Author's Note

This document will be released in multiple chapters. Many of them will contain spoilers or will contain content that may not make sense to the reader unless they have played Final Fantasy XII. I am particularly interested in criticism concerning how I voice Fran, and represent her thoughts and motivations. This Prologue is an excellent place to start before I get too far into this. I have rated this 'M' because I will touch upon adult themes, and the language can be coarse.

The Prologue takes place 35 years before the events of the main storyline. Each subsequent chapter will contain a separate time reference. They will be self-contained and chronologically ordered. If you were to jump ahead to a later chapter, you might find Fran acting out of character. I hope that by reading these stories in order, your opinion will change on that matter.

Prologue

Fran sat in a rattan chair beneath an awning in an outdoor bar. The desert evening fast approached and the wind whips that blasted sand everywhere. Across from her, a Nu Mou of some years is perched upon an extra helping of cushions, so they might converse more naturally.

His name is Izlude. He was quite difficult to track down, for there were no official records at all of Fran's birth. A remarkable occurance if she merely discovered her birthplace, never mind the attending physician. It required nearly three years of on and off searching, research, and interviews... she must have spoken to every nurse and midwife in the entire Rozzarian province of Al Dawhah.

"Here's something you must understand," Izlude began, "your mother was a fighter."

He takes a sip of a dark wine, pausing to choose his words. "Forty years ago we didn't have caesarian section, and our healing magic was not nuanced enough to handle her complications."

Fran furrowed her brow slightly with confusion. "But... internal bleeding was not a fatal injury, not even then."

Izlude sighed. "Childbirth is a natural process. Our magic was, at the time, too primitive to 'correct' it. The white magic had ancient origins and it was not well understood. I did everything I could, you know, to keep her concious. To let her hold Mjrn for a while... to--" He trailed off, and massaged his temples with his free hand. "She wouldn't even take a sedative. A fighter..."

Fran knew he was trying not to cry. Over the years, he mastered the delivery of heartbreaking news with a compassionate, yet unmoved face. It was for the loved ones to emote, and for him to knowingly console. Yet Fran didn't feel moved, not even a bit sad. Instead she felt empty, having gotten to this point, now knowing that her own mother was just as stubborn as she was.

It wasn't where she chose to give birth that contributed to her death. Nor was it the doctor's fault. This Nu Mou knew more Vieran physiology than the eldest Salve-maker in Eryut. No Jote, it seems she died exactly where she damn well pleased. At this, thoughts of her own eventual mortality loomed close in her mind, and she decided to change the subject.

"So who was the father?"

This sudden question surprised the Nu Mou, who took another drink and slowly replied, "You mean you managed to find me and yet you don't know?" He studied her for a moment, and then a mischievious grin crept across his face. He wiped away a stray tear from the corner of his eye. "Don't you mean: Who was my father? That's really why you're here."

"I did plan on asking you. I have yet to be given a straight answer to that question. Rumor and intrigue. Useless."

"Fran, I wasn't your mother's doctor. I was called in because I was once a personal physician for Duke el-Nawfal, and because I had a specialty in the physiology of multiple races."

A look of confusion, then horror crossed Fran's face. "Multiple..."

"Fran, the late and most honorable el-Nawfal of the House of Margrace is your father. You were raised but a few miles from here, by your older sister if I remember correctly, what was her name?"

"Jote," she answered slowly.

"But I don't imagine you remember any of that, otherwise we wouldn't be sitting here now, would we?"

Fran put up her hands in protest. "Wait. How can that be possible? I uh ... " Fran's speech became colloquial as she tried to concentrate, and remember the time before the Wood. She muttered quietly to herself, "The earliest I remember was a -- a, um -- a ranch, but I thought that was just outside the Golmore in Bancour? Jote said we raised livestock."

"Well you were not yet ten years old." Izlude offered. "And your parents were often away on diplomatic business, so I doubt they took you many places in the province that would leave a distinct impression."

But by now, Fran was frustrated. Especially with Jote. Why would she lie to her? Did this mean she was ... no, the Gods would forbid it.

"But I couldn't be related to el-Nawfal," she protested, "because then I would be part Hume, right? Look!" She stood up, then raised herself on tiptoe, turned profile, and sat back down again. She relaxed and straightened her fur be-speckled ears for effect.

Izlude's knowing smile returned again and grew wider still. Fran crossed her arms and glared at him, her amber eyes burning holes into his bald head. "Oh I can see, you are most certainly Viera," he chuckled, "Quite. But let me answer your question with another. Why is it you think there are no male Viera?"

Fran blushed, if only for a brief moment, then added: "I've seen them. At the Fertility Rite."

"Did you participate?"

"No... " she trailed off.

"It wouldn't have mattered. Didn't seem to contribute to any blessed events in your village anyway, did it?"

She didn't have to reply. He was telling her what she already knew in her heart. She suspected that other mysterious forces were at work, and that coupling with the odd male their tribe produced was some archaic custom they still practiced ... it horrified her to think they would be encouraged at times to engage in behavior befitting of feybeasts.

"Oh no, I know what you're thinking. But you don't sprout fully formed out of the ground either. The issue is that male Viera are sterile. Actually, they're what we call an abnormal karotype." He could see Fran didn't understand what he meant, so he continued, "...and if you haven't noticed, there aren't any female Nu Mou to speak of either."

Fran leaned forward, and pointed at him. "So what you're trying to say is ... we're the same, just different... sexes." She leaned back in her chair and eyed him carefully. "Is that some kind of pickup line?"

"Ha! No... at least, it never worked. But you must believe me, it's the truth. And I've yet to factor in the Humes in my explanation." Fran put her chin on her hand, her elbow braced by the chair. This conversation had become quite strange, but she considered the time she spent searching for this person, and found renewed patience to withhold judgment. She motioned for him to continue.

"Ahem. According to the latest studies by natural philosophers on Ivalian races, Nu Mou, Viera, Humes, and we suspect, the Rebe, are all closely related, if not the same specices. Of particular note, we all have the same number of vertebrae, teeth, and digits. It also seems that these variations developed independently and only continue to exist as separate races because these features cannot be co-expressed."

"Meaning..."

"You don't cross a Hume and Viera and get something in-between. You get one, or the other."

Izlude shifted upon his cushions, and swirled his drink. He continued, "So you know those stories, the same ones I remember you sister telling me, about the girls who left the Wood, who got 'attacked' by vagabonds or what-have-you, then came back under Her Boughs and were in turn blessed by the wood for their new-found humility? Well now I think you can guess what that little euphemism's about." He smiled at his own wry comment.

It was at this point that Fran felt quite ill. She staggered away from Izlude and the bar, and braced herself against an errant palm tree. Between fits of coughing and dry heaving, she moaned epitaths against the gods, her people, Jote, anyone she could think of. She squeezed her eyes closed, tight, until spots appeared swirling like the nausea in her stomach. When she opened them she saw Izlude looking up at her, concerned.

"Fran... hey, are you okay there? I ... I am so sorry. I didn't realize you didn't know about any of that."

But she had some notion. The Veena holing themselves up in the forest greatly troubled her, only she couldn't figure out why. It made sense now; they were trying to enforce a combination of cultural and blood purity. It was not the idea that repulsed her, nor the implications of her deception, but that it was happening right in her midst. That the evidence was right in front of her and she didn't make the mental leap to put the pieces together. That her own sister would lie to her to protect her cult, and to provide consistency among her adherents.

And that after all the significant conversations she had with Viera-Raka, Nu Mou, and the Humes of free places; after all the jabs about family that she dodged; after all the jokes and cryptic comments that flew over her head... she was not liberated by this revelation. Instead she felt an utter fool. There was no way to appropriately address how she felt.

"Move. Or I'm going to vomit all over you."

Izlude hurried away to the bar to get her a glass of water and some napkins just in case.