of pain. Why did Father promise me to such a common twit as Charles?! He's positively plain and boring. And that laughable excuse for a mustache! It's unforgivable! Her brow furrowed as a fresh wave of rage washed over her heart. Father knew I had my eye set on that charming Bohemian prince, yet he accepted chicken-chested Charles' pitiful dowry and didn't even ask me first! Unforgivable. That is why I ran.
Her expression softened a bit as she thought about her father. Without her, he would have no one to take care of him, no one to talk to or laugh with, no one to advise him on the color choice of his outfits. Her mother died shortly after she was born, so Ignazia filled her shoes, providing emotional support to the noble warrior in his aging years. She couldn't help but smile to herself as she thought about her father's coarse battle-hardened demeanor, which she knew to be a mere façade, a mask she broke through as effortlessly as only a cherished daughter could. She had him wrapped around her little finger!
At least, she thought she did until that accursed Charles came into the picture! She scowled again as she asked herself, Why him?! Of course, no man on earth could resist her mischievous garnet eyes, framed so perfectly by the shimmering midnight of her curly locks and sparkling against the canvas of a flawless olive complexion. She sighed, contemplating her own stunning beauty. She was used to men fawning over her, relished every minute of it, in fact, but a woman of her social status could afford to be picky about her suitors! And she received far more desirable offers than Charles' from peasants on a daily basis! She knew her father well enough to deduce that it was something more than the British buffoon's money he was after. Charles was merely a viscount, for God's sake! Her father's estate was easily triple the size of the Englishman's. So, what could possibly have prompted her father to make such a rash – not to mention inconvenient -- decision?
Footsteps on the creaky ladder silenced her self-pity and snapped her mind to attention. Snatching one glimpse before shrinking behind a barrel, she could just make out the face of a youthful sailor, illuminated by a small oil lamp. She heard him scuffle around, falling over his own feet, frantically examining several storage containers. A command from outside made its way down into the storeroom. "Anything at all we can toss overboard! Anything we won't be needin'!"
"I know, I know!" the young soldier barked, stress evident in his voice. Ignazia couldn't help but wonder what he was so worried about. Her curiosity carried her just high enough to peek back over the top of her barrel. The man faced her direction, his attentions fixated on something beside her, lower than her… A sideways glance brought her focus to the sizable puddle of her own stomach contents glistening like jewels in the lamp's light. Ignazia, you fool!! She gasped as she dropped behind the barrel again.
"I-i-is someone there?" squawked the sailor's cracking voice. "M-my sword is drawn! Show yourself or I'll have to kill you!" Ignazia was petrified with fear. If he finds me, he's sure to recognize me and my father probably has an entire fleet out looking for me by now! I'll be sent back to Spain for sure! Oh what a burden it is to be such a recognizable and beloved figure… wait, what am I saying?
"Show yourself!" demanded the sailor in a loud threatening voice, accompanied by an even louder and more threatening thwack of his sword against her barrel. Ignazia screamed in spite of herself and threw her hands up. "Wait! Steady on! Don't hurt me!" She arose and turned to face her discoverer, hoping beyond hope that he was an ignorant foreigner or blind—or both! No such luck. Upon seeing her face, the poor man couldn't decide whether to jump in surprise or bow in submission. Finally, he managed to sputter out, "L-lady Ignazia! What are you doin--?"
"Please don't send me back to Spain! I'm really supposed to be here! My father wished for me to go to abroad in order to—to--…" she interrupted, trying desperately to concoct a convincing lie.
"Beggin' your pardon, Milady, but you're in grave danger down here! The storm's tossin' water into the ship faster than we can toss it back out again!"
Storm? Only now did Ignazia hear the drumming of torrential rain, the banshee howls of the wind and the booming of the thunder above decks. Hmm, she thought the ship had been rocking quite a bit more than usual.
"Please, Milady, you've gotta get above decks! The Captain will make sure you get to a safer place!" the sailor exclaimed, extending his hand.
She refused it, screaming, "No! No one else must know I'm here!"
"Listen to me! It's for your own--!"
A deafening crack overhead silenced them both. Amidst the yells of the men, Ignazia could hear an eerie moan that was definitely not man-made. Something inside her compelled her to back away. A split-second later, the flaming mast exploded through the ceiling, sending a torrent of water, fire and sharp wooden splinters sailing like arrows towards her. In another second, the massive rain-soaked sail smashed her down onto the ground, crushing her breath away. Its weight paralyzed her, rendering her unable to respond to the sailors' muffled screams or to escape the unbearable heat of the fire. Above the chaos, her mind clearly demanded, God, I hope I'm not laying in my throw-up! Beneath her, the ship gave a horrifying shudder and another unearthly groan of defeat. Instantly, frigid water rushed in on her from all directions, robbing her of her remaining breath.
Next thing she knew, she was moving, rushing, tumbling out in the icy wetness. She felt she was free of the compressing tonnage of the sail, but the weight of her dress was pulling her down into insubstantial nothingness. Her face broke in and out of the water, allowing her a few staggering breaths and a blurry glimpse of the flaming ship, now impossibly far away. She thought she could hear someone calling her name. Wishful thinking. Thunder and wind drowned out all other sounds as the incessant waves rudely slapped her in the face.
"Father!" Ignazia coughed just before the angry ocean engulfed her and choked away her world.
Dead?! How can it be?! Cervantes deLeon clutched his head, nearly tucking it between his knees as he felt the weight of his sorrow imploding him.
"My crew searched for an entire day, my Lord. We found no trace, either alive or… otherwise. I'm dreadfully sorry, Señor deLeon."
"Dead?" Cervantes managed to whisper. In his youth, he would have ordered this captain executed—would have killed the bringer of bad news himself. Now, however, Cervantes found himself incapacitated with grief. He knew it wasn't his cargo captain's fault. That insolent, pig-headed , brilliant, beautiful girl… his daughter… dead. What was she thinking, stowing away on that ship?! If she wanted to see Italy, all she had to do was say the word and—but it wasn't her fault either. "My fault" Cervantes breathed, as he realized the horrid truth. He should have broken the marriage proposal on her gently. He knew the consequences of her terrible temper, her spoiled stubbornness.
"It could be, Sir…" the captain's voice trailed off with a hint of hopefulness. Cervantes' eyes shot up to the captain's pensive face. The seaman continued, thoughtfully, "We lost her very near the coast of Naples, Sir. Waves that strong could have carried her to land. At least, there is a chance that… hmmm…"
"Organize a search crew immediately. Leave no stone unturned, no shore overlooked," Cervantes ordered, the usual timbre returning to his quavering voice. "Do not give up until you find her."
"Aye, Sir," the captain bowed low to the kneeling cavalier and hurried out of Cervantes' chambers to leave him alone with his thoughts. After all, the only person he knew who possessed a more fiery temper than Cervantes was his aptly named daughter.
After allowing several moments to catch his breath, Cervantes arose and paced around his room. "It will have been several days since they lost her," he spoke aloud, trying to reassure himself of his daughter's safety. "She is strong and strong-willed. She, of all people, will have been able to survive. I know this, but…" Once again, he felt his aged legs tremble, threatening to collapse like wet noodles under him. "If she is dead… what will I do? She will not—I can not—the Sword will—the Sword!" The words hit him like a slug in the face and his legs gave in. Adrenaline propelled him back up again and launched him over to his bedside chest. Nimbly, his arthritic fingers worked the complex locks that secured the covering in place. The Sword will know! The Sword will tell me how to find her! He threw back the lid and stood in awe of a sight he hadn't beheld in years.
The Sword. The Soul Edge. That accursed-blessed demon weapon. Nearly as long as a full-grown man, the ancient blade was a tangle of twisted, razor-sharp metal entwined and enslaved by some alien flesh-like substance that reminded Cervantes of the veins and innards of a beast. It stank of rotten corpses and its perpetually, supernaturally sharp edges were stained brown with the blood of countless victims. It lay there in its box like a man in a coffin, staring up at the nobleman with its single, overgrown, lifeless eye. Ah, but Cervantes remembered a time when that eye blinked of its own will, glistened with hatred, twitched and dilated and focused, always searching for a new victim, a new soul to ensnare inside its own wicked, pulsating corpus. Cervantes grasped the hilt, shivering as its electric power surged through his own body. He exhaled as his arm once again remembered the sword's weight. With some effort, he brought the demon-sword up to his own face, ignoring the putrid stench. Staring right into its marble eye, he commanded, "Find her! My daughter—our daughter is lost, but you would not let her die. Show her to me!"
Cervantes waited. He knew he would not get a response. The one and only time the creature inside that sword opened its mouth was 17 years ago. "This is my child" it had said. "Kill her and I will kill you and your entire nation! Raise her with my guidance and you will receive your reward." Cervantes deLeon had waited too long, sacrificed too much for his reward to be snuffed away by teenage foolishness and a storm at sea.
After several silent minutes, Cervantes sighed heavily and dropped the Sword back into its resting place with a thud. He secured the lid, grimacing as he imagined closing his own daughter's casket. He had invested too much, become too attached for his foolish teenager to be snuffed away by the storms of his own selfishness.