All Things Must End
Prologue: An Era, Over
The carriage bumped along the unpaved country road, pulled by two Chocobos. It was a fine autumn day, a chill wind whispering through the trees as they shed their leaves of gold and orange. The grass was still green, spanning the hillside like a dense coat of fur. Deep slashes, like a fresh war-scar, showed where fire had wrought the hillside in a vicious battle none too long ago. Barely forty feet ahead a crystalline stream flowed freely, relishing in the days before bitter winter would turn it to ice.
Delita was oblivious to the beauty of the countryside, the curtains within his carriage drawn shut. All he saw was the dim light of the candle shimmering upon the oaken interior. He was getting too old for this. The rocky road shook him to his very bones, his immaculate gold armor resting cold against his flesh. Fifteen years, and it was falling apart now. Fifteen years ago, Princess Ovelia had died. He had wanted to give her a kingdom, a kingdom worthy of her. And that was how she had repaid him. He hated himself for doing it, hated himself every hour of every day for killing her. For killing his wondrous queen.
The carriage clattered on, unaware of the torment of its passenger. The open hillside was being replaced now, the trees closing in on all sides. Skeletons now, wraiths of their former glory, they clawed at the wagon. Dusk's embrace lulled the woods, softening the harshness of the scene. Green shrubbery, sparse as it was, held on to life in the dead woods, green leaves reflecting the sun's dying light.
And yet the beauty escaped Delita.
Why, why did Ovelia throw her life away like that? After all he had done, why did she have to die? Because, Delita knew, he loved her. The cursed monarch, that's what he was. Teta, his beloved sister; Ramza, who was nearly his brother; and finally Princess Ovelia. He had come so far, worked so hard, but it had been for nothing. He had changed the world, used the users to make the world a beautiful place again. But the beauty in his life was dead, her blood on his forsaken hands.
Sorrow was not the only trouble to visit itself upon Delita. Fear blossomed, not long after her death, and held a firm grip to this very day. His powers, achieved through embracing the holy powers of God, were gone. Delita knew himself now to be a Holy Knight no longer. Along with his God- given magic, something else inside the cursed monarch died. His will to live, his will to succeed was long gone. These past fifteen years advanced through force, taking his years from him prematurely. Delita was only forty, yet he felt much older, looked it too.
The carriage jerked to an abrupt halt. Delita could hear the death cries of the Chocobos, probably pierced with arrows judging by the gurgle in their throats. So, this was how the cursed monarch was to die? The door of the carriage was cleaved in two, sending splinters flying. A knight with an unfamiliar crest on his armor held the sword, motioning for Lord Hyral to remove himself.
"Come, Lord, You are needed," the stranger ordered. Prepared to meet his end with dignity, Delita stood. His armor clanked as he walked, stepping determinedly down the carriage steps. In front of him was the knight. Behind the knight were four squires and two archers. The troupe looked malnourished, weak. Delita noticed the archers were holding their bows incorrectly. Hard times had hit these young men, so hard that they were driven to this recklessness. This was to be Delita's fate? Struck down by these desperate soldiers? He had had only a few guards, not wanting to draw attention to himself, otherwise this would be no threat at all. But in this day and age, not being noticed was more valuable than intimidation.
The kingdom of Ivalice had fallen apart shortly after unification. Without his spirit, Delita Hyral had proven himself a poor ruler, barely holding the lands together. He was blamed for the death of Ovelia and rumors spread like wildfire. While separate in truth, Ivalice was held together by the Zodiac Brave legend, the twelve stones held in Bethla Garrison. Nobody knew the powers they truly possessed; yet they knew Lord Hyral held all twelve. Soldiers paid to spread propaganda used this fact to relate their lord to Saint Ajora. While nobody truly believed it, it served as the glue that held together the lands. But that didn't matter now.
Delita drew his sword, placing himself in a defensive stance. Revolution did not come without a price, and if these men wanted to change the world, he would see to it that they began by paying the price. The squires drew their axes, the knight using his position to charge Delita. A foolish move, making the first attack. Delita effortlessly ducked under the charging blade, ramming his sword up to the hilt in the unfortunate knight's armor. The man sputtered and gagged, spitting blood onto Delita's back.
"If you want to change the world," Delita growled, shoving the dead man from his sword with a sickening squishing sound, "You must be prepared to lose all you hold dear!" Now the squires rushed him, arrows zipping through the air. Delita spun high, his sword cleaving through the wooden sections of the axes. The arrows missed by several feet as he ducked, slamming a shoulder into one of the hapless squires. He stumbled backwards, but not too far; Delita swung the hilt of his sword into the man's jaw, shattering it.
"You've tainted this land for far too long, Hyral! We're sick and tired of nothing ever changing! Change will begin with your end," the remaining squire yelled, drawing his knife. Delita turned to him, prepared for this one as well. He just barely heard the whistle of an arrow, but by then it was too late. The projectile buried itself deep in Delita's armor, knocking him forward. A second arrow tore through the armor in his thigh, drawing blood and sending a ripping pain through Delita's body.
The squire pressed harder, throwing himself to the side as Delita's sword swished past his ear. A sharp pain alerted Lord Hyral that the squire had succeeded; the knife was buried in his chest. The end of an era was near, the end of the cursed monarch was upon the world. But Delita's time was not yet up.
"Master of all swords," he gasped, muscles shuddering in pain, "Master of all swords . . ." The will drained from him, dripping away like pus from a broken blister. Life and love flashed before his eyes, things he would hereby forsake. "Cut energy!" It was more of an undead roar than an order, "Night Sword!" Pain like he had never felt tore through Hyral's body. Every tendon snapped, every blood vessel felt as if it were bursting. Through tear- blurred vision he could barely make out the twisting snakes of black energy drawing themselves to the blade of his sword. The squire stood, motionless in fear, as the end drew upon him.
The orb, the nexus, formed over his head first, its radiance sparkling like a thousand dead fairies, dripping like a priest's blood drawn by unholy blade to the pure earth, now defiled by hate. The ground responded with its fury, the dark blade of the Night Sword ripping through the ground as if it were the embodiment of the world's sorrow and suffering. The squire's soul was caught upon the spiritual blade, ripping from the body like an infant from its mother's arms. It collided, the buffer between the orb and the blade, as all three shattered and rippled out of existence.
The defilement was drawn to the snakes of negative radiance, their impurity leaving Delita feeling defiled, raped. The life stolen raced into his own veins, the knife and arrows falling to the ground as if dropped by a careless child. The snakes recoiled, vanishing into the hilt of the blade.
He was cured. The squire's life fed his own, the soul healing every inch of his physical body. All he knew now was this: Delita Hyral was dead. This unnamed warrior, this unknown monstrosity of human nature, glared at the remaining archers.
"Anyone who asks," he growled, "Anyone who asks you. Tell them that Delita Hyral is dead. He was dead where you found him and you burned the carriage." The archers nodded dumbly, as he knew they would, and ran like the cowards they were.
The fallen monarch, the wasted warrior, the lost soul gazed at his golden armor, the hands which held the sword he had tainted. But they were not gold. The armor was the color of rust and dried blood, a sickening combination of age and gore. He wanted to vomit, he wanted to scream.
He wanted to feel anything at all.
Cold, dead eyes looked upon the world, upon the forest of the dead. The trees clawed at him like the undead beasts they were, yet wisely kept their distance. The wraith held his hand out, whispering the one spell he could remember.
Light danced before the hand of the fallen warlord, swirling green lights. They twisted and contorted, wrapped and bound. The light tied together, forming an orb. And then it shattered. Fire sprung up around the carriage, but not earthly fire. It was tainted, just like the rest of the Dark Knight's soul. Black, non-fire, controlled. It did not really exist, and yet it did.
The magic fire danced, a dance of twisted and exotic carnage that had been seen many times before, yet each time it was fresh and exciting. The fire's beauteous dance almost made up for the destruction it caused. Almost. The dance reduced the carriage to a burnt husk in very little time, yet it continued to smolder and stink with the rest of the corpses.
The no longer Delita would have smiled if he could; the beauty of the flames had for an instant brought him closer to humanity. But life as a human was over. They would fill his shoes at Bethla Garrison, the latest eager face would become the puppet monarch. Intricate governments would be set up to hide the incompetence and failures of the latest machine. Everything that went wrong would be blamed on him, the evil Lord Hyral who had led Ivalice to ruins. But Ivalice came broken, like a defective child's playtoy.
That was all kingdoms really were, toys. Toys the biggest bully hoarded for himself, played with them until he reduced them to little splinters, then threw them away. That bully was Vormav. But he was dead now, dead with Ramza. Or at least that's what the former Delita assumed. Neither Vormav nor Ramza had been heard from in fifteen years, they were surely dead.
Perhaps he would continue what Vormav started, perhaps the world needed Lucavi. Perhaps twelve Zodiac Braves would bring about the cleansing the world so needed. There was only one way to find out.
And so the fallen lord turned from what was left of his life, what was left of his love, his hope, his humanity; and descended into the darkness.
Prologue: An Era, Over
The carriage bumped along the unpaved country road, pulled by two Chocobos. It was a fine autumn day, a chill wind whispering through the trees as they shed their leaves of gold and orange. The grass was still green, spanning the hillside like a dense coat of fur. Deep slashes, like a fresh war-scar, showed where fire had wrought the hillside in a vicious battle none too long ago. Barely forty feet ahead a crystalline stream flowed freely, relishing in the days before bitter winter would turn it to ice.
Delita was oblivious to the beauty of the countryside, the curtains within his carriage drawn shut. All he saw was the dim light of the candle shimmering upon the oaken interior. He was getting too old for this. The rocky road shook him to his very bones, his immaculate gold armor resting cold against his flesh. Fifteen years, and it was falling apart now. Fifteen years ago, Princess Ovelia had died. He had wanted to give her a kingdom, a kingdom worthy of her. And that was how she had repaid him. He hated himself for doing it, hated himself every hour of every day for killing her. For killing his wondrous queen.
The carriage clattered on, unaware of the torment of its passenger. The open hillside was being replaced now, the trees closing in on all sides. Skeletons now, wraiths of their former glory, they clawed at the wagon. Dusk's embrace lulled the woods, softening the harshness of the scene. Green shrubbery, sparse as it was, held on to life in the dead woods, green leaves reflecting the sun's dying light.
And yet the beauty escaped Delita.
Why, why did Ovelia throw her life away like that? After all he had done, why did she have to die? Because, Delita knew, he loved her. The cursed monarch, that's what he was. Teta, his beloved sister; Ramza, who was nearly his brother; and finally Princess Ovelia. He had come so far, worked so hard, but it had been for nothing. He had changed the world, used the users to make the world a beautiful place again. But the beauty in his life was dead, her blood on his forsaken hands.
Sorrow was not the only trouble to visit itself upon Delita. Fear blossomed, not long after her death, and held a firm grip to this very day. His powers, achieved through embracing the holy powers of God, were gone. Delita knew himself now to be a Holy Knight no longer. Along with his God- given magic, something else inside the cursed monarch died. His will to live, his will to succeed was long gone. These past fifteen years advanced through force, taking his years from him prematurely. Delita was only forty, yet he felt much older, looked it too.
The carriage jerked to an abrupt halt. Delita could hear the death cries of the Chocobos, probably pierced with arrows judging by the gurgle in their throats. So, this was how the cursed monarch was to die? The door of the carriage was cleaved in two, sending splinters flying. A knight with an unfamiliar crest on his armor held the sword, motioning for Lord Hyral to remove himself.
"Come, Lord, You are needed," the stranger ordered. Prepared to meet his end with dignity, Delita stood. His armor clanked as he walked, stepping determinedly down the carriage steps. In front of him was the knight. Behind the knight were four squires and two archers. The troupe looked malnourished, weak. Delita noticed the archers were holding their bows incorrectly. Hard times had hit these young men, so hard that they were driven to this recklessness. This was to be Delita's fate? Struck down by these desperate soldiers? He had had only a few guards, not wanting to draw attention to himself, otherwise this would be no threat at all. But in this day and age, not being noticed was more valuable than intimidation.
The kingdom of Ivalice had fallen apart shortly after unification. Without his spirit, Delita Hyral had proven himself a poor ruler, barely holding the lands together. He was blamed for the death of Ovelia and rumors spread like wildfire. While separate in truth, Ivalice was held together by the Zodiac Brave legend, the twelve stones held in Bethla Garrison. Nobody knew the powers they truly possessed; yet they knew Lord Hyral held all twelve. Soldiers paid to spread propaganda used this fact to relate their lord to Saint Ajora. While nobody truly believed it, it served as the glue that held together the lands. But that didn't matter now.
Delita drew his sword, placing himself in a defensive stance. Revolution did not come without a price, and if these men wanted to change the world, he would see to it that they began by paying the price. The squires drew their axes, the knight using his position to charge Delita. A foolish move, making the first attack. Delita effortlessly ducked under the charging blade, ramming his sword up to the hilt in the unfortunate knight's armor. The man sputtered and gagged, spitting blood onto Delita's back.
"If you want to change the world," Delita growled, shoving the dead man from his sword with a sickening squishing sound, "You must be prepared to lose all you hold dear!" Now the squires rushed him, arrows zipping through the air. Delita spun high, his sword cleaving through the wooden sections of the axes. The arrows missed by several feet as he ducked, slamming a shoulder into one of the hapless squires. He stumbled backwards, but not too far; Delita swung the hilt of his sword into the man's jaw, shattering it.
"You've tainted this land for far too long, Hyral! We're sick and tired of nothing ever changing! Change will begin with your end," the remaining squire yelled, drawing his knife. Delita turned to him, prepared for this one as well. He just barely heard the whistle of an arrow, but by then it was too late. The projectile buried itself deep in Delita's armor, knocking him forward. A second arrow tore through the armor in his thigh, drawing blood and sending a ripping pain through Delita's body.
The squire pressed harder, throwing himself to the side as Delita's sword swished past his ear. A sharp pain alerted Lord Hyral that the squire had succeeded; the knife was buried in his chest. The end of an era was near, the end of the cursed monarch was upon the world. But Delita's time was not yet up.
"Master of all swords," he gasped, muscles shuddering in pain, "Master of all swords . . ." The will drained from him, dripping away like pus from a broken blister. Life and love flashed before his eyes, things he would hereby forsake. "Cut energy!" It was more of an undead roar than an order, "Night Sword!" Pain like he had never felt tore through Hyral's body. Every tendon snapped, every blood vessel felt as if it were bursting. Through tear- blurred vision he could barely make out the twisting snakes of black energy drawing themselves to the blade of his sword. The squire stood, motionless in fear, as the end drew upon him.
The orb, the nexus, formed over his head first, its radiance sparkling like a thousand dead fairies, dripping like a priest's blood drawn by unholy blade to the pure earth, now defiled by hate. The ground responded with its fury, the dark blade of the Night Sword ripping through the ground as if it were the embodiment of the world's sorrow and suffering. The squire's soul was caught upon the spiritual blade, ripping from the body like an infant from its mother's arms. It collided, the buffer between the orb and the blade, as all three shattered and rippled out of existence.
The defilement was drawn to the snakes of negative radiance, their impurity leaving Delita feeling defiled, raped. The life stolen raced into his own veins, the knife and arrows falling to the ground as if dropped by a careless child. The snakes recoiled, vanishing into the hilt of the blade.
He was cured. The squire's life fed his own, the soul healing every inch of his physical body. All he knew now was this: Delita Hyral was dead. This unnamed warrior, this unknown monstrosity of human nature, glared at the remaining archers.
"Anyone who asks," he growled, "Anyone who asks you. Tell them that Delita Hyral is dead. He was dead where you found him and you burned the carriage." The archers nodded dumbly, as he knew they would, and ran like the cowards they were.
The fallen monarch, the wasted warrior, the lost soul gazed at his golden armor, the hands which held the sword he had tainted. But they were not gold. The armor was the color of rust and dried blood, a sickening combination of age and gore. He wanted to vomit, he wanted to scream.
He wanted to feel anything at all.
Cold, dead eyes looked upon the world, upon the forest of the dead. The trees clawed at him like the undead beasts they were, yet wisely kept their distance. The wraith held his hand out, whispering the one spell he could remember.
Light danced before the hand of the fallen warlord, swirling green lights. They twisted and contorted, wrapped and bound. The light tied together, forming an orb. And then it shattered. Fire sprung up around the carriage, but not earthly fire. It was tainted, just like the rest of the Dark Knight's soul. Black, non-fire, controlled. It did not really exist, and yet it did.
The magic fire danced, a dance of twisted and exotic carnage that had been seen many times before, yet each time it was fresh and exciting. The fire's beauteous dance almost made up for the destruction it caused. Almost. The dance reduced the carriage to a burnt husk in very little time, yet it continued to smolder and stink with the rest of the corpses.
The no longer Delita would have smiled if he could; the beauty of the flames had for an instant brought him closer to humanity. But life as a human was over. They would fill his shoes at Bethla Garrison, the latest eager face would become the puppet monarch. Intricate governments would be set up to hide the incompetence and failures of the latest machine. Everything that went wrong would be blamed on him, the evil Lord Hyral who had led Ivalice to ruins. But Ivalice came broken, like a defective child's playtoy.
That was all kingdoms really were, toys. Toys the biggest bully hoarded for himself, played with them until he reduced them to little splinters, then threw them away. That bully was Vormav. But he was dead now, dead with Ramza. Or at least that's what the former Delita assumed. Neither Vormav nor Ramza had been heard from in fifteen years, they were surely dead.
Perhaps he would continue what Vormav started, perhaps the world needed Lucavi. Perhaps twelve Zodiac Braves would bring about the cleansing the world so needed. There was only one way to find out.
And so the fallen lord turned from what was left of his life, what was left of his love, his hope, his humanity; and descended into the darkness.