Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Seiken Densetsu 3 or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). They are the property of Square, and the game designer/creator. I am not making any money off this story; it is being written for my own sick twisted amusement. All original concepts in this story are original (duh) and belong to me, or have had all rights handed over to me for the duration of this story. Do not steal. I would like to thank The Mad Poet, my beta and a fellow fan, for being a rampant geek and helping to flesh out much of the world history that you will find in this fic. This story may contain violence, psychological trauma, romance, flashbacks, language, crude humor, accents written into dialogue, a fair sprinkling of creative and artistic/realistic liberties, and possibly sex or sexual references. If you're not mature enough to handle all that, then just leave now. Also, I will not translate any other language in this story unless someone in the chapter other than the person speaking knows that language, and certain countries in Fa'Diel will have their own national language that corresponds to a language in our world. If this annoys you, read something else.
Moments:
Chapter One
The ship owner in Sultan had been surprisingly nonchalant about the whole transaction, Hawk had noticed as he pressed the sticky coins into the man's hand with a fervent whisper. There were no questions asked; the captain just nodded and pointed to the ship that sat low in the harbor, ready to take off within the hour. At the time Hawk had been glad, as his throat was raw and sore, and he had not been in the mood for small talk. Still, he had expected a raised brow, or a confused look, or something. Then again, maybe the people in Sultan were used to seeing bloody limping figures emerge from the desert late at night. Perhaps the ship owner simply had no reason to be surprised by something that now seemed so natural and ordinary. Hawk sighed as he lowered himself gingerly to sit on the edge of the hard pallet that would serve as his bed for the duration of the voyage.
Because running through Navarre half-dead and soaked in human gore was perfectly normal, oh yes.
Well, thank goodness his sarcasm had survived the ordeals of the last week unscathed. Hawk smiled to himself, coupling the action with a small chuckle that hurt his chest when it escaped. It was that carefully controlled kind of hysteria, where he knew that he must be going mad but found comfort in the fact that so was the rest of the world. He had lost everything in the course of less than a day, and now here he was, giggling and laughing and thinking about how weird the owner of the ship had acted.
The desert heat must have gone straight to his brain.
Hawk's inappropriate stress response passed quickly enough, and he looked around the dimly lit cabin to keep his mind off of the Thieves' Guild. It was small and cramped here, barely big enough for the bed and a tiny round table that had been pushed off into the other corner of the rectangular room. There was an oil lamp on the table, the source of the room's light. The floor and walls were clean though, and Hawk thought that it was a nice touch. He got up and hobbled over to the lamp, blowing it out and waiting a moment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
He made his way back to the bed slowly, letting his hands guide him as he crawled on top of the thin sheets until he was lying prone, face pressed into the old pillow. Hawk rolled over, trying to ignore the sharp stabs of pain as he lay on half-healed wounds. With aching hands still clutching the hilts of his daggers beneath the many folds and hangs of his layered shirts, he closed his eyes. He needed to rest now, now that he finally had the chance, and not worry about what was happening in places where he could do nothing. Whatever sick schemes that Isabella woman had planned would need time to prepare; she would need to take Sultan and flex the military arm of the newly formed Navarren kingdom here before she led an invasion on another continent. Somehow, that was reassuring to know.
In the meantime, while she was being a brainwashing bitch, Hawk would travel to Jad by ship, and then make the four day trip on foot to Wendell. He was confident that he could walk it in two, maybe three at the most provided that he was fully healed by the time of his arrival. But that was weeks away, and he had nothing better to do than wait.
His mind wandered back to the sand fortress, to his blood-brother and the friends he had left behind when he made his escape almost a week ago. He thought about Eagle, about the older thief's cunning grins and thoughtful expressions; thought about Eagle's face twisted in pain, and one of Hawk's own daggers embedded deep in his chest. Hawk shuddered, trying to force the image of his blood-brother's death from his mind. But it would not leave. Eagle's blood flecking his face as the man coughed, clutching his upper arms as he fell to the ground. His eyes had been locked open in death.
That was when the guards had rushed in. That was the scene that awaited their eyes, the sound of the Flame Khan's labored breathing and Isabella's hysterical tears falling numbly on their ears. Hawk had pleaded with them to listen to him, sworn that it was not what it looked like. But they had taken him away, stripped him of his weapons and dragged him down to the cells beneath the fortress. They had beaten him, and left him blacking in and out of consciousness.
Soon after, Isabella had visited him, the false tears and pretend fear replaced by a smug confidence and cultist fanaticism. She really was a crazy monster, he had thought at the time as she laughed, telling him that he would soon die and join his precious friend. Isabella had giggled girlishly, had brought a hand to her mouth and fidgeted like some love-struck fool as she informed him that everything was going exactly as planned, and oh, how it was such a shame that he would not be alive to witness all the glory of the upcoming kingdom. She warned him to watch his tongue and left, still slightly euphoric but quickly regaining her composure.
And then Jessica had arrived.
Sweet, wonderful, beautiful Jessica. . .she had held the bars of the cell and cried, had begged him to tell her that he had not murdered her brother. Murdered. . .it was such a harsh word to hear coming from her pretty mouth. She had begged him to tell her that it was all not true, and that there had been some kind of mistake. He had been going to tell her, had been going to disclose anything in order calm her down and get that horrified look off her face, but he remembered what Isabella had said just before she left:
If you tell anyone, you can say good-bye to dear Jessica. . .as long as you are silent, she is safe. . .
He could not lie, and so he said nothing. She left sobbing uncontrollably, running blindly from the jail. Hawk had felt like a coward then, had wanted nothing more than to give up and let himself die. But he had promised Eagle once, a long time ago, that he would take care of Jessica if anything happened to her real brother. And besides, he still had a shred of that convoluted thief pride of his. He would not allow himself to stay captured for long.
It had been his other blood-brother's genius that allowed him to escape. The merchant-cat Nikita had broken him out and helped him flee the fortress, had done it all with ears twitching apprehensively and tail swishing nervously. Hawk had not spoken as they hurried through the underground passageways that littered the underside of the sand fortress. Nikita had smiled at him just outside the gates, had pressed a few days supply of water and rations into his shaking hands and told him not to worry. When Hawk saw the familiar handles of his daggers, Eagle's blood cold and dry but still covering the blades, he had sought the answers in those feline eyes.
I don't know what happened, bro, but I trust you, and that's all I need to know.
They had exchanged a hurried embrace, and then Hawk had escaped to the desert, heading for Sultan. It was while he was running that he had formed his plan to go to Wendell. Isabella used a strange magic that he had never even heard of before. Mind control, brain-washing? What kind of trickery was that? Whatever witchcraft it was, he knew that it was not something that he could deal with alone. He was hoping the Priest of Light, in Wendell, would have at least some of the answers.
So, he let himself fall into a fitful and light slumber, trying not to think of what he would do if the Priest could not help him.
He had never felt quite so alone before. The young prince looked up at the cold dark walls of the castle-fortress with a strange new sense of foreboding. Two years ago he had lived there, had run through those dimly lit halls with that odd stomping gait of his, had hidden in the shadows and jumped out laughing at the guards in an attempt to scare them. It never worked of course; the guards were all hulking beasts and prowling wolves who probably could have smelled him from halfway across the Moonlight Forest. But that was two years ago, back when he had watched the king with an eager sort of pride from the sidelines and hung on his every word.
Back when he loved his people, and wanted to follow in his father's footsteps.
All that had changed now. Now, he felt sick walking up the steps and had to keep his mouth clamped shut when the guards acknowledged his passage for fear that the bile would spill out over his lips. It had come as a shock when he re-entered the capitol: he could not stand the sight or smell of the Beast Kingdom, could not stand the way that they lived. He hated the violent clamor that surrounded him in the city, haunting the crudely cobbled streets like angry wraiths. They were constantly moving; biting, kicking, howling as they tore into one another. As their Beastman blood got the better of them.
He hated it. He hated them. He hated the fact that now he was just like them, just another monster in the night, another nightmare that could not be escaped. Worse still, he realized that he was the only one in the kingdom who felt that way.
The young prince walked slowly up the steps of the castle-fortress, stopping at the second-story landing to glance behind, out over the tops of the surrounding forest. It felt like he was staring at the bars of a green cage, with the Moonreading Tower like a dark spike of dread in his heart. Why had the spirit Luna "blessed" them with the ability to transform? Why had Dolan's anger and cruelty been passed down into their blood? His head was swimming with theological questions, but knew that it would have been blasphemy to ask any of them. Two years ago, he had believed that they were still considered children of the moon and smiled upon by the Goddess. Now he knew from experience just how cursed they really were.
"Karl. . ." he murmured the name with a heavy sigh, watched the faint breeze carry it away into the night. The prince had given the name to a small wolf pup he had found in the darker recesses of the Moonlight Forest, whimpering next to the limp body of its mother. He had taken it as his own and stayed in the wilderness outside the capitol's walls to raise it. The name sounded human, not at all like it was given by one animal to another, and a tiny smile still sometimes crept onto his face when he thought of it. Karl was the reason why he felt so alone.
In the wide, innocent eyes of the wolf pup, he had finally found a sense of belonging, had finally had someone who understand what it was like to be outcast and alone. Neither had a mother, though sometimes the prince could not help but feel the twinge of jealousy. Karl had once had a mother, had once been loved and nurtured by her. The young prince had never had that. His mother. . .was a victim of violence, a human who was taken by the Beast King and then kept alive just long enough to give birth. He imagined that she had died of blood loss, crying while he clawed his way out of her fragile body like some demon crawling forth from the abyss.
He shuddered at the imagery.
"I. . .I swore to protect you, didn't I. . .?"
It was true. The young prince had sworn to Karl time and time again that he would protect him like his own son, would nurture and love him more than any mother ever could. Perhaps it was the Goddess's sense of irony at work that he had been the one to kill the pup in an animal rage, to tear the innocence from those eyes with slavering jaws.
Or maybe it was justice, a sick piece of his mind whispered to him, smugly adding, retribution for Dolan's crimes against her.
More likely though was that it was just his own tainted blood at work, the power and rage and death that came with being half-Beastman. The discovery of his ability to transform into the snarling hybrid monster had come with the ultimate price, and now Karl was dead, his tiny body buried beneath the feet of a statue in their favorite glade. Incredible strength had flowed through the young prince at that time, had ripped his body into pieces and forced him to fight as bloodlust clouded his vision. . .that memory would probably haunt him for the rest of his days.
As it was, he could still feel his teeth sinking into the loose skin at Karl's throat, could hear the growls die down to pitiful whimpers as blood pumped out of their wounds, staining the darkness of the forest with a vivid red. The prince could not help but hold back tears remembering the way that Karl licked at his bloodied hands when it was almost over, the way that the pup had whined softly during his last fleeting moments.
The prince had survived his rite of passage into adulthood, but by becoming one of them, he felt as though he had lost everything that truly mattered.
From somewhere to his left, he could hear the sounds of a hunting party getting ready, the shouts and heavy clang of armor breaking through his morose reverie. He turned towards the sound, brows knit in confusion. What was going on? Slowly, the young prince padded over to the door, pushing it open with his shoulder and slipping inside.
Standing at the head of a company of Beastmen in full battle regalia was the familiarly imposing figure of Lugar. Once, Lugar had been assigned as the prince's personal guardian, and the young prince had despised him ever since. Part of his fierce dislike for the older Beastman was rooted in the fact that the king had shown him a large amount of favor, a type of rough affection that the prince had never known. But that was only a tiny piece, he reassured himself. Most of his hatred stemmed from the knowledge that Lugar was bigger, stronger, faster, and a better military thinker than he would ever be, and was arrogant enough to rub it in his face every chance he got.
"By order of the Beast King, our war against the humans will commence immediately!" Lugar was barking the words, a cruel gleam in his eyes as he bared his teeth. "The day to exact our revenge on those miserable little flesh-sacks is at hand! No longer will they be able to hide behind their self-proclaimed 'superiority.' We are not slaves, not animals to be domesticated and used at their whims. Those filthy humans have gone unchecked for too long! Now is the time to show them that we will not tolerate the indignities any longer! They will pay for their crimes against our people in blood!"
Lugar had been a child during the Beast King's rebellion, had been one of the few from the icy lands of the Magic Kingdom Altena to escape their chains and make it to the boats. More than anyone else that the prince knew, Lugar had a reason behind his hatred, logic feeding his anger until it grew into the powerful monster that stood before him now. But he could never understand Lugar; could never know the pain and suffering of being a slave. The prince was born in the Moonlight Forest, born free into a dark world without sunlight where their culture and history could finally flourish after a thousand years of forced servitude.
The prince fell in next to another warrior at the back of the ranks, still close enough to the door that he could duck out if he was noticed. He recognized the slave brand on the older Beastman's arm, similar to Lugar's own but proclaiming that he had been from Byzel. For a moment, he wondered what the beast's name was, what strange sound the humans had thought of upon purchasing him; would it have been similar to Lugar's name, or something bland and inconspicuous? He knew better than to ask, instead tilting his head to whisper under the company's rousing cheers and Lugar's continued ranting.
"What's going on?"
"Eh? You haven't heard?" the warrior grinned, eyes focused on their leader as he replied. "Lugar's been chosen to lead an invasion force into human territory; first Jad, then Wendell. . .-" he paused, gaze flicking over to regard the young prince for a moment before returning. "-You're half, aren't you? Is that why you didn't volunteer?"
The young prince flinched at that, falling out of the formation to avoid answering. Besides, he would need to leave before Lugar spotted him and tried to forcibly conscript him into serving. Being under that Beast's thumb was the last thing he needed right now. The prince snuck out in the same fashion that he had entered as thoughts of Luna and the Goddess were pushed aside, his mind clouded with the uncertainty of war.
What did they need a war for, anyway? There was enough death and destruction in nature; the last thing their country needed was for half its populace to rush off to some distant lands, never to return. The prince may not have been a strategic mastermind, but he was not a fool. He could not bring himself to believe that the king was one, either.
Then again, they were nothing more than animals sometimes, he thought bitterly, and Lugar's speech on vengeance would be enough for the entire country to arm itself and march out. He would not put it past his father to start a war over the past, but he needed to know for himself. Were they all just animals? The derogatory term for his people stung when he used it, the brand injuring his natural pride. Or was there some kind of. . .of carefully thought out plan that went with this war? Only one Beast could possible know.
With that, he took off up the steps to the throne room in search of answers.
"The Beast King isn't here," replied the guard when the prince questioned him, coupling the explanation with a shrug. "He left to talk to some foreigner."
The prince sighed, heading back down the steps. What was the capital coming to? First news of a war, and now the king had run off to spend time with a foreigner? Though not normally a xenophobe, the prince knew that there was no such thing as a foreign Beastman, regardless of where they came from. There was only one Beast Kingdom, and while the majority of the people there had been liberated from places like Byzel, Maia, Palo, and Jad, no one would have spoken of a freed Altenan or Navarren Beastman as a "foreigner."
"--magic pleases me," the low rumble of the king's voice came to him as a surprise, the line of dialogue incomplete and muffled through distance and some kind of barrier. The prince jerked at the sound, head snapping around to try to pinpoint the source, his furred ears – lupine in nature and located higher up on the sides of his head, normally hidden in the mess of his blond hair – swiveling when he found it. Without wasting any time, the prince rushed to the edge of the ramparts, leaning down over them to stare at the landing below. There, he could see the broad shoulders and wild grey mane of the Beast King, with a brightly colored figure kneeling in front of him. The prince strained to catch more of their conversation.
"As I said before, your highness: dark magic, at your beck and call!"
Dark magic?
"To think that you could bring out his potential like that. . .your work with the wolf pup was rather impressive. But now that my son can transform into a true werewolf, your job is done. Leave. Now."
"B-b-beg. . .beg your pardon, your highness?" the brightly colored figure lifted its head, revealing what might have been a human face beneath several layers of black and dark blue make-up, the area just around its eyes ringed in red. The figure stood as the Beast King began to walk away, hurrying to catch up with his long strides. "N-n. . .no, y-your highness!"
But the prince was not listening anymore. Your work with the wolf pup. . .his vision was starting to go dim, and he tightened his grip on the stone ramparts until his hands hurt and felt like they might split. The Beast King had used this bizarre foreigner to manipulate his beloved Karl, to infect him with its dark magic and turn them both into monsters.
The king was going to pay for this.
He hoisted himself over the ramparts with an angry shout, landing on the stones below in a crouch. White hot lances of pain shot up his legs, but he ignored them and ran after the two. He felt like his chest was shrinking, organs constricting and heart pounding against his ribcage. The short fur on his arms was standing on end, and he could feel the skin of his face pulling forward, the fragile bones popping and stretching as it elongated into a decidedly wolfish snout.
"BEAST KING!" he roared the title as he lunged for the monarch, nails shifting into ragged claws that connected with the king's billowing blue cape. The Beast King turned as though responding to the buzzing of an irritating insect while the foreigner – whom the prince decided looked much like a dark jester up close – fell back against the wall, eyes wide and painted mouth contorted with fear at the sight of the enraged and half-transformed prince. But the Beast King only laughed at the sight.
"Ah. . .yes," there was a smile on his lupine face, almost lost beneath his bushy grey beard. It was an odd sight, partially because wolves were never meant to smile. "You truly are my son: the blood of the Beast runs strong in you. Never forget who you are, or where you come from--"
"SHUT UP!" the prince snarled, taking a swing at his father. He did not feel like listening to another lecture. The Beast King caught the punch easily, that amused expression replaced by a flat look of annoyance. He twisted the prince's arm until the boy felt it snap just above his elbow, a howl of pain escaping him.
"Don't even try it," the Beast King said, pushing the boy back against the ramparts and watching as his son doubled over his broken arm. He stalked towards the prince, their gazes locking for a moment. Perhaps the Beast King saw the utter loathing burning in his son's eyes, could see the fear and intelligence trying to hide behind the bloodlust instilled by the change. As it was, he placed one large hand on his son's neck, forcing the boy to lean backwards over the edge of the wall as he tightened his grip ever so slowly. The prince made a low gurgling sound in the back of his throat, choking. He was trying to say something, but between the transformation and the monarch's apathetic strangle-hold, it seemed unlikely that he would be able to get any words out. "What it is, my boy?"
The king tilted his head to one side slightly, listening without expecting to hear anything. But the prince was far more tenacious than the king gave him credit for:
"N. . .N-not. . .m-my. . .FATHER!" he roared the last word, and with a surge of strength pushed the Beast King back a step. All his strength, all the power the half-change had granted him, and he could only manage one step. At that moment they both knew how weak he was, both knew that he would lose. But the prince made to straighten anyway. He was going to stand his ground and fight the hopeless battle.
The Beast King hit him, once, full in the face. The prince felt the force of the blow travel up his snout, fragile bones shattering like glass beneath his skin. Suddenly he could not smell anything, and his vision seemed to dim and blacken around the edges. He stumbled to the side, swaying unsteadily as he tried to fight off the crippling pain. The prince was certain that he needed only a moment to gather his composure, but the king would not give him that.
He felt his father lift him from the stones by the lapels of his vest, the stronger beast holding him over the edge of the wall, the prince's pawed feet dangling helplessly in the air. Nonetheless, the prince kicked and struggled against the hands that held him, trying to twist his neck to bite the monarch's fingers. He heard someone screaming from far away, heard someone cursing in a high-pitched, panicked cry that cracked and hurt his sensitive ears. Only when his father shook him into silence did he realize that the terrified little voice was his own.
". . .You're such a fool."
The Beast King released him and the prince felt himself falling, the forest floor rushing up to meet him. He was going to die, and he knew it. The last thing that flashed before his eyes was the look of sadness that had been in his father's eyes when he let go. The prince briefly wondered why.
Then, there was blissfully nothing, and he succumbed to darkness. He hit the ground with a sickening thud of splintering bone and burst organs, blood pooling out around his mangled body.
Duran was relatively tall for his age, with the same broad shoulders and muscular arms as his father. He had once been told that he even had his father's hearty laugh and volatile temper, but those were things that he would not have known. Try as he might Duran could not remember the details about his father that would have made him a man; a human being in place of the myth that he had grown to become. He knew that his father was a mighty warrior under the King's command, a legend that all of Forcena respected. His own memories of the man were hazy along the edges, wrought with childlike awe that made his father appear larger than life and without fault or weakness. He was old enough now to understand that the image he had created in place of his father was skewed and that his perceptions had been completely biased in the man's favor. But what did that knowledge matter now?
The knight who sired him had been dead for years.
"Duran, you're up next," the boyishly high voice of a squire to his left cut through his thoughts, forcing him back into the real world. Slowly Duran lifted his head, dragging his vision up from the stone floor of the waiting area. The boy was standing by the exit, head turned to regard something outside of the room, wringing his hands with excitement. Duran snorted faintly; it was probably the boy's first time at the tournament. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, he silently countered, reminding himself that this was his first year entering. The swordsmanship tournament was held once every spring in the castle's royal arena, and while Duran had been of age as of two summers ago there had always been something in the way of his registration. First it had been the registration fee, and then, his younger sister had fallen ill and he had withdrawn to take care of her.
"Go show 'em what you're made of out there!"
The young man stood, fidgeting nervously with his visor under the pretense of securing it. Grabbing his sword from where it had been resting next to him, Duran gave the squire a curt nod and headed out. He could not see the high walls of the arena yet, only a blinding light at the end of the dimly lit corridor, but he could feel and hear it all around him. The sound of the crowd cheering in the stands was deafening as thousands of brawny men and women screamed praise and obscenities at their champions and challengers. He could feel the walls shudder with the stomping of heavy boots, mimicking the steady beat of his heart. This year he was the rookie, the green-around-the-edges mercenary who challenged Forcena's champion.
Duran knew the man who had won the tournament last year, a monstrous individual wielding a heavy two-handed blade. The man went by the alias "Bruiser," which was quite fitting when the young man stopped to think about it. Since the tournament was based around the concept of non-lethal force and the strength of mercy, neither would be using the edges of their weapons. One look at the broad side of that sword, though, and Duran knew that he would have the most impressive sets of bruises anyone had ever seen. That was of course if the intensity and momentum behind the blow were not enough to shatter his bones and split his skin from the force of impact, which was highly unlikely. Perhaps if he. . . Duran narrowed his eyes, brows knit together in thought as he lengthened his stride.
He had not come this far because he carefully analyzed his opponents, considering the best method to exploit their shortcomings. His strength, the raw power and almost brutish tenacity that had been bred into him down a long line of accomplished swordsmen, had gotten him to the final round of the tournament. He was here not because of strategy, but because he had virtue; he was here because he believed in the strength that his father had given him. Duran did not need a plan of action, did not need to stop and think about how his opponent would try to fight. All that Duran needed was his blade.
The tightness that had been growing in his chest melted beneath his armor as he stepped out into the sunlight with his head held high. All around him, he could feel the energy of the people of Forcena like it was a living thing, like it was somehow tangible as it swept across the sandy ground and flowed into him. It set his blood on fire, left him grinning and breathless as he turned, trying to keep the wonder and his own idealistic nature from his eyes as he surveyed the stands. He did not hear the announcer introduce him as his father's son, did not care that his name was buried under the jubilant cries for the lost knight. For now, this was enough. There would come a day when his victories would be his own, when his own name would be enough to rile such fierce pride and loyalty. He could live in his father's shadow until then.
Bruiser took a step towards him, planting the tip of his sword down in the sandy ground and leaning forward on it with a condescending sneer. At the moment he had the visor of his helmet flipped up, waiting for the announcer to finish and the battle to start. "I hope you like second place, little boy," the older man called out to him over the roar of the crowd. "Because I don't care whose son you are: you can't win on a name alone."
Duran opened his mouth to bark an angry reply, but before he could get the words past his lips, he heard the announcer shout:
"Let the battle. . .BEGIN!"
