I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me love in the light of the stars
-Dante's Prayer, Loreena McKennitt
***
As befitting his so-far normal summer, Harry Potter went to bed on the eve of his fifteenth birthday with little fuss. He brushed his teeth, changed into pajamas that were - like a vast majority of his clothes - made for a person fatter and, now, shorter than he was, and climbed into his bed, pulling his blanket over him. He had remembered to let Hedwig fly out of the window for a night's hunting, and he had finished his Charms homework and painting the garden-fence (again), so he was tired in a surprisingly pleasant way. And then he fell asleep.
And plunged into a totally new world.
***
Soaring over the sea, as free and light as dandelion-down on the wind. Flying close to the surface of the water, so close that sea spray wet his face and he inhaled the sharp tang of salt.
…a tombstone. The sky darkening into night with a billion bright points making it beautiful. Something mirroring that glitter of stars on the ground, a single glimmer as of starlight reflecting off something on the grass near the tombstone.
The world around him shifting yet again, into desert, ground parched and cracked like land after a drought. Golden sand reflecting the blazing glory of the sun, swirling in small sand-dervishes, pushed by howling winds.
Heat and light, too much to be comfortable - enough, in fact, to be agony, like being in the heart of flames.
Soaring into that brilliantly blue desert sky - day now, not night - face full into the sun but not flinching from its white blaze; sky turning storm-gray. Standing on a rocky mountaintop, flat dusty ground ringed round with large gray boulders. Turning his face upwards, into the sky, seeking the white blaze from the desert but instead meeting soft wind, laden with the promise of rain.
A single white feather drifting down from the heavens, buffeted here and there by the winds. And then it was no longer a feather, but a sword that caught the light as it plunged downwards like a javelin hurled by the gods. A ring of silver fire exploding outwards from where it landed, the blade piercing into the stone, standing proudly upright.
He reached out a hand to the hilt…
…and he found himself falling, falling as that silver sword had fallen, while around him the air pulsated in shifting colors. He landed on his feet, cat-sure and balanced, facing a huge stone castle. The castle was not like warm, inviting Hogwarts - it was dark and shadow-cloaked and very forbidding. Nevertheless, he moved forward.
Before two great wooden doors was a huge flat slab of black stone, like a lintel. The stone it was hewn of was glossy black, reminding him of obsidian or polished onyx. And on its flat surface were engraved words in letters of gold, in a hand unlike any Harry had seen before, and which he could best liken (though it was crude comparison) to calligraphy.
Cunae non sunt
Excitate vow e somno, liberi fatali
Somnus non eat
He traced one finger over the gold letters, somehow not surprised when they started to glow slightly as he did so. The glow grew steadily brighter, until it was illuminating his face, making it seem as he was staring into some bonfire, and his green eyes reflected the light until there was no distinguishing emerald from gold.
He blinked, and his eyes were wholly emerald again, because he no longer stood facing a lintel-stone with carved-fire words; instead he was in a hallway, all fine wooden paneled walls and soft lighting. He walked along the hallway, steps muffled by the carpet underfoot. His attention was focused on the paintings that lined the walls, canvases with identical gold-leaf frames. Each had a small plaque underneath, wherein was carved what he took to be the title of each painting.
Viator… he read silently, looking at a painting of an archangel with a flaming sword in one hand and a blue orb in the other. /Messenger…/
Hortum…an idyllic looking scene of gently-rolling green, dotted with orchard-trees, and a small marble fountain in its center. /Garden…/
Exspectatio…a maiden in blue, seated on a bench, gazing into the distance with an attitude of melancholy. /Waiting…/
He turned a corner, and confronted a large painting, one at least twice as tall as he was. It took up the entirety of one wall; its frame was slim black wood, instead of the more elaborate gold-leaf of the others. Harry stared at it, and at the words on the plaque below…
He walked down the winding staircase beyond that last painting. He ended up in a small windowless room, whose only feature was a door set into the wall. He walked to it, turned the old-fashioned door handle. There was a soft click, and the door swung open. He stepped through it into a garden.
The garden was fairly large - large enough so that its farthest reaches weren't easily discernible. He walked into it, feeling the grass crunch slightly underneath him - the blades were silvered with frost. The moon in the night-sky visible through the leafy boughs was a bright crescent, dappling the grass in silver and black.
There were two waiting for him. One took the shape of a great bird of prey, with dark fathomless eyes and smooth gray plumage. Its beak was a curved blade-edged thing, as deadly and as beautiful as Gryffindor's sword. So too were its talons, which were clenched around the branch of an oak tree. The other appeared as a tall elegant lady, coldly beautiful, with skin as pale as Arctic frost and eyes and hair of pale blue hardly any darker than the white-ice skin.
He stared at them, and their images seared themselves into his memory in that one instant of sight, more significant to him than any other thing he had ever seen.
In words that were not words, in speech that was not language but were rather the transference of raw concepts and ideas from one consciousness to another, they communicated with him.
*I am Shiva.*
*I am Quetzalcoatl.*
He stared, slightly non-plused by the weird way they were talking. He almost sent back to them, the way they were doing, before remembering that he wasn't capable of that.
"I'm Harry Potter," he said.
*We know. We have been waiting long for you.*
"Why?"
*We are Aeons. We are your Aeons.*
***
Author's Note
This fic (title changed from 'Legacy of the Aeons' to 'Liberi Fatali' ) is a HP fic primarily, crossing over with the Final Fantasy game series. It isn't a crossover with any one game in particular, though it draws more heavily on Final Fantasy X and Final Fantasy VIII than the others. (As anyone who's ever seen FFVIII can tell you, the above chapter is such a ripoff of the game's opening FMV)
All Final Fantasy elements belong not to me, but to Square Enix, the one software developer who, for me, justifies the entire existence of the Playstation. (grovels in front of Squaresoft logo)
Liberi Fatali means 'children of fate'; and the lines Harry sees engraved on the lintel-stone are Latin, drawn from 'Liberi Fatali', the opening theme of FFVIII and IMHO one of the best opening songs ever. Translation is as follows:
Cunae non sunt
Excitate vow e somno, liberi fatali
Somnus non eat
***
Kindle a vow from dreams, my children
There are no cradles
Kindle a vow from dreams, children of fate
Let not dreams go [away]
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