It was only midday when the call came through the house, upsetting the peaceful atmosphere and dropping the staff into mournful shuffling around the vaulted manor. After living a long and valorous life spent in dedication to the Kingdom of Dalmasca; General York Azelas was dying.
The massive curtains of the bedchamber were thrown open, giving a wide and truly awe inspiring view of the Rabanstre gardens; awash in color from blossoming flowers and hanging trees. Graceful arching trellis bordered a small pool, lilies and cattails swaying in the cool spring breeze in an atmosphere that would have been welcoming and tempting to any person indoors. Indeed, several members of the house staff had ventured outside to try and escape the pressing atmosphere of dismay and loss that bogged the house down into awkward and unyielding silence. On the other side of the window, the world beckoned and blossomed with new life. Inside was another matter; the room was stifling hot with the scent of sweat and the cloying perfume of flowers grouped in large urns about the room. Even the bright colors failed to lighten the atmosphere of fading life that filled the wood paneled walls. The sunlight cut wide arches onto the floor and dust drifted lazily through the golden streamers as if everything in the world had slowed to a crawling pace. Tied back into place with thick cords of woven fabric; the heavy curtains seemed portals to a better place.
The furniture that adorned the room was stiffly proper, high backed chairs with meager padding in rich reds and blues that seemed to skillfully fit the resounding pattern through the chamber; high ceilings and glorious tapestries depicting battles won and valorous knights astride gild chocobos. Suits of gleaming plate mail and polished chain draped from realistic figures spaced about the room, blank faces hidden by helms of all sorts and each clasping a gleaming piece of weaponry. It was as if there was a constant guard; like Knights in solemn sentry of their King.
Most days, Vossler loved to stand centered on the thick rug that covered the floor of his father's room and look at the tapestries, imagining himself one of the gallant warriors charging to battle on the back of a grandly armored chocobo. Other days he would silently try and remove the gleaming helms from the statues to place the oversized armor atop his boyish head. Even though he had to awkwardly tilt his head to see out of the slits and slashes made for sight in the wide metal visors it mattered little and he played at knight; standing at the end of the row of silent sentries in their lustrous plate mail and archaic weaponry and remaining impressively quiet and reverent until his little boy fidgeting took command and he was imagining himself adventurous and acting out victorious battles against giants, against dragons. In one such imagined confrontation he achieved single-handed victory against the massed forces of Rozzaria; peaceful though they were toward Dalmasca. Occasionally his father would see him there, staring in muted awe at the depictions of glory and he would take him onto his strong knee and regale him with tales of valor that left the boy gaping in wide eyed and innocent wonder.
Today was different though, Vossler stood encouragingly at his father's side. Years of Knighthood and hard combat had taken their toll upon the Dalmascan General and as Vossler watched in terrified silence his father seemed to sink further into the bed he'd been bound to for the last several weeks. York Azelas had once commanded a presence in the household that was reserved to giants; powerful and generous and everything a knight should have and could ever have been. The man had commanded armies against powerful foes, had led thousands of troops and earned the praise of the King himself. And now the old knight could scarce lift his head from the pillow. Seeing his father in that condition was something the young boy had never been prepared for. York Azelas had seemed invincible and unbreakable, a man that would go down valiantly in battle with the broken bodies of his rivals scattered at his feet. That had been an eventuality that Vossler had been well groomed to accept ever since he could understand such things as life and death. And so accepting his father going down fighting was something he could do. Seeing the powerful figure that he had once been dwindle and fade into nothing was hard. Very hard
"Son." Vossler nearly jumped at his father's words and reached out to take the withered hand that at one point in the old knight's life could have crushed bone. Now his grip was like the flutter of bird wings and Vossler gripped instinctively tighter, sensing his father was pulling away in a manner less than physical. There was honor etched into the hard planes of the general's face; in his dark and weathered skin with it's decoration of battle scars and a bristling of snowy whiskers that bordered the determined line of his jaw. Though old, his father's hair was stubbornly dark and going regally white at the temples. "It pains me that you must witness my downfall as such. But bravery comes to us all in strange forms and in this, I know that you shall be brave." With watery, dark eyes York Azelas found his sons gaze; it was painfully uncertain though he could tell the boy was trying to be brave. The old knight smiled and drew a breath. "You ought not fear this, Vossler. All men, courageous and craven alike must face their eventual end. By facing it with dignity do we find strength. Strength to give to those that survive us in times of hardship such as this." Vossler swallowed hard and edged his slight form closer to the bed.
"Do not fear. Yours is a blood in which runs an honorable and undying legacy, Vossler York Azelas." There was a reverent weight to his fathers papery words; his voice like a whisper as he shifted his frail body. "Before me, my father was a Knight of Dalmasca. And before him, his father served faithfully and loyally. Ours is a lineage of service to the crown and protection of her people, Vossler. There is nothing more courageous and nothing more worthy than protecting another. Be it but one man, or a kingdom of faithful. I pray that you will understand this as you age, Son. It is in your blood to become a Knight and this path I urge upon you so that you may bring honor to yourself Vossler, and to your family."
There was a slow hush that fell over the room and Vossler stared with youthful intensity at the fading life before him. For a moment he imagined that was the last that his father had to say to him. But as he began to release the grip he had maintained so devotedly on his father's hand, the old knight's fingers closed tightly around his own and Vossler was once again drawn to his cloudy eyes.
"The Azelas family has a proud history that you will become a part of, Vossler. We have served Kingdoms and protected Kings for generations. For centuries we have safeguarded Dalmasca's rulers and before that, Rozzarian royalty. It is not lightly that I tell you this, for it is a long and perilous road to Knighthood and though I wish for your own greatness, the responsibility and the right falls solely on your shoulders." His words held the guarded weight that may have been the first stones to bend the boy's back and crack his resolve, making him wary and fearful of the path he had been set to follow. But it didn't. Instead, the boy that stood at his father's deathbed found a certain strength and encouragement in the words of the dying knight and squared his shoulders stiffly back.
"I'll be a knight like you." Vossler insisted, his dark eyes shining with an eager edge that brought a weak but heartfelt smile to his father's lips. So many times he had seen the same look in the eyes of young soldiers and prospective squires. But it often led to a hard disappointment and even in the best of careers; a life spent destroying your own body to defend that of your kingdom. Concern filled the knight's eyes but was quickly overshadowed by the immense pride he felt in his son, a brave boy ready to take the responsibility of a kingdom settled across his narrow shoulders.
"Be brave, Vossler, for that is all that I ask of you. Do what is right for the people of Dalmasca, for they are the reason a knight risks himself in battle. The protection of a King or a Queen is vitally important, but pales in the protection of a people. Defend those who cannot defend themselves, Son. Fight on the behalf of those unable to do it on their own." Speaking of the honor of knighthood seemed to bring renewed strength to the old general and for a moment Vossler was also caught up in the glory of his father's past; his eyes wide and sharp as his father painted a portrait of a just and noble life. "Tell me, Vossler, the road is long and hard and though I know you are but a child now, with my passing you will be the man of the manor. Will you do this for me and defend Dalmasca now that I no longer have the strength?"
There was no hesitation in Vossler's response; his voice shrill and excited as he piped out a very sincere and very honest "Yes!" Abashed by his own outburst, the child ducked his head to cover the momentary flush of color that rose to his cheek before fixing his father once more with an earnest look. "Yes, Father. I'll protect Dalmasca."
"Good.. good." Letting out a contented sigh, York Azelas let his head sink further into the soft pillow and smiled faintly. "There are important things you would do well to remember. Be loyal, Vossler, to your comrades and to your command. You will lose friends to the sweeping tide of battle, but do what you can to protect them and keep them safe. Complete your duties and your missions, never give in to failure. Be honorable. Be sound in your judgment and above all, you must absolutely never let the people fall to harm. We are here to protect innocents. Remember that."
"I promise, Father." At his response, York fell quiet and nodded his head. There was pride in the man's eyes as he looked at the strength of his son beside him. Pride, not only of a father, but of a leader of men. His son would make something of himself and of the Azelas line. He was sure of it.
"Good boy." Slowly exhaling, he closed his eyes and mustered the energy to give his son's fingers a squeeze. "Good boy." And his son watched as his father's features went slack in sleep, the hard lines of his face giving way to something Vossler rarely saw on his father's features: peace. It was a long time of standing faithfully beside his father's bed that he realized the old knight's chest no longer rose and fell beneath the intricately patterned blankets of his bed. Eyes widening in sudden and horrific realization, Vossler grabbed tightly to his fathers hand even though he knew it was far too late to say his goodbyes. Though it was kept to a solemn whisper, his voice seemed strangely loud in the silent and peaceful room.
"Goodbye Father." General York Azelas of the Knight's Order of Dalmasca was dead. Vossler, now the man of the Azelas family line at the tender age of seven years, shed no tears.
The name of Azelas earned him automatic acceptance into the Rabanastre Arms Academy; a head start at the necessary training to become an elite fighter. The Academy offered tutelage in the art of war, strategy and command to those who would eventually come to need it. It was not an institute easy to access. But it was a head start; an edge and all that Vossler felt he needed at that time in his life. Feeling that the home he left was no longer a home at all, he left it to the care and control of the staff, packed his things and departed under the careful guidance of the Azelas steward.. At seven years of age, he knew where he needed to be and what needed to be done. Though somebody of his meager years was ruthlessly measured before they could become part of such a prestigious establishment, his noble family name and his earnest nature and dignity far surpassing his age earned him entrance.
And so his training began. The path to knighthood was set, and the torch was passed.