Author's Note: this is a mostly canon-compliant attempt at a novelisation of Final Fantasy XII. For details about my headcanon, see my profile.
I've planned the entire novelisation. Though I originally started at Chapter 20 - wherein the party depart Rabanastre for the Tomb of Raithwall - I am now ready to start at the beginning, which is a very good place to start.
This chapter details the prologue of Final Fantasy XII, where Reks joins Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg's battalion to halt the invasion of Nalbina Fortress. I have made conscious efforts to develop the setting such that the reader requires not having played Final Fantasy XII; fanfiction usually assumes the reader knows the setting and metaphysics of the original work, but I want to avoid that here so that the work stands alone.
Rating: T (violence, blood, gore, adult themes, light Basch/Vossler shipping)
Chapter 1: Kingdom
704 Old Valendian, 26th day of Taurus
Reks' mouth was sticky with dehydration. Eyes screwed shut, the cold night air chilling his sweat-covered brow, stinking of defeat, he was on all fours on the rough stone ground, his leather half-gloves scuffed and torn, his greaves grinding against the grit, his ash-blond hair in his face.
"You there."
A rough, husky, low voice called from ten yards away. A voice urgent but not harsh. A voice he recognised. It echoed in his head, aching with heaviness. This couldn't be happening.
"It's as I feared. They're slowing us down."
This voice was a little higher, clipped, curt. This voice he too recognised but with less familiarity. This couldn't be happening.
Reks opened his eyes just a fraction, letting the orange glow of the burning lanterns outside the fortress invade him.
"Do not say that, Vossler. Not all of us are here for love of battle." The first voice again.
Captain Basch, Reks thought.
"He fights to defend his homeland," said Captain Basch, words carried away by the southeasterly wind, hundreds of miles, into the nether.
The clinking of armour hailed Vossler's frustrated departure from the scene. Reks opened his eyes fully, then saw the blood on the ground.
My blood?
His forehead felt wet. Still on all fours, he wiped his forehead with the back of his left hand, then saw it shine deep scarlet on the brown leather.
Yeah, my blood. He mentally recited the incantation for a healing spell.
"Your name?" Captain Basch, thirty-four, but with the paternal warmth and patience of a man twenty years senior, approached and knelt by his side, watching the white shimmery glow of Cure magick – the lowest-level healing magick, but quick, efficient, and enough for a cut forehead – burst forth from Reks' left hand, the size of a fist, then gently fly right back into his injury, knitting the tissue back together with barely a scar.
"Reks, sir." Reks cleared his throat and wished for a drink. "My name's Reks."
"Good, Reks. You bore a few cuts, but you are still whole." Basch rose to stand and reached his hand out. "Well, can you stand?"
Reks grabbed it, Captain Basch wearing proper Giant's Gloves, the cold, unyielding metal befitting his rank and status. Captain Basch wore partial plate mail covering his torso, shoulders, elbows, and lap, affixed to soft brown leather. It covered a green tunic, and hung over red-and-tan linen shorts worn over navy leather trousers, terminating in steel greaves made of simple iron scuffed and scratched by desert sand and stone. He heaved Reks to standing.
"Good lad. Think you can fight?" Basch's tone was jovial but he was unsmiling, looking at Reks' short little sword. Barely more than a dagger, the sword was made of mass-produced mythril, given to all of the Dalmascan conscripts in the wake of the plague three years hence, because anything more was too much for Dalmasca's strained purse, and anything more was too much for beginners' swordplay.
"I'm fine, sir." Reks brushed himself off and adjusted his leg armour. The thigh section was latticed, chromed leathers, fastened with metal studs, providing little protection against close-quarters combat against piercing weapons like knives and daggers, which would carve his desert-tanned skin to bits. The knee and calf section was cheap iron with a miserable attempt at ornamentation. Above it, he wore a leather-and-iron cingulum belt around his waist with thick straps hanging down; a braided hessian waistbelt fastened with a titanium buckle; a brown leather pauldron covering his shoulders and chest, with a lapis brooch over the sternum; bits and pieces of steel armour around his neck, and over his arms. It matched, fortunately, but it left his midsection and neck completely unprotected.
It was piecemeal, completely unsuited for combat against their foe, but it was what was left over after all the rest had fallen.
Basch and Reks walked to the metal gate allowing them entry to Nalbina Fortress. "How old are you, Reks?" Basch inquired, looking through the gate, a guard under his command standing at its side, saluting quickly.
"Seventeen, sir."
"Young." Basch frowned. "Family?"
"My brother is all I have left, sir. He's two years younger than I, living in Rabanastre."
"So young." Basch peered through the metal gate. The guard had the keys on his waist, but they dared not enter unless absolutely vital, for the gate's hinges were enchanted; if the gate opened at this time, it would sound the alarm and announce their presence to the Archadians stationed inside.
"You're barely old enough to be a man. You shouldn't be forced to wield a sword-"
"No, sir!" Reks looked right at Basch, indignant. Basch turned to face Reks, amused, concerned. "I want to fight. For my homeland, and for my parents." Basch nodded, forlorn.
From the other side of the North Ward came Vossler, brow furrowed, greatsword magnetically strapped to his broad shoulders. The greatsword, so named Nightmare, had a reputation wider than the man who wielded it effortlessly and brutally.
"It's time, Basch!" Vossler pushed Reks aside. "Save the discussion for later. We must reach the king before they act, or all our efforts will be in vain."
"I'm aware of the situation," Basch said mildly and raised his hand in the signal for his soldiers to converge on his position. Vossler did the same. In just a moment, fifteen men gathered around them, Basch's men on one side, Vossler's on the other. As Captains of the Royal Dalmascan Army, in their desperate final mission to prevent their King from signing away their homeland to the Archadian Empire, they would have each commanded a battalion of up to sixty men in full engagement.
Now, Basch had eight, and Vossler seven. Their own commanding officers were all slain, captured, or spirited away. Major Agilmar, Basch's mentor, a skilled archer, immolated by an Archadian Magus' fire magick. Colonel Gordan, commander of the Royal Dalmascan Army 17th Mounted Group, a breeder of battle-ready chocobos par excellence, their large avian bodies, long necks, broad wings, and three-toed feet at the end of long cartilaginous legs carrying generations of Royal Dalmascan Army soldiers, lanced in the neck by an Archadian Hoplite. General Stojan, commander of the entire Royal Dalmascan Army, seventy-five years old, white-haired, with a precisely groomed goatee and the ear of King Raminas for thirty-two years – and sharing meals, as cousins, for twice that and some more – executed personally by Kindel Serpenas Solidor, the eldest son of the Archadian Emperor.
For all intents and purposes, Basch and Vossler, and their men, were the last men standing between Dalmascan sovereignty and Imperial conquest.
Addressing them all, Basch said firmly, "I cannot promise we will win. I am quite certain half of us will lay slain upon the ground between here and the Highhall, where His Majesty is now." Vossler's arms were folded, his eyes downcast. Reks looked hopeful. The rest of the soldiers, of various ages, with mismatched weapons, armour, experience, rank, and history, listened intently, though for most, a thicket of dread ensnaring their stomach dulled Basch's words. "But the people of Dalmasca, mourning the loss of the last heir to the throne, Her Royal Highness Ashelia B'-" Basch choked on his words, and closed his eyes, willing the tears to not flow, gods save him – "Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, are in danger of being crushed underfoot by the Empire." Basch and Vossler's men nodded sagely, their hands creeping towards their motley weapons, many in disrepair, most severely inferior to whatever the Empire would hand their greenest of conscripts.
"We must not fail them. We must not falter. We must needs hasten to King Raminas and free him from his captors. His chains may not be metal but they are still there, written in ink upon vellum, the Empire's agents of conquest overlooking with avarice. Our task is to enter the Highhall on the third floor of the fortress keep, and kill whoever is holding him there. Then we ought bring Vayne's head to his Lord Father's palace, casting ugly shadows over Archades, and write their terms of surrender."
If the night had not gone on too long, if there wasn't the stench of defeat in the air, if they had any energy left in their worn bodies, they would have whooped and ballyhooed in the name of Dalmasca. All Basch could ask for was their understanding and trust, and judging by the nodding of the fifteen men around them, he had it.
"Let us go," Vossler commanded. "1st Battalion, Azelas' Lions, primary offensive formation two yards before the gate. Godspeed," he said quietly to Basch, kissing him quickly on the cheek, and saluting, before assuming the position.
Basch hummed in response before addressing his own men. "2nd Battalion, Ronsenburg's Timberwolves, equal split infiltrating formation, either side of the gate."
The soldiers shuffled quickly into position. Vossler and his seven men formed into a narrow V-shape, with Vossler at the vanguard, his greatsword lifted high, grasping the hilt with both gloved hands, the blade facing forwards, and his seven men, numbering three knights wielding shortswords and shields, two black magi wielding rough wooden staves, one archer with a bow and a quiver of not enough arrows, and one shikari wielding a stubby dagger. Basch directed his eight men to split into two groups, lining up on either side of the gate inside the Fortress. On the right, two knights with shortswords but no shields, a white mage carrying a metal rod impregnated with whatever shards of magicite stone he found would enhance its range and strength, and a red mage carrying a mace stolen from an Archadian Judge. On the left, a soldier training as a ninja, carring a jagged knife in a backhand grip, an archer, a viking holding an axe in one hand and a tiny glass vial of the rage-inducing Bacchus' Wine in the other, and Reks, youngest of the lot.
"On my command, Captain Ronsenburg shall open the gate, triggering the alarm. 1st Battalion, give them hell, and charge directly to the Lower Apartments. Once the area is secure, Sergeant Weles will cast the signalling magick, and the 2nd Battalion will proceed to the Upper Apartments, while the 1st Battalion takes the hind guard. Once we are in the Upper Apartments, stay quiet. Whosoever survives, free His Majesty at any cost. Rendezvous in the Yardang Labyrinth in the Estersand." Then, allowing the soldiers little time to process his flood of commands, Vossler nodded to Basch, who carefully swung the wrought iron gate open, preparing for the klaxon to sound and the ornate circular stained glass window above the gate to glow crimson, heralding the beginning of the fight of their lives.
It didn't come. The only sound was the creaking of the gate, then the collective sigh as everyone released their gasp.
"1st Battalion, advance," Vossler commanded in hushed tones.
The eight in the 1st Battalion ran forward, up the stairs, and through the illuminated archway to enter the Nalbina Fortress' interior. The building through which they were passing was a stone curtain wall, ornately decorated, fifty yards in thickness, with residences and rooms inside. The countless windows and balconies facing out signified the places where the once-plentiful soldiers of the Nalbina Division, the civil workers of the city, and the members of the Royal Court and their staff, rested and worked. Ahead was a narrow bridge over a moat, and on the other side, the keep of the fortress, in which there lay more apartments and great rooms, and their destination, the Highhall, where the Crown had entertained dignitaries from lands beyond – their sister kingdom, Nabradia, the Empires of Archadia and Rozzaria, when they knew peace, and the Republic of Landis, when it stood proud – and formulated strategy to defend itself from extinction. Truly, Nalbina Fortress was a palace; though not as enchanting as the Royal Palace of Rabanastre, it was just as accommodating and enduring, and a worthy secondary residence for Royal House B'nargin, which had ruled the Kingdom of Dalmasca for more than a century past.
There was no Imperial presence there to meet them, though, as far as they could see. The bridge was dimly illuminated by thin vertical lanterns, from which a blue-white glow meekly emerged. The stone floor of the bridge bore no sign of the Imperials.
The 1st Battalion charged, but upon seeing no target to engage, slowed, then halted at Vossler's silent command. The 2nd Battalion crept in behind them. Basch commanded his men to halt, then walked forward to Vossler.
"Where are they?" Vossler murmured to Basch, who shook his head.
"There," Lieutenant Gajus, one of Vossler's black mages, pointed with his wooden staff into the darkness ahead.
A lone Archadian soldier, an Imperial Swordsman, in full plate armour, including a helmet and visor that fully covered his face, and wielding a gleaming iron sword and buckler, was spotted ahead. He walked down the length of the bridge, though upon spotting exactly who his foe – or foes – were, he walked with some greater hesitation.
With the kind of mirth and camaraderie that is only found when one is facing death, the Dalmascan soldiers began to chuckle at the sight. When the Imperial Swordsman stopped and assumed a clumsy battle stance fifteen yards away from them, unyielding, though clearly nervous, Vossler began to laugh uproariously.
"The Empire only could afford one soldier to face the last of Dalmasca?" He jeered, snapping Nightmare to its magnetic holder on his shoulders with a clang. "Pathetic. Gajus, use your magick, and put the invader out of his misery so we can get on with it."
Grinning, Gajus suggested, "I have a better idea, sir. Why don't we get the newest of our merry band of doomed bastards to have a crack?"
"Why not," Vossler agreed, whirling around to look for Reks' youthful face. "Have a stab at it, recruit."
"Emphasis on stab," another of Vossler's men added.
Reks looked to Basch, who glared at Vossler. "Really?" He mouthed silently, while Vossler put his hands on his hips and tilted his head at Reks. The rest of the men egged Reks on, and eventually the seventeen-year-old unsheathed his knife, to great cheer, and walked to the front of the mob.
"Go on, Reks!" One of Basch's men said. Basch rolled his eyes and silently unsheathed his mythril longsword, a rare thing, light and brutal, gifted to him upon his appointment to the Order of the Knights of Dalmasca. The last remaining sword Basch possessed, and the one he never intended to use in battle, the mythril being unable to be repaired if its edge be warped or marred by use.
Reks crept forward and stared down the Imperial. Eventually, after a weighty pause, with his brother on his mind, Reks charged and executed a vertical slash down at the Imperial. The Imperial blocked it with his shield and counterattacked with a stabbing thrust, which Reks dodged by spinning around, and countered with his own horizontal sweep. It clanged against the fauld, the part of the armour protecting the Archadian's waist, but made a serious dent, and knocked the soldier back a few paces. Emboldened, Reks prepared Fire magick, a little ball of flame held in his hand, and thrust it at the Archadian as he moved to get up. It hit true, knocking the Archadian down once more. Reks' compatriots yelled and shouted loudly in encouragement.
Reks moved to disarm his target, waving the smoke of the smouldering armour out of his face. The Imperial was coughing, winded, and the timing was right. Reks carefully kicked the sword and shield out of his opponent's hands, and knelt on his body, lifting the visor from his helmet to see-
"Oh gods," Reks gasped, and stumbled back. "You're no older than I."
Indeed, Reks' opponent was barely a man, ruddy face and cheeks spare of any stubble revealing his age. Breathing heavily, the armoured teen scrambled to get up and take back his weapons, but Basch was there in a flash, knocking the hapless and visorless Imperial soldier flat on his arse with the hilt of his blade.
"Stay focused, Reks," Basch said bluntly, watching as his hilt strike loosed forth a flood of red from the Imperial's face. He cried out and grabbed his nose, snarling in pain. Vossler and the rest carried on with their gleeful hollering. Before Reks could even make sense of what happened, Basch raised his sword and prepared to plunge it right into the bleeding teen's neck.
"No!" Reks cried out, childishly, at once feeling immense shame.
The hollering ceased like a candle blown out by a puff of wind through an open window. Basch turned to look at Reks.
"This is war, Reks. What would you have me do instead? This boy would have no misgivings at leaving you bloodied on the stone. You and the rest of our kingdom."
"But I disarmed him," Reks defended himself, "you don't have to kill him."
Basch rose to his feet and sheathed his sword. Vossler began walking forward towards them, fuming.
"'You don't have to kill him?'" Vossler spat, breathing heavily, nostils flaring. "Know you where we are, what we have lost, who we have seen fall around us? Yes, boy," Vossler jabbed a gloved finger into Reks' chest, making him stumble backwards, "we do have to kill him. But if you would prefer that the execution be bloodless-"
Vossler lifted up the bleeding Imperial and threw him over the bridge into the freezing, churning River Nebra below, armour and all.
"There, now he is consigned to the waters, let the holy scion Halmarut judge him now." Vossler took up his sword again and barked at his soldiers, "1st Battalion, advance!"
They ran forward and entered the fortress' keep, leaving Reks, Basch, and the rest of the 2nd Battalion behind on the bridge. Reks' heart was thrumming. He dared not look over the edge of the bridge, but the sound of the river raging in the dead of night promised that the fallen Archadian soldier's body would be far away by now, if it hadn't sunk to the depths. Reks said a silent prayer for his soul.
Basch summoned his sundry soldiers to his side. "We shall allow Captain Azelas a moment for his battalion to clear the Lower Apartments. Who has the map?"
"Here, sir," the mace-wielding red mage offered it to Basch, who opened it up and squinted at the drawing in the dim light.
"Give me some light," Basch said.
"Can you not make your own- oh. Apologies, sir," the red mage bowed slightly, as Basch raised an eyebrow, and summoned a little ball of flame in his hand, holding it up to cast a glow over Basch's map.
"We are standing on the bridge of the Inner Ward," Basch said, "and inside the keep, there are five storeys. The ground storey is comprised of the lower apartments, the first storey the upper apartments, and the third storey, the Highhall. Each are connected by a flight of stairs-" Basch pointed onto the map several locations, Reks watching over his shoulder intently – "but access to the myriad passageways within the keep may be limited if the Imperials have gained access to the internal gates at the base of each staircase. Those gates are thick steel, resistant to flame, and are nigh immovable when locked in place, even with gravity magick. We shall not gain access through them."
"Why are they even there?" Reks asked.
Basch replied simply, "'tis a fortress, is it not?" He folded the map and handed it back to the red mage, who pocketed it and dismissed his flame ball.
From inside the keep, there was a grand clanging of swords, the sound of Mist in the air – the natural magickal energy pervading the land, which men and beast alike could draw within them to transform it into spells and charms for mundane and military purposes, or manipulate directly to perform various technicks with weapons – and the yells and screams of the wounded. Basch listened intently for Vossler, but heard only metallically muffled voices. Likely the witless Imperials struck down by the might of Vossler's infamous blade, often Mist-enhanced in recent years to great effect. Basch would never quite match him in that regard, not as long as he would live.
The 2nd battalion stood guard, watching either side of the bridge of the Inner Ward. The red mage and white mage were casting defensive magicks on the party: Protect, which guarded against physical impact from weapons or fists, and manifested as a circular shield that glowed brightly ocean blue when cast and duller sky blue when challenged; and Shell, which guarded against magickal might, and manifested similarly to Protect, but grassy green when cast and olive green when challenged. The red mage then pulled from his belt a small glass vial, filled to the brim with a liquid barely visible, and cork sealed with a golden wax. When he opened it and drank from it, Reks smelled the telltale heady aroma of Ether, the substance that replenished the drinker's ability to use Mist. He tapped his belt to check that he had his own Ethers, as well as some healing Potions, and one High Potion, just in case his injury was dire.
Basch looked up and to the right of the entrance of the keep, focused on a sky-blue glow coming in from the distance. At this time of night, the sky should not be so blue.
"Captain?" Reks asked quietly. Basch waved his arm at Reks, still watching the thing advancing towards them. Then, when Basch recognised it in the light of the waning moon, he hastily unsheathed his blade and stepped forward.
"An Imperial fighter airship. They assaulted the Fortress in their hundreds not months ago." Basch breathed steadily, held his closed fist to his heart, and manipulated the Mist around him, then gently pushed his hand out ahead of him, casting a technick that emerged as crystalline green lights whirling around his feet rapidly, then accelerating until they became a blur, rising as one point of light through to Basch's head.
"That was a Libra technick, right, sir?" Reks asked again.
"Aye. Very useful, Libra. It tells you key information about your opponent; its present status, its weaknesses, and oftentimes, its name." Basch watched as the airship descended. "This one is an Air Cutter Remora. 2nd Battalion, engage!" He shouted.
The airship was quite small, about ten feet high and six feet wide. It was comprised almost entirely of a dull gray metal, formed of a stubby body, thick at the top and thin at the bottom, with two floating rings about it, with large radius on top and small radius at bottom. Inside each ring was the source of the blue glow Basch perceived in the sky: the glossair rings, a relatively recent invention granting substantially faster and more reliable airship travel across the land. Inside the Remora would have been one Imperial soldier at the helm, with scarcely any more room to swing a sword. The soldier would use the Remora's two cannons – one facing forward, one facing straight down – to engage from afar, using its small size and high manoeuvrability to stay out of reach of lone targets while raining down cannonfire on them.
The Remora hovered a few feet off the ground and blocked Basch, Reks, and the rest from advancing further. Reks was closest, unsheathing his sword, with Basch at his right hand, and the rest of the battalion, bar the ninja standing guard at the other side of the bridge, falling in line.
"Don't lose your head," Basch called out to Reks, running forward to strike at the airship. The rest of the battalion were right behind, forming a perimeter around it, beginning their assault. The two knights and the axe-wielding viking, together with Basch, tore into the armour on the base of the airship. Reks awkwardly found space, trying to stay out of the line of fire. If I'm going to get home to Vaan, I better stay in a supporting role.
"Any weaknesses?" Basch shouted, slashing his blade at the bottom of the airship's body, trying to break it open.
The archer firing arrows right into the lower glossair ring replied, using his own Libra technick, "No elemental weaknesses, can be oiled and immobilised."
"I have it," the red mage said. "All stand back," and as they did, he summoned a great big globule of greasy black oil, then spattered it all over the airship's body.
"Take cover!" Basch yelled, watching its front cannon shine white. They all hit the floor, missing a direct hit, but the cannon still hit the bridge, shattering the bridge wall and sending chunks of stone straight into the river beneath them.
"Anybody hit?" The white mage asked. A chorus of nay sounded out. Satisfied, the white mage stepped to the back, behind Reks, and said quietly, "Go in, I have you."
Reks nodded and jumped in, slashing wildly at the airship. It didn't have much of an effect, and the airship began to rise up, charging its hull-mounted cannon.
"Strike with fire magick," Basch commanded to the red mage, who whirled his bronze mace around and shot a blast of flame right at the Remora. The flame blanketed its body and made the metal buckle slightly, but the airship kept on rising, now floating ten yards clear above them.
"How do we get to it now?" Reks asked.
"Magick," Basch replied. "I have none, of course, but you?"
"Thunder magic, sir."
Basch waved his sword at Reks. "Then use it!" The red mage sent another plume of fire into the sky, while the archer aimed his bow ever higher. The white mage renewed the Protect spells on the party, one by one, Basch first, and Reks last. Emboldened by the defensive spell he bore, Reks successfully flung a bolt of lightning, thin as a cotton thread, right at the top of the airship, leaving a little black mark in its wake. One of the knights was preparing to cast his own magick, which emerged as a whirl of wind the size of a loaf of bread, shooting right into the sky. It struck the upper glossair ring, momentarily shorting it out, causing the airship to tilt awkwardly and lose some altitude.
"Nice job," the white mage said. "You spent of Mist now?"
"You'd like that," the knight replied, grinning, smile evaporating when the hull-mounted cannon whined with intent. "Take cover!" he shouted, holding his shield in front of him, the white mage diving behind him.
The cannon shot straight down with violent force, blasting a hole six feet wide right through the bridge, separating the battalion in two. On the side closest to the gate through which they entered was the red mage, archer, and the magick knight. The ninja guarding the gate had run closer to them, lending support. On the side furthest from the gate, closer to the keep where Vossler's battalion was valiantly fighting, was the magick-less knight, the viking, the white mage, Basch, and Reks.
On his own side, the red mage cast Cure spells to heal the small injuries sustained as the shards of stone peppered the party, exploiting their rudimentary armour, leaving bruises and cuts. "We can't get over, Captain!" The red mage shouted. "We have no Float Motes to let us cross the gap, and I don't know the Float magick!"
"Stay strong!" Basch replied, watching as the white mage also cast Cure spells on his side. The Remora was descending and was floating right above the hole in the bridge, where the close-range fighters could not reach it. It was now up to the archer and magickians. "Fight with everything you have!"
They did, the archer loosing the very last of his arrows right at the glossair rings, hoping to short them out entirely; the red mage blasting it with more fire, though the oil was beginning to slide off the airship's hull; the magick knight loosing more packets of wind; and Reks fired off a few more thin strands of lightning, which connected every time, though with very little precision, leaving black marks on different parts of the hull.
"Well done!" Basch shouted, proud. "We will find victory!"
Reks sheathed his sword, and focused all his energy, casting the lightning magick – so called Thunder for its uncanny sound, much like the real thing – over and over, leaving him breathless and spent of Mist. The other magickians were soon done, too, breathing heavily. Still, the Remora floated, rotating steadily, focusing its fire on Basch.
Basch, waiting for the cannon fire, held up his shield, the other knight doing the same at his side. Reks saw what was coming and couldn't react fast enough. The viking and white mage sought cover, but Reks just watched gormlessly as the cannonfire shot right at Basch and the other knight, their shields and Protect magick preventing the brunt of the damage, but still knocking them back ten paces and leaving them bruised and battered.
"Captain!" Reks yelped, running over, emptying his pockets of all his potions, foolishly shattering two on the ground with his haste. Sucking air through his teeth, he poured his only High Potion directly onto Basch's face, the glowing blue liquid trickling into Basch's eyes, making him grunt with discomfort.
"Reks, I am fine, leave me be." Basch pushed Reks away. "Save yourself first." Then, running over to the viking, he ordered, "Pass me the Bacchus' Wine."
"Cap'n?" The viking said in a thick accent.
"We must needs end this with haste. Spent of Mist, the airship out of reach, we must be courageous." He ran right to the edge of the hole that the Remora made in the bridge. "Sergeant Klemas!" He addressed the magick knight. With tanned skin, shoulder-length dark hair, and light stubble from ear to ear, he was Vossler, fifteen years junior. "I will jump onto and destroy the Remora. When it begins to fail, blow me away with Aero magick so that I land on the bridge."
Sergeant Klemas, holding his sword and shield in a defensive stance, replied, "Sir, that is suicide! I don't mean to boast-" his companion, the ninja, holding his so-far-unused blade, nudged him in the side – "but my wind magicks have oft knocked a man out with one blow! You are mighty, Captain," Klemas continued, scandalised, "but you won't withstand it!"
"I can withstand any man's magick," Basch said quietly, looking up at the Remora, then thinking only of Vossler as he chugged the bitter-tasting Bacchus' Wine. The effects were immediate – Basch's body glowed red, and all higher thoughts of man were discarded as the liquor gave him the rage of ten thousand wounded Saurians, gargantuan reptilian beasts thirty feet long and ten feet high with teeth enough to tear a man in half and anger enough to level a city.
With a roar, Basch leapt ten feet into the air, tossing his shield aside, clinging to the Remora with one hand, and aggressively stabbing his mythril blade into the metalwork with the other. Completely free of the cannons' aim, Basch was now able to ruin the airship without obstacle, though the force of his berserker blows were destabilising the Remora's flight pattern. The pilot inside the airship began to panic, never having forced a foe game enough to cling to it like a child hanging from a palm tree. Spittle and sweat flying everywhere, Basch's blue eyes shining with wrath, blood thundering through his veins to support his distended muscles, he made purchase through the body of the Remora, stabbing right through many layers of metal where his battalion's magickal assault had been successful, severing the fuel lines supplying the two glossair engines.
Basch's sword was now a bludgeon, unable to cut any more, but it was enough for the pilot to consider fleeing, as the glossair engines began to spark and throttle, unable to run effectively with a compromised fuel system. From below, Reks and the others watched on: Reks with terror, Klemas with apprehension, the rest with a mix of tired awe and disbelief.
The cold wind and smell of the fuel from outside – a pungent mix of powdered magicite and petroleum solvent – entered the cramped cabin. The pilot swallowed and reached for his radio, ready to retreat. "Antlion, this is Tonberry! My engines are hit. She'll not hold much longer!"
Unsatisfied with the progress he was making, the addled Basch threw his useless sword away, bouncing off the stone bridge and into the water. Devoid of weapons, he grabbed either side of the hole he punched through with his blade, and with a great and sustained snarl heard for miles around, he began to pull the hole wider. The metal creaked and groaned under the strain of the force, and Basch began to growl with exertion, more animal than man. From the bridge, the rest of the 2nd battalion watched on, certain their Captain would fall to his death, either straight onto the unyielding stone bridge, or washed away, just like Reks' unfortunate opponent from not even an hour ago.
"We receive you, Tonberry," the pilot's radio crackled in response. "You've leave to retire. Well fought."
"My thanks, Antlion! Tonberry disengaging!"
The glossair engines whined with effort and the Remora began to ascend further, to escape the way it came. Basch was still hanging on, but the pilot reached for his shotgun, a Capella model with moderate firepower but high accuracy. As the pilot aimed the muzzle of his Capella at Basch's face, barely visible through the hole in the floor of the cabin, whatever reason was left in Basch's brain took control back from the Bacchus' Wine, and made him let go.
Basch fell through the sky, and the rage subsided the moment the pilot's shotgun blast sounded, shot whizzing past him. His skin returned to its usual colour. The wind whipped through his shoulder-length blond hair, obscuring his vision. Some drops of glossair fuel had sprayed onto his face, the rivulets of pungent fluid sticking his hair to his face, entangling in his chinstrap beard and goatee, blinding him further. He didn't scream. He didn't cry out or try to right himself or wipe the hair and fuel from his face.
This was the end: he had performed admirably. His men were safe. His shieldmate and partner of nineteen years, Captain Vossler York Azelas, would see them safely home. His death would be quick and painless.
I will see Landis again. Dead men ought live in dead places.
Instead of the expected rush of darkness of instant death by being pulverised into stone, he was left winded by the strong gust of wind summoned by Sergeant Klemas' Aero spell, which blew him strongly in the direction of the keep, slowing his vertical fall, and knocking him right into Reks, the viking, and the other knight. They tumbled arse over teakettle, finally coming to a stop right at the edge of the stairs leading into the keep. The white mage ran over and emptied himself of Mist, Curing them over and over, until they were fit and well again.
"Captain, that was amazing!" Reks gushed. "How did you not become damaged by the magick?"
Basch brushed down his armour and clothing of dust and dirt, and the streaks of glossair fuel from his face. "'tis a very long story, involving the fall of the Republic of Landis. For another time, I promise."
The five of them walked back to the hole in the bridge, where the other four gathered. There was indeed too much distance between them and no way to cross the gap.
"Well done, Sergeant Klemas," Basch said proudly, voice carrying. "You saved me."
Klemas saluted, "My honour, Captain. But now you're without weapons…"
"And we can't get over to help you," the ninja added. "What are your orders for us, Captain?"
Basch thought for a moment.
"Throw a weapon to me. And some Potions and Ethers, if you will, unless you need some to fight your way out of this mess."
Klemas and the other three disarmed themselves and threw everything over the gap, which Basch, Reks, and their three companions caught, dividing the spoils between them. Basch took Klemas' longsword, slightly smaller than his own mythril blade, with a more typical straight shiny silver metal blade rather than the bold curved crimson of the blade he threw away from midair.
"This is all of the Potions I gave you when we left the barracks," the white mage said, inspecting Klemas' pouch on his belt. "Are you quite certain? You'll be left with nothing – no weapons, no sundries."
"We are," the red mage said, saluting. "Our prayers go with you, Captain."
Enough time had passed that Azelas' Lions should have secured the Lower Apartments, Basch thought, as he, Reks, and the other three carefully entered the keep at the centre of the Nalbina Fortress. Klemas and his stranded companions remained behind, Basch hoping they would follow his order to retreat to the Dalmascan Estersand, a small expanse of desert spanning between the town of Nalbina and the Dalmascan capital, Rabanastre, around eight miles across.
Inside the keep were an endless labyrinth of hallways. The map was still with the red mage in the battalion, Basch realised, cursing their fate. The walls on either side of this first hallway were inlaid with an unbroken line of arch motifs with ornamental lattices, hand-laid mosaic around them, and baroque pillars of stone every five paces jutting out from the wall. The floor was polished black quarts in a repeating shell pattern. The hallway was silent and there was no evidence of any battle here; no blood, no discarded weapons or armour, no remnants of potions or phoenix down vials to heal or revive the fallen.
"Vossler! Where are you?" Basch called out, discretion be damned.
At his rear, Reks asked, concerned, "What if Captain Azelas has fallen? It has been-"
"Don't talk such nonsense," Basch snapped, almost insulted. "Vossler's laughed in the face of death far too many times for him to stop now. Men like him don't die in places like this." Memories flooded through his mind: sixteen years ago, the Karydine Glacier, far to the southeast, thirty below with ceaseless blizzards; ten years ago, the Ozmone Canal, manufacted by the Rozarrians as a means to reach Archadia, Dalmasca's sovereignty totally ignored; three months ago, the Nebra Bridge, not two hours north of their current location, the last bastion to defend after Nabudis fell. All places where Basch and Vossler had been stationed together, had fought together, had commanded and been commanded alike, in their life's history. They both survived together. Their story would not end now.
Basch summoned the others to him, and the five of them strode forward behind him at his signal. Looking up and down the many hallways, he ordered, "We must make haste to reach the King. We will take him to safety."
"Do you think His Majesty is unharmed?"
Basch replied, not looking back at Reks, "He'll agree to an unconditional surrender. They would not dare touch him until the wax on his seal is dry…" he stopped at a corner and signalled for his half-battalion to halt. Using Klemas' borrowed blade as a mirror, Basch looked at the reflection, listening for activity. There was none. They moved on.
Reks' stomach was churning and he tightened the sweaty grip on his shortsword. Hallways bled together in their uniformity. He had no idea where Basch was leading them, and too much time had passed since Captain Azelas had advanced.
Mouth sticky with increasing dehydration, Reks chugged a potion. He wiped his mouth roughly. "What if we arrive after he signed the treaty?"
"Wait!" the white mage at the rear guard called, holding a finger to his lips to silence them all. They froze, pressing themselves to the wall, listening. Their eyes darted around, trying to hone in on the location of the distant sound of clanking footsteps. Reks willed himself to breathe more quietly, though the viking in their group breathed loudly enough for all five of them, the air bristling through his very not-Dalmascan bushy moustache. With finality, the clinking of those metal footsteps hastened and became louder.
"Quickly!" Basch ordered. Indeed, in the distance, he spotted a squadron of Imperials, in near-identical uniform plate armour, brandishing longswords, maces, and staves. They fortunately didn't have amongst their number their mastiff beasts for offensive support, Basch realised, their brutal dogs of war bred for aggression and mass, their teeth leaving naught but ruin and blood in their wake. He brandished Klemas' blade and ran right at their foes, the viking and knight hot at his heels, the white mage dragging Reks alongside.
The Imperials may have been more heavily armoured, but that meant very little to Basch, who acted faster, swung harder, and blocked every blow they made. The Imperial Magus in the group attempted to cast a Blizzard spell at Basch, generating a shard of ice the size of Reks' head, and shooting it right at Basch, but it splintered into a thousand crystals on impact with Basch's armour, dealing very little harm to Basch other than leaving him a little wet. In moments, Basch and the other two fighters had left the Imperials quickly dead on the ground.
"Ahead we will face many more, Reks," the knight said, watching Reks' wide-eyed look of horror, hoping the teen wouldn't vomit on the floor.
"But we need not fight them all," the white mage added, putting a comforting hand on Reks' shoulder. "Don't look at them now, press on. Focus on your mission."
"Aye, and ofttimes retreat is the wiser course – Cap'n!" The viking concluded, running at Basch, who caught on quickly and followed in their retreat into a small side chamber, about ten paces square, with a small stone altar erected in the middle and paintings of the Royal Family adorning the walls. King Raminas, his first wife, their three sons, his second wife, their three sons, his third wife, and their two sons and only daughter, Ashelia. Each memorialised in oils upon parchment, surrounded by gilt frames six feet high.
The five of them crouched down out of sight as another team of Imperial soldiers marched by. Holding his breath, Reks' eyes flickered to the thirteen paintings. Ashelia, the youngest child, and only daughter, was only a young teen in her likeness. She wore a plain white lace dress with a cowl neckline, modest crinoline and subtle corselet studded with small pearls and semclam shells native to the Nebra River's banks, her ash-blond hair shoulder-length and adorned with a silver diadem adorned with opals, a matching opal-and-pearl necklace dipping down into her bust. In the portrait, she was seated casually on a forest-green chaise within an overstuffed and overdecorated sitting room, smiling demurely, hands folded in her lap. Her left hand, he noticed, was not yet adorned with her engagement ring, exchanged around nine months ago in her betrothal to Prince Rasler Heios Nabradia, and joined by her wedding ring six months ago in the truest of fairytale weddings, held right in the streets of Rabanastre. Two months later, Nabradia was destroyed by the empire, and their Royal Family with them, leaving naught but ruin, Mist, and unanswered questions. One month later, Archadia turned its sights to Dalmasca. One month later again, Rasler was the last of House Heios to fall, a stray Imperial arrow striking him right in the neck where his armour failed to protect him, as did Basch. One week later, Ashelia interred her beloved. One week later again, Ashelia took her own life. This was six weeks ago.
The footsteps disappeared and the awful stillness of being alone emerged once more. Cautiously, the party emerged from their hiding place and continued through the halls, only to be met by a small contingent of Imperials, all silently floating mere inches above the air on whirling translucent platforms of magick.
"Float magick," Basch breathed, before immediately raising his sword and shield in a defensive stance to block the initial assault. There were five Imperials: two Swordsmen wielding iron shortswords, a Hoplite holding a spear with thin blue crystals of magicite inlaid in the blade, a Pilot with a bronze mace, and a Marksman with a rifle.
"Intruders!" The Imperial Hoplite shouted, swinging his spear wildly at the vanguard. "Don't let them escape!" The other four under his command assumed battle stances, the Hoplite charging at Basch, the two Swordsmen going after the viking and knight, the Pilot after the white mage, and the Marksman after Reks, whose legs turned to jelly.
"Hold firm, Reks!" Basch cried before raising his shield to parry the Hoplite's thrust. He successfully butted the hilt of his borrowed sword against the Hoplite's helmet, but it wasn't enough to stun him. All around, the Dalmascan soldiers were putting up a brave fight, but the Imperials were daunting foes, their heavy armour and superior weapons mounting superiority over the Dalmascans.
The Marksman prepared his firearm and aimed it right at Reks from point-blank range. Absent other strategies, for Dalmascans had very little experience using or defending against firearms, Reks dove at the Marksman's feet and grabbed onto his ankles. With a loud grunt and a desperate twist, Reks had the fully-armoured soldier falling to the ground, unable to make his shot. He narrowly missed the whizzing Sleep magick cast by the Pilot from afar, and the white mage had slammed his metal rod into the Pilot's chin, sending him backwards temporarily.
"Help!" Reks cried pathetically, the white mage bounding over to kick away the Marksman's weapon.
"Good one, Reks!" The mage said, "Now finish the job, quick!"
"What do you mean?"
Pointing to the struggling Marksman, whose legs were still being held on tight by Reks. "Defeat him. One quick slice to the neck." Seeing Reks' hesitation, the mage urged, "Do it!"
The Marksman got free of Reks' grasp and scrambled after his rifle around the corner. The mage sighed before casting Reflect on himself, watching as the Pilot's second attempt at a Sleep spell bounced away and stunned the Pilot, sending him crashing to the floor in a loud and clumsy heap.
"Now look at what you've done," the mage said. "Take him down or it'll be your head instead of his!"
Swallowing dryly, Reks willed himself to have the courage to kill. Fortunately for him, the Dalmascan viking had already chopped off the hand of his own foe, disabling him and leaving him screaming in agony, and leapt up high with a primal yell to sink his bloody axe-blade into the back of the Marksman's armour, knocking him to the ground.
"Like this, aye?" He said brusquely, removing the Marksman's helm roughly and ending his breathing with one brutal blow to the back of the head. The sound of the axe leaving its target's skull made Reks queasy. The mage cast Cure prophylactically on Reks before pulling him towards Basch and the other Dalmascan knight.
Basch had disarmed the Hoplite and stolen his spear for himself, his shield set on the ground a few paces to the rear, but the Dalmascan knight was freely bleeding from a slash to the forearm, clutching the wound with his other arm. Effectively, it was three Imperials, one disarmed, against two Dalmascans, one bloodied. Rushing to the fore, the mage hastily cast Cure on his compatriot with a sweep of his metal rod, stemming the bleeding but leaving an ugly scar on the knight's forearm. "Captain!" The mage called, following with Protect magick on Basch.
"Need a hand?" The viking added, wiping the blood and ooze off his axe-blade onto the ground with a gritty, slimy noise. Reks stood at the rear, uselessly.
"This is our kingdom," Basch barked, "and the likes of you don't belong here!"
"Says who?" The Hoplite challenged, fists raised. "What House Solidor wants, House Solidor gets. For Archadia!" He cried, his two able underlings raising their swords and echoing the rallying cry.
Blood boiled in Basch's veins. Clanging his sword and spear together, he charged, the viking and healed knight right behind him, and the three Dalmascans and three Archadians skirmished. The white mage watched from the rear, sending Cure and Protect magicks towards his allies. Reks looked away as the blood flowed and the metal clanged upon metal. The magickally-sleeping Imperial Pilot was stirring.
"What do we do about him?" Reks whispered.
The white mage didn't turn around, calmly casting over and over, erasing the bruise from Basch's gut from the Hoplite's kick, diminishing the stab wound from one Swordsman's blade into the viking's shoulder, mending the knight's broken hand after the other Swordsman slammed him into the ground. "I am occupied here! Do as you must, Reks. For your brother."
With terror, Reks crept up to the Pilot, who was mumbling something under his breath, still not quite conscious. Reks grabbed the mace from his hand and took it for himself, then gently removed his helm. The man in the armour would have been in his forties, probably with a few children at home, and a wife. Reks didn't remove his gloves to look for a wedding ring.
"Do it now, Reks!" The mage called before chugging an Ether and throwing the vial away, to the floor, where it made a tinkling noise, though to Reks it sounded like the shattering of a thousand windows.
Louder still was the sound of agony from the Imperial Pilot as Reks sliced his neck open and let him bleed onto the stone floor. The crimson blood mingled with Reks' spew and tears.
The five Dalmascans narrowly emerged victorious, though not without sacrifice. The viking's shoulder stopped bleeding but he couldn't move it without causing the bruise to explode like ink dripped in water. The knight's mended hand was stiff as a board and could not close around the hilt of any weapon. Both soldiers were absent effective magick; vikings infrequently used magick, while the knight was too young to have mastered anything terribly useful. Basch ordered them to retreat, to their chargin, leaving just the white mage, Basch, and Reks, to clamber over the five fallen Imperials and climb the first flight of stairs to the Upper Apartments.
Basch took up his sword and shield again, offering the Hoplite's lance to the mage, who declined, gripping his magick rod firmly.
"Sorry I couldn't fix it better, lads," he frowned. "Godspeed, and find an infirmary posthaste." The viking and knight waved him off before saluting Basch and fleeing the way they came.
The three ascended the stairs, noting that the metal gate on the stairs to the third floor was raised, allowing them to climb further to the Highhall, but the gates to the stairs for the fourth and fifth floors were lowered and presumably locked in place.
Basch once again used the reflection of his sword, though now a little bloodied, to check around each corner. Once satisfied that there were no more Imperial surprises awaiting them, but disheartened to see no sign of Vossler or his battalion, he called to Reks and the mage, "Come!"
The three ascended another flight of stairs, Basch taking them three at a time. The mage was hot on his heels, with Reks at the rear. A loud bang resounded, knocking Reks down the stairs and leaving the mage crippled, his knee clearly bending the wrong way. Groaning in agony, the mage released his magick rod and sucked in distressing breaths.
"A trap," he hissed, Basch descending the stairs, grabbing a High Potion from the pouch on his belt. "I didn't have Libra active. I'm so sorry, Captain."
"Never mind," Basch said, offering the High Potion, which the mage drank gladly. The bleeding from his knee slowed and coagulated, but the joint was still completely destroyed, leaving him unable to walk, or even stand. Imperial footsteps re-emerged from below them; a squad of three were ascending the stairs from the ground floor.
"Sir! We have little time!" Reks said urgently, looking right at Captain Basch. "You must go to the king!"
Basch looked at Reks, then at his fallen healer, then down through the gap between flights, watching the shadows of the encroaching Archadians as they clinked up the stairs rapidly. The white mage was still clutching his knee, a thin sheen of sweat forming on his face.
Hoping he might be able to tell this story to Vaan soon, Reks said boldly, "I'll handle these!"
Doubtful, Basch ordered, "Fight well!", before turning and ascending to the third floor, desperately seeking the Highhall where the fate of Dalmasca was being determined.
Reks held his smallsword in his right hand and his undersized buckler in his left. He wiped his lips, descended the stairs a little so that he could shield the mage, and watched as three more Imperial Swordsmen arrived, forming a V-shaped formation.
"Reks…" The white mage croaked, pale and sweating. "I'm not going to be much help."
"It's okay!" Reks replied, trying to make up his mind about his first move. "All I have to do is give the Captain time…"
The Swordsman at the head of the V pointed the tip of his blade at Reks menacingly. Voice muffled by the full plate armour, but lacking no venom, he sneered, "Thus Raithwall's last defender falls from grace. This'll be over quick, boy."
"Not likely!" Reks retorted, almost jumping at him but aborting the movement at the last minute. The Imperials sniggered at his naivete.
"Well, come on, then!" Another one jeered. "One of you against three of us. Ought to be a right doddle."
Reks dared not move, blood thrumming through his veins, heartbeat loud in his chest, his grip on his meek blade caked in sweat. The Imperial Swordsman in the centre made the first move, a gentle, almost mocking, vertical slash. Reks met it aggressively with his shield and counterattacked with a thrust, right in between two seams of the Swordsman's plate armour. The tip of his blade found purchase, tearing through the leather underneath the armour, and for a heartstopping moment, Reks thought he had stabbed the man right through the heart, but when he withdrew the blade, there was no blood or flesh. The Imperial grunted, withdrew his sword, and attacked again with a slash emerging from below. Reks defended himself with his shield again, but this time the Imperial on the left, who had not yet said anything, attacked with a slash from above, which Reks met with his blade, forming a little dent in the mythril. Struggling against blows from two opponents, the third closed in to stab right at Reks' exposed belly, but Reks anticipated it and kicked at his wrist, tumbling backwards. Though free from injury, Reks was now extremely vulnerable, clambering away on his hands and knees up the stairs again to gain higher ground. To his dismay, the white mage was now unconscious.
Grimacing, and thinking to escape to find his Captain, Reks changed tack and summoned a bolt of lightning, which crackled overhead and sizzled as it made contact with the middle Imperial's sword hand. Hissing in pain, the man dropped his sword and grasped the smoking metal of his gauntlet. Reks gave a sudden whoop of laughter and tried again, though lacking precision, his second spell smacked the Imperial on the right in the chest, stunning him temporarily but not causing him to be disarmed.
"We'll get you right back for that, churl," the disarmed Swordsman snarled, sparks dancing upon his right hand. "Get 'im, boys."
The other two advanced on Reks, who climbed further up the stairs, one step below the white mage. Reks dropped his own sword and shield and instead picked up the mage's magick rod and felt his own wellspring of magick inside him swell a little. Gamely, with no practiced technique, he cast the magick again and was pleased to see the spear of lightning shoot through the air just a little thicker, a little brighter, and a little faster, right on target. He swung the rod widely, trying to keep his distance from the two Swordsmen, but they grew tired of playing coy and surged on Reks. One clipped Basch's left forearm and left a gash; the other a wound on Reks' right flank. Howling in pain, Reks slammed the quarterstaff down on an Imperial's head, stunning him and leaving a dent in his helm, then cast another Thunder spell on the other, hitting him right in the face. They both recoiled and stumbled back, thankfully, giving Reks enough time – just enough time – to cast Cure on himself twice.
In that time, though, the leader of the pack had given up on picking up his electrically-charged weapon and was ready to batter Reks with his more robust shield. Reks lifted his forearm to try to block it but he couldn't fully, the blow hurting his shoulder with the strain. The Imperial retreated and went in for a frontal kick, which Reks narrowly blocked with the mage's rod. He placed it down and picked up his original sword and shield, then – with all his might – lunged forward and swung his blade upwards in a diagonal slash. The more heavily-armoured Imperial, who was probably twice Reks' age, couldn't block it quite fast enough, and Reks successfully tore a small slice out of the man's armour and leather undergarment, exposing bare skin underneath. Seizing the moment, Reks cast yet another lightning spell at close range and saw it jump right to the Imperial's sweated, exposed skin, leaving a stinging burn mark that had the man grimacing in pain. At long last, Reks had the advantage – Vaan wouldn't believe it, Reks thought proudly – and went in for the coup de grace, stabbing the man right in the injured flank. He slumped to the ground, grabbing at the gushing wound, and rose no more.
The two remaining soldiers were still standing and were enraged to see their superior fallen. They both raised their swords and shields to crush Reks, but he jumped behind the armoured man on the ground, grabbed his shield, and blocked both overhead attacks with an Archadian shield in one hand and a Dalmascan shield in the other. He slammed both shields into the helm of the Swordsman whose helm was already dented, one on either side of his head, and sent a ringing noise right through him, stunning him once again. Then, with a blind backhand swing, smacked a shield into the other soldier, sending him stumbling backwards into the balustrade. Reks then heaved the man over, sending him tumbling and banging against two floors' worth of balustrades and stone floors until he fell right to the ground floor with a crack that split the stone underneath.
Satisfied, out of breath, Reks cast down the Archadians' weapons, took up his own once again, and poured his last Potion into the mouth of the unconscious white mage, who didn't stir. Gritting his teeth, Reks pressed on, trying to find the Highhall where he hoped Basch was. Rounding corner after corner at breakneck speed, pushing endless sets of heavy double doors open, he finally found a set of two steely, ornately decorated floor-to-ceiling doors with equally baroque silver door handles, upon which had been tied two tassels: on the left, a tassel in Archadian colours, fern, scarlet and onyx; on the right, a tassel in Dalmascan colours, azure, tan, and pewter. They were slightly ajar, though Reks couldn't see much inside. Pressing an ear up to the door, he heard voices, but could not make out the words. Hoping his racing heartbeat would still, Reks sheathed his sword, replaced his shield on the clip on his belt, and pushed the doors open.
Inside, he saw bodies strewn across the floor, Archadian and Dalmascan alike, a grotesque tableau of destruction, blood and humours leaking from Dalmascan leather armour and Archadian steel armour on the rich sapphire carpet running through the centre of the stone floor like a river leading the damned to Hell. Reks recognised some of the Dalmascan faces as being of Vossler's battalion, but Vossler himself was not amongst the slaughtered. The eerie stillness was punctuated by Reks' petrified gasps, rattling in his throat, numbing his entire body, causing him to take extreme efforts to force his legs to cooperate.
Then, on the other side of the room, the sight that made Reks' tears flow with shock.
King Raminas B'nargin Dalmasca, beloved monarch of the Kingdom of Dalmasca, father of the nation, absent living issue, the last bastion of Ordalian independence, the ultimate expression of Raithwall's will, dressed in fine pieces of platinum-and-ruby armour and a white silken cape, wearing a crown of gold with winged and feathered motif, slumped over on a throne, drool dripping from his lips onto his left thigh.
"Your Majesty…" Reks whispered thickly, body failing him, unable to move, until a rustling round emerged from behind him. Reks wheeled around to see his Captain thrust a dagger through his gut.
Too much time passed before Reks could form words again, the white-hot anguish spreading through his body like wildfire. His legs failed him and he slumped slightly, looking up at the blond man whose gloved hand still held the dagger invading his body.
"Captain… why?" Reks tasted blood in his mouth. "Our king… what have you done?"
Reks thought of home: Vaan, Penelo, Migelo, Kytes, Filo, and all the rest; the home town he loved so much; the two dismally small brass plaques mounted, like thousands more, on the walls of the cenotaph in the West End of Rabanastre, to memorialise his parents; the bunch of Galbana Lilies left on his bed, and the note he forgot to write before he left; and the ring, safely hidden in his dresser, for which he saved so much and would have given upon bended knee after his triumphant return.
Grasping Reks' jaw in his hand, the blond man said,
"The King intended all along to sell Dalmasca to the Empire. His Majesty was a traitor."
Disbelieving, Reks rasped, thickly,
"Captain, I…"
Then he, too, fell to the floor, blood leaking from his mouth, pooling on the cold, unyielding stone floor. The darkness was setting in. Distantly, Reks saw the man walk over to a darkened corner of the room, where another blond man was kneeling, arms held by two armour-clad figures, and a blue glowing something had been stuffed in the man's mouth.
As black turned to white, Reks burbled his brother's name one last time.
Next is Chapter 2: Rebellion