He was awake again.
Ostrava had spent the last few hours after his initial awakening somewhere between consciousness and deep slumber, but this was his first bout of total awareness since. Yet, he lay quiescent, almost corpselike, with his head perched upon Alvira's lap. No one knew otherwise his condition but her, betrayed by the subtle change in his breathing.
"Do you need anything?" Alvira asked softly, and at the sound of her voice, Ostrava knew true peace.
And it was baffling that, really, he could feel like this with a person he barely even knew, and he wondered if she felt the same.
To that end, he only desired to hear her speak more, and to rectify his ignorance. He'd scarcely evaded death, and had he not, he'd have left this world with no knowledge of just who his many-time savior actually is.
"You…" he murmured, his own voice scraping against the back of his throat and causing him to cough. Alvira raised her brow in concerned question. "I want… to know…" Another haggard cough, and then, "… you."
"You do know me," she joked, but lowered her eyes when he didn't laugh. Then, she said more seriously, "That's not a happy tale, Ostrava. Perhaps we should talk about something more-?"
Ostrava shook his head and crossed his arms, expressing wordlessly that he was adamant. She looked away, and to this, he rasped a pitiful "Please?"
Alvira sighed and gazed back at him, and even in the dark, she could see the longing glistening in his eyes, shattering her will.
"… Okay," she surrendered, and Ostrava smiled. "I suppose that I'll just start from the beginning…"
Having grown up in the mountainous region of the Uncivilized Lands, Ammit had witnessed her fair share of catastrophe by the time of her fourth birthday, much of it committed by her own people. Born to the pagan tribe Sheitan, she frequently bore audience to the worst of humanity's crimes: murder, cannibalism, rape. These acts were sacred rituals performed by her people upon an altar carved of the twisted wiles of Yggdrasil, their tenets written in blood upon it. The victims were sacrifices eagerly offered in hopes to appease their god's bottomless pit of hunger.
Their god was known as the "Old One." It was an ancient being presumed to have existed since the origin of time, infinitely wise and powerful. Though, the Old One was distinctly absent from the world, laid to slumber by the blasphemous "blind ones," those worshipping a false god whom they declared to have been the progenitor of the Old One.
The Sheitan believed that they could revive the Old One from Its eternal sleep by offering It souls, and by doing so, would become Its chosen. They would once more become learned of the Soul Arts, and after they'd gathered enough souls, would then be granted ascension into a higher state.
Countless souls were given, and each one lost was etched deeply into Ammit's memory, never to be forgotten.
Truly, no evil deed had escaped her eye. When she openly reviled her people's brutish practices, they called her "accursed," born with eyes that could not see. And so, they were covered, marking her curse for all the world to bear notice of her sciolism.
And those branded as "accursed" were favored as sacrifices.
It was said that the Old One's hunger could be deciphered by the phases of the moon. A full moon meant that Its appetite had been satisfied, and likewise, a new moon represented Its most ravenous gluttony.
Ammit had seen a myriad of new moons, but not once had it been full.
She had never been a believer of gods, the Old One or otherwise. But when the new moon came, and she was the first to be sat upon the altar, she prayed to whoever was listening to spare her life.
And when the ritual's overseer fell dead at the foot of the altar, she knew she'd been heard.
They came as saviors, bastions of celestial light, and servants of God's will. Adorned in plates of silver, no malice could harm them. And so, the battle was one-sided, ephemeral. There was naught her tribe could do but perish beneath their holy blades and divine tenacity.
"The Old One will save us all!" they'd claimed, even as their bodies piled into the dirt one atop the next. "Uncover your eyes!"
When the last of Ammit's tribesmen were slain, the blindfold she'd been forced to wear was peeled from her eyes, and finally, she was allowed to see the truth. A silver-clad knight, surrounded by the bodies of her kinfolk and steeped in their blood, extended a hand to her.
"You are a child of God now," the man stated, his voice benevolent. "Come, young one. Take my hand."
And so, they left that harrowing place, and it was then that Ammit knew that she would serve this God forever.
One year had gone by since Nemina had been brought here. Initially, she had been treated as an unsavory outcast, a worthless pagan. "Outsider; dreg" they'd stigmatized her as they spat at her feet, turning away from her in disgust. They clothed her in rags and revoked her name, acts of humbling oneself, and she'd served at the altar since the day she arrived, scrubbing away each and every speck of dust that corrupted its purity until her fingers blistered and bled.
And yet, the young girl always smiled. God did not preach hatred, and so, she'd found none within her heart. Instead, she prayed that one day the people around her would come to accept her as one of them, that she could validate herself and earn her title.
God answered her once again.
The day of her baptism had finally arrived. They took her and bathed her in a warm spring, scouring away the grime and filth that had accumulated on her skin all those months, taking special care with the matted strands of brown hair that shined a snowy blonde when all of the dreck washed away. Her bloodied rags were replaced with a white robe woven of the finest silks, her hair braided, and thus, she was presented to the clergy anew.
They bade her to kneel once more upon the foot of the altar, and she fell abruptly to her knees with her head bowed and hands clasped within her lap. Someone knelt beside her, and she knew from his mere presence alone that this was the man who had rescued her.
"God claims you as His own," he spoke, and she shivered as she felt God embrace her very soul. "Receive the sign of the Tree."
And upon her forehead the Tree was drawn with sacred oils, and water blessed in the church's font was poured upon her head by the vicar. When the last droplet settled into her skin, she opened her eyes to the clergy once more. They smiled upon her, and then her hand was taken. She looked up into the eyes of the man that had shown her God, and her own eyes grew wide with awe, as it was the first time she'd ever seen him without his silver helmet; his irises were a deep, oceanic blue, and his hair was nearly as pale as her own, spilling down his back to hang just above his waist. He was clean-shaven, the defined line of his wide jaw on full display. His fuchsia-shaded lips tugged into a smile, too, and the girl was so wrought with joy that tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the purified water to fall into her now open palm.
"I, Caerwyn Vinland, hereby pronounce you daughter of my house, and name you 'Alvira Vinland,'" he trumpeted proudly. The girl startled, her confusion evident in the way she held her breath.
"Father…?"
The man nodded, and the once nameless girl fell into his arms, now sobbing avidly. He pulled her close, his hand encasing the back of her head as the girl's frail frame rattled and her small fingers scrabbled at him, searching for anything to hold on to. He breathed a laugh, scooping the child into his arms and rising.
She had found her home at long last.
"Father!" two children cried in unison as they walked through the door. Alvira peeped over her shoulder with a still teary eye, and the children, one boy and one girl, skidded to a halt when they saw her.
The girl had short, sandy hair that shaped a heart around her round face and wide, hazel eyes. The boy, contrarily, was a dead ringer of his father, with white-blonde hair that swaddled his shoulders, and the same aquatic irises, bracketed by nearly black eyelashes.
"Who's that?" the girl chirped, pointing at Alvira.
"This is your new sister," her father told them, and to this, the girl gave a whoop of glee while the boy groaned in disdain.
"She's an outsider!" the boy griped, folding his arms, and puffing his lower lip out in an overdrawn pout. Alvira hid her face in her father's shoulder, suddenly discouraged by the boy's denial of her.
Alvira felt him shift to a knee, and he set her down upon the ground. She was reluctant to let go, but he easily wrung her fingers from him and turned her around to face her new siblings. Their sister rushed forward and hugged her while their father chastised their brother for his rudeness.
"I'm Selen!" the girl introduced, bouncing up and down on her heels in sheer excitement.
"I'm Alvira…" she replied quietly, her glassy eyes trained on the boy, who was glaring at her now. Their father nudged him forward, and he nearly tripped over his own feet. "Garl," he huffed after he caught himself. When their gazes clashed, he bared his teeth at her in a grimace and walked away.
But the girl, Selen, commandeered her attention instantly when she tugged on her forearm. "Wanna see my dolls?" she giggled, already yanking her in the direction of her room before Alvira could mutter a response.
"Sure…" she said anyway, but her mind was elsewhere, lingering on the angry boy and his ardent rejection, and Alvira prayed that he would come to view her as an equal like the others had.
On the eve of Alvira's fifteenth birthday, it was decided that she, like her brother and sister, would become a Knight of the Temple. And while her siblings left home to labor under different households, Alvira remained.
After serving their father as a page for eight years, she had shown great potential. She became well-versed with wooden weapons, displaying grace, elegance, and quick wit in the place of strength. Rarely did she depend on the safety of a shield, opting instead to weave around her father's attacks with the tip of her weapon soon pressed to his back.
She was just as competent when handling a horse, and it was upon discovering her proficiency with long-ranged weapons and tactics that she sheathed her sword and took up the halberd. A marked improvement was then illustrated as she danced around her father's blade, keeping him at a safe distance whilst threatening to cut him down. She was formidable, even given the gap in their experience.
And thus, her squireship became official. Her father presented to her a set of resplendent golden armor, and soon after, she was accompanying him in battle. They were frequently dispatched to neighboring countries to quash the growth of paganistic tribes much like the one she had been born into, and Alvira relished the fact that she was given the opportunity to defend God's honor in exchange for the new life He had granted her.
Her feats in war eventually earned her the title of knight, and her dubbing ceremony was performed by her father before the Temple. It was there that she took a formal oath to protect her homeland and her church; and to reflect her oath, her grandfather, the archbishop, blessed her weapon, chiseling the phrase "And He walked through them, all the way" upon the blade's head.
And though Alvira's apprenticeship had begun much later than her siblings', she had been the first to be knighted. Selen was the next, and Garl the last, each returning home after their respective ceremonies. Selen had been elated with her sister's success, but Garl had responded to the news much less eloquently.
"Duel with me, Outsider," were his introductory words to her since his departure many years earlier. Alvira relented, both embittered and profusely disheartened by her brother's continued disapproval even after she'd demonstrated the staunchness of her faith many times over.
So, they took to the fields, each fully adorned in their armor and weapons. Their parents and sister observed dolefully as the two took a battle stance, Alvira with her halberd, and Garl with his giant hammer, Bramd. They charged at each other, one with the intent to kill, the other determined to prove herself once and for all.
Garl struck first, swinging his weapon in a remarkable show of vigor. Still, its trajectory was easy enough for Alvira to anticipate. She twisted around it, skirting behind her brother and aiming her halberd at his knees with a horizontal slice. He wheeled around, just barely able to parry the attack with his shield, and he capitalized on his advantage immediately, blitzing at her as her weapon fumbled in her grasp.
He raised the hammer above his head with one hand, and Alvira balked at his monstrous strength as it smashed against the ground; and though she managed to side-step the attack, it sunk the earth by her feet, distorting her fragile equilibrium. She fell sharply to the ground, spraining her wrist as she tried to catch herself, only making the descent more irreparable. Still, she rolled out of the way as Bramd was slammed against the ground once more, and she recovered just before Garl yanked his weapon out of the dirt. Now, the advantage was hers, and she hacked at her brother's ankle; and despite the fact that she could not breech his armor, he was forced to take a knee. She then looped her weapon's long handle around his neck, pulling upward until his throat was bared.
"Checkmate, brother," Alvira said by his ear. To this, Garl only laughed.
"I am not your brother," he growled back before gripping the weapon and snatching it away from her, using the handle to knock her to the turf and tossing it aside in favor of his own weapon. When Alvira was recumbent, he pressed his foot into her chest and took Bramd within both hands, holding the weapon high as if to bring its full weight down upon her.
"Garl, that's enough!" their father yelled, hurrying towards them. Garl glowered at them both, dropping his weapon demurringly. And with that, he turned his back upon them, leaving their father to pick Alvira up off the floor as he retired to their estate.
A nurse tended to her injuries that evening, although they were nothing serious. By morning, Garl had gone, whether called out to duty or of his own volition, one could only guess.
Little did Alvira know then that her brother would never return.
Several years passed.
In those years, Alvira took up archery to further her long-ranged arsenal, and had developed skill with a bow just as adept as her swordsmanship. She had specialized in mounted warfare and was permanently assigned to her father's military unit. Selen eventually left home to head an excursion in the Ruins of Mird, and not long after, Alvira's unit was deployed to the Uncivilized Lands to abolish another tribe that had spread throughout the continent like an untamed wildfire.
They took to the seas forthwith, and a month was spent navigating the chaotic waters of the So-Hanged Ocean. They arrived in-tact only thanks to God's divine mercy, though once they made landfall, the natives promptly took notice.
The moon did not show its face when twilight befell them, submerging their troop into an impenetrable darkness. As it was now impossible to travel, they established a defensive perimeter against the side of a mountain with one of their most hawk-eyed archers designated as watch.
It did nothing to protect them, in the end.
They descended upon them like thieves in the night, silent in the beginning. Then, the camp erupted into pandemonium as the first flame was set.
A ring of fire ignited around their campsite, trapping everyone inside; and unlike a natural fire, this one did not seek to consume, as if it were being coerced not to do so. Alvira's unit rose to the challenge, weapons at the ready.
And so, the bloodbath ensued; though it was by Alvira's own that she was painted crimson.
They were caged like rats inside the flames, their assailants safely guarded on the other side. They could not be seen, yet their howling laughter could be heard. Then, a second ring of vivid white light coalesced around them. The knights raised their shields, confident that they would be insulated from their enemy's onslaught.
Instead, they dropped as one weight as they were impaled upon the spectral silhouettes of Soul Arrows, the only one still standing being Alvira herself. Devastated by shock, she could only stare on in horror as a lone man walked through the malevolent flames, his green eyes managing to glow even amidst the near blinding intensity of the fire surrounding them.
He reached for her, and Alvira would have recoiled from his hand had she not been petrified by fear and despair. The man cusped her jaw, and even as the shadows devoured his features, Alvira could tell that he was grinning at her.
"You are our own," he said in his foreign tongue, but Alvira understood because she still knew that language herself. A solitary tear formed in her eye that dripped against the man's fingers, and he chuckled. "Ammit."
Alvira screamed, and she rebuked him then, smacking his hand and backing away, only to trip over the cooling carcasses of her fallen comrades. With a snap of his fingers, the flames went out, and the tribesmen left her there inside her own delirium, with only death itself to soothe her.
"Father?" she shouted, searching aimlessly in the dark amongst the bodies for any signs of life, flipping them over one by one. "Father!" she tried again. There was no response.
He couldn't be dead. He couldn't be.
One of the bodies moaned not far off, and she ran to it, collapsing beside the unidentified man. She couldn't make out who he was through the murk, so she called for her father once more, and this time, she received a reply.
"Alvira," he gasped through bloody lips, and he held his hand out to her for her to take. She clutched it harshly, begging him to stay even though they both knew in their hearts that these would be his dying words.
"God calls for me," her father said, and in his tone she found not worry, but somber acceptance. Still, Alvira hunched over in prayer, reciting God's healing verses aloud in an attempt to save his life.
"It's okay, my daughter." His fingers laced around hers weakly, and she imagined his face in lieu of being able to see it, and he smiled even as he lay gory and mangled on enemy soil. "I am not afraid. Do not weep for me, for my spirit will be taken into God's loving embrace, and I will languish no more."
"Don't go," Alvira pleaded, breaking her prayer when God failed to answer. "Don't leave. Father, please; I love you, I need you still; please don't leave!"
"I love you, too," he whispered, the strength rapidly draining from his fingers. Alvira felt the moment his soul left him, his grasp now absent, his body heat fading into the wind. She cried for him; cried until he became rigid and cold, and further still, until the golden rays of dawn finally illuminated his gaunt visage.
Her sorrow gave way to fury. How dare the sun rise upon this day, as if nothing was awry?
She turned to the east to scream her animosity into the sun, but still it climbed higher into the sky, dismissive of her misery. Then, she redirected her anger towards the one who had ignored her prayers.
"God, why didn't you save him?" she roared, her voice bouncing off the cliffs to ring back at her. "He was Your servant!"
Again, she was ignored. It was the only instance in her life that God had refused her, and she wondered if she'd done something wrong, if perhaps she'd provoked His fury and her father had been taken as recompense.
She didn't bother to seek God's reply. She simply sat there with her father's husk, wishing that he would open his eyes and bless her with his smile. When she finally recognized that he would awaken no more, she stripped him of his armor and weapons, as opposed to leaving them to rot in this God forsaken place. She then dug a grave for him at the cliffside, so that the waters below would cradle him, lulling him in their comfort until the end of days.
Alvira returned home alone.
When she recounted to her mother what had transpired, she was deeply grieved, though she did not shed any tears for her dead husband. On the contrary, she was just as quick to accept his demise as he, himself, had been.
"He died because it was God's will," she muttered into her folded palms, having just finished a prayer for her dearly departed. Alvira hung her head low, dissatisfied with her mother's conclusion.
"Why does God make us fight?" she murmured. "Why must we die for Him?"
Her mother's eyes shifted to her, then. "There is great evil in this world, Alvira," she explained softly. "And so long as it festers, so too must we resist it, lest it overtake us all."
"And what if I no longer wish to fight?"
To this, her mother smiled sadly. "Then you will have allowed evil to conquer you."
Alvira was taken aback and looked to the other woman. She seemed so much older now, with her eyes darkened and face contorted in her mourning. She met her gaze, and even beneath her anguish, Alvira could see that her will was yet unbroken.
"Your name means 'Defender,'" her mother said suddenly. "It was your father's gift to you." She stood when she heard a pot boiling in the kitchen, scuffling off without another word and abandoning Alvira to her thoughts as she was faced with this new revelation.
Her father had always defended the things he cherished with virtue, and to that end, Alvira had sworn an oath to do the same. It would be an insult to his memory to forsake her ideals, his ideals, and it was readily apparent that her father would have wanted her to continue to serve, to defend, their family, their home, and their church, in the name of God.
So, she took up his mantle, shedding her now dull gold armor and donning his still impeccable silver, knowing that her father was with her, even in death.
Shortly after Alvira had come home, she was summoned to the church for an urgent matter. An envoy from Boletaria had arrived upon their doorstep the night before and had told stories of an unfathomable horror ravaging the land. Demons had besieged his kingdom and stolen the souls of the living. A thick, colorless fog had taken root there, and already half of the kingdom had been lost, unable to be reclaimed. He believed that should the demons be allowed to thrive there, that their influence would spread throughout the world, consuming all life, until there was nothing left.
Alvira had been the one sole volunteer brave enough to investigate, and thus, she had set out the following night with only her horse to keep her company. It took her many weeks to finally reach the Boletarian border, and once there, she had pierced the veil of the fog and confronted the demonic scourge directly, though she hadn't stood a chance. She'd been slain almost instantly, only managing to survive for mere seconds beyond her due because her horse had fled the threat, but the animal had signed her death warrant once it bucked her off.
Her soul would have been taken like the rest, had the Monumental not intervened. It was then that she had entered the Nexus and been bound to her new destiny.
Ostrava studied Alvira through half-lidded eyes as her story came to a close. She'd become distant in her recollection, as if she were reliving the events as she told them. Ostrava drew her back to the present when he stood from her lap, hauling her into his arms as he seized her tightly. He still couldn't speak, but he would show her through action just how grateful he was to finally be able to see her, and that he empathized with her suffering. The message was received, and after a moment of bewildered silence, Alvira returned his embrace.
"Thank you, Ostrava."
Author's note: As you can now see, Alvira is not actually my OC's original name, though her previous titles hold significance of their own.
"Ammit" is derived from Egyptian mythology, and her name means "Devourer of the Dead" or "soul-eater." Though she was said to be a god, she was sometimes more accurately described as a demon.
"Nemina" is the feminine version of the Latin "Nemo," meaning "no one." In this story's context, it is less a name and more a means to refer to someone who is forsaken in God's eye and must earn their name through service to Him.
And as a side note, "Caerwyn" means "white battle."