by She-Ronin
Part One: Feel
"It's funny how you feel so much
But cannot say a word
We are screaming inside
Though we can't be heard..."
--Sarah McLachlan, "I Will Remember You"
When snow fell and settled on the city of Deningrad, it always seemed to her that diamonds had drifted down from the sky to blanket everything around her. Diamonds falling one by one… She didn't know how long she'd been standing out there in the glittering blanket of white, heedless of the biting wind. In all honesty, she didn't care all that much. Cold was… solid somehow, and it grounded her to reality. Wrapping her arms tightly about herself, Miranda, First Sacred Sister of Mille Seseau tipped back her head to gaze at the starry night sky, allowing herself to fall backwards…
Her body hit the ground with a crisp crushing of snow and a flurry of white flakes. It hurt a little, but a thing so trivial as physical pain had never particularly concerned Sister Miranda. She was like the country she served in that respect—harsh and unyielding, possibly even cruel at times. Diamonds, she thought again, and wearily spread her arms out on either side of her. Ice-like diamonds…
A small, impractical part of her wished she could stay outside, just like this, lying there cross-like until the snow covered her like the burial shroud that would soon cover Queen Theresa. It seemed pointless to her that she'd Done Her Duty and saved the world, only to discover the power she had couldn't even save the Queen. If I had known sooner, I could have changed things! I know I could have.
The doctors had been next to useless, examining Theresa and taking more than their fair share of money in the process. All they had truly done was confirm what she had already figured out on her own. The disease had likely been with the Queen for years, infecting her insides so innocuously that not even Miranda had been aware of it. Only in this past year when the Queen had begun to feel the pains in her stomach had Miranda even suspected something was wrong. The moment she'd begun to worry, she'd taken the White Silver Dragon Orb and commanded it to do what it did best. She'd wanted it to heal, to make her 'mother' well again. The stone had been cold and lifeless in her hand—that was when she'd known it was too late. Perhaps early on, the illness could have been purged from her body, like a poison, but it hadn't been caught quickly enough.
The blonde woman moved suddenly, reaching her arm under the collar of her white shirt, uncaring of the fabric that stretched out of shape as she yanked the spirit out from under it. The golden chain she'd strung through it—funny how the spirits reshaped their forms when needed—glimmered mockingly at her. She stared at the silvery orb wordlessly and felt a horrible urge to throw the horrible thing away so that she'd never have to look at it again. "What good are you, huh?" she demanded quietly. "Stupid piece of shit."
Miranda didn't stir at the sound of snow crunching from behind; she merely continued glaring at the marble-shaped object in her hand accusingly.
"I wish you wouldn't curse like that. It's… not polite."
In response to Wink's hesitant words, her lips merely quirked up into a bitter little smile. "Well, fuck me," the First Sacred Sister drawled sarcastically, "I guess if I'm going to be royalty, I should clean up my act."
If she was going to be royalty—if; she let the unspoken statement hang in the air.
Wink swallowed back a sigh. Please, Miranda, I don't want to deal with this right now,she pleaded silently, not with all that's happening. She absently rubbed one aching temple and knelt down, wincing as the cold stung her stockinged legs beneath her skirt. It was too cold to be out here like this, in little more than her bedclothes. She had never understood how Miranda seemed to deal with Deningrad's weather so… nonchalantly. "You're going to freeze to death one of these days."
The snow could cover her like a burial shroud. "Doubtful," she returned, stretching out languidly on the ground.
"Her Majesty asked me to come and get you." She tapped the woman gently on the shoulder and promptly winced as she received a narrow-eyed glare in response. "And, ah…"
"And what?"
Mumble.
"Wink."
Wink suddenly seemed to find the end of her golden braid terribly fascinating. "Lord Adrik is in there with her."
Miranda climbed awkwardly to her feet, dusting the snow from her damp clothing. Adrik, she realized, and tucked the Dragoon spirit back underneath her white tunic. Why wouldn't Adrik be in there with her? He is her 'nephew' after all.
She couldn't stand the Lord of Rovyanka, and the feeling had been mutual from the day the two of them first met. "Don't worry. The two of us can keep our tongues civil when we have to."
If Adrik and Miranda were able to get along so well, then why had she suddenly developed that horrible tic in her cheek at the mention of his name? Wink smiled lamely and merely nodded, as if to reassure Miranda that she agreed with her completely. "Well, if you really think so."
There were times like this that she was forced to admit she, well, wondered about Miranda and if she were really as collected as she seemed. Then, Wink would see her striding about the castle, commanding as any queen, slapping the insolent this way and that, and she knew she had to be wrong. Miranda was just Miranda, brusque and icy-cold.
"I do," the other woman replied quietly. I've always done what I must for Queen Theresa. She outstretched her hand to help Wink up and the smaller woman accepted it, closing her fingers around Miranda's own in a grip that was surprisingly firm. "Now come on; we can't keep the Queen waiting."
"Safe journey!" Haschel waved cheerfully after the plump, retreating form that was scuttling off down the streets of the city. All in all, the brown-skinned, Rouge native was now a happy man, as he had a nice-sized bag of gold currently burning a hole in his pocket. He was just itching to spend some of it, too… If only.
Merchant Dua paused and turned to give the pair a brief, wary glance before continuing on his way. Haschel grunted and crossed his arms over his chest. "How do you like that? Not even a good-bye." There had been an incident in the Evergreen Forest where the fat old guy had almost been killed by an angry Moss Dresser, but he'd been certain Dua had gotten over it. "You youngsters have no respect for old people nowadays."
His companion shot him a narrow-eyed look and merely shrugged. Kongol wasn't exactly a 'youngster', but he'd already learned that arguing with an elderly martial arts master would get him absolutely nowhere. The Giganto nudged a small pile of broken shards with the tip of his sizeable foot, taking in the majestic sight of the Crystal Palace in the distance. The city was almost deathly silent this night, as if it had anticipated their arrival.
Due to the assistance of many Winglies aiding in the reconstruction of the castler, Deningrad was far different from the decimated rubble left behind by the Divine Dragon King. However, it was also a far cry from the regal city it had once been. It's like it's slowly… falling, almost the way the Giganto Holy Land did.
Almost like the Holy-Land did; somehow, Kongol doubted Deningrad was still littered with the bodies of her dead.
He was so intent on his study of the castle that he was only dimly aware that Haschel was saying something- or- other about finding lodgings for the night. Normally he kept a close eye on how much they spent—especially considering Haschel's spending habits, but tonight things like saving money seemed rather trivial.
"Whatever Haschel wants to do is fine with Kongol," was his absent reply.
Traveling with him for as long as he had made Haschel well aware of the warrior's thrifty habits and he knew that an opportunity like this was not one to be missed. Oho! You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that. Crossing his arms behind his back, the martial artist gave his companion a beatific smile. "Someplace nice where we can put our feet up, then."
The large male shifted the cloth-wrapped bundle on his shoulder to a more comfortable angle. "Fine. Sounds good."
"Mm. Yes, it does, doesn't it?" I bet I know what's so fascinating about that castle. Haschel sighed and patted his pocket, gleefully listening to the chinking of coins. Ah, youth!
A quick stroll down a few of the winding, cobbled streets yielded few options for the two travelers, but as the Violet Dragoon was the one choosing the inn for once, the ramshackle Squeaky Spring was written off in favor of the far cozier North Star Inn. "It's one thing to visit one of those places, but I'm not spending the night in one of them."
"Isn't 'spending the night' the whole point if you're at the Squeaky Spring?"
Haschel didn't bother to hide his smirk. "That all depends on who you're with."
With a soft squeaking of door hinges and the thudding of boots on smooth hardwood floors, the two Dragoons made their way through the lobby and to the front desk. Soft whispers sounded as, almost all at once, the people milling about the room released whom the two snow-dusted travelers were.
"Giganto—"
"Then that would make him—"
The innkeeper stared at them for a long, silent moment, eyebrows upraised. To his credit, the Tiberoan native didn't seem to be particularly intimidated by the sight of an eight-foot tall man with a particularly sizeable axe standing so casually in front of his desk. Haschel frowned inwardly at that. So much for using Kongol's presence to haggle the price down. "Twenty gold pieces," he offered flatly, plunking two of the coins down on the countertop.
"Fifty gold pieces per night," the innkeeper returned just as evenly. "Sixty if you," at this, he paused and eyed Kongol, no doubt wondering if he could back up his claim, "want a bath."
"Thirty."
"Did you not hear me the first time? It's fifty gold pieces." Dark hands slapped down flat on the scratched wooden surface of the counter. He leaned forward and glared at the martial artist, his eyes flint-hard slits in his face. "If you don't want to pay the fee, then you and the Giganto can go to the Squeaky Spring down the road!"
Kongol ignored the stares of those around him, and gazed stonily at the wall, crossing his free arm up across his chest to grasp the wrapped handle with both hands. He muttered under his breath, "maybe old man should have let 'the Giganto' decide where we stayed after all."
Haschel snorted indignantly, whirling around to protest his friend's faulty logic. "Now, you did say I could choose. It wouldn't be fair to change your mind."
"Fifty gold."
Such a waste of hard-earned money. Kongol sighed loudly, beginning to drum his fingers across the haft of the axe. Why does he always have to do this? He tells me I'm cheap often enough, but he's always the one arguing with the merchants.
Transferring the heavy mass back to one hand, he reached out, attempting to snag up the purse with a motion that was surprisingly deft. Haschel transferred the purse to his other hand, dangling it mockingly between two fingers. "Keep practicing and maybe someday you'll be as quick as I am."
"Haschel." He inhaled a deep breath to soothe his frazzled nerves before continuing. Waste of money or not, he was not in the mood to deal with these kinds of antics. Not here, in this city of all places. "Pay him."
The innkeeper didn't bat an eyelash. "Yes. Please, pay me." An unspoken 'or get out' seemed to hover ominously upon the smoky air, causing Haschel to bristle further. However, when he caught sight of the look on Kongol's face he bit back his rather nasty reply, scowling.
"Here." Three more coins joined the few already on the desk. "If we want a bath, we'll go ahead and pay you in the morning." Bandit.
A single key was tossed nonchalantly into the air to be caught neatly by bony brown fingers. The Tiberoan and the Dragoon stared at one another for a second as if they were each sizing up an opponent on the battlefield. Watching the two men 'face-off', Kongol wouldn't have been surprised to discover the innkeeper was born to Thunder. Those born under the influence of the Thunder element were supposedly inclined to clash with one another. He had never really bought into the astrology and the influences of the elements, but Haschel did, and after one year, he knew far more about horoscopes and arrogant Thunder elementals than he'd ever cared to know.
"Which room?" he asked in a valiant attempt to break their staring contest.
Surprisingly—or perhaps not—it worked.
"Down the hall, third door from the left."
Hacshel trailed reluctantly after Kongol as the Giganto marched off, leaving no room for him to argue. His cheek twitched in reaction to the insincere, "The North Star Inn thanks you for your business. Have a pleasant evening."
"Hn!" the Violet Dragoon grunted. Perhaps the Squeaky Spring would have been more hospitable! Why did all the rude, cranky old guys live in Deningrad, anyway? There had been that sort-of—but-not-quite-overbearing Librarian Ute to deal with the last time everyone had been here, and on their second 'real' trip, they encountered that aged fool!
He fumbled the key into the lock on the cedar wood door, all the while grumbling about the elderly needing to be decent role models for all the 'young people' that looked up to them. Kongol brushed past him as he pushed the door open, the cloth-wrapped axe slung over his shoulder slamming loudly into the doorframe in the process. Hinges rattled, and Haschel ducked down slightly to avoid the heavy weapon. "Careful, there. I don't want to be hit on the head with that again!"
His reply was a quick, honey-colored glance that was followed by, "Sorry. Kongol wasn't paying attention."
I guess not. He couldn't help but feel a stab of sympathy for his awkward friend, who was so often lost in his own thoughts. What with arriving in Deningrad and the rumors of the Queen's impending death, Kongol's quiet tendencies were more pronounced than ever. It wasn't so much an attachment to the city, or its sickly monarch that had Kongol wound so tightly, but it wasn't his place to try and bring the warrior peace of mind. It's for you to work out, boy.
The villagers had whispered when they'd asked of Queen Theresa's health that she had little time left, and that Sister Miranda rarely left her side now. Most of all, they whispered that with the arrival of Lord Adrik Tainevel, 'trouble will follow'.
Neither of them had actually mentioned to the other about actually stopping by the castle, but it seemed to be an unspoken agreement that they would. Respects should be paid, and Miranda, for what it was worth, would at least know they were around. It wouldn't be for long, but they would be there.
As to why they wandered in the first place, it had begun with a simple letter from the King of Serdio himself. Kongol and Haschel had spent the days after Frahma's defeat peacefully enough, but with increasing restlessness. When the messenger from Serdio arrived at the tiny island of Rouge, two Dragoons eager for news of the outside world had immediately seized the parchment he carried. Unfortunately, Albert had never been one to get straight to the point, and the letter had gone on for two entire pages before either of them actually figured out what he was even talking about. A few verbose, elegantly scrawled lines near the end of the message had been enough for Kongol to decide to leave the island.
The time they'd spent on the road had been more eventful and exhausting than anything. Kongol had received his first offer as a bodyguard barely a day after they'd left 'home', the money earned financing their constant travels across Endiness. All they'd had to go off of were rumors that were passing from village to village and swiftly being warped into a bizarre urban legend. So bizarre, in fact, that the last villager Haschel talked to had taken one look at Kongol, assumed that he was said Giganto they were searching for, and began to scream that 'he had eaten her dog'.
When exactly was it that townspeople had become such sheep? Had they always been that way? Haschel didn't really know, but he had a feeling that mindlessly following the herd came naturally to his fellow peasants.
He tossed his heavy pack onto the floor and then promptly flopped onto one of the beds. A few feathers flew up into the air, and he sighed lazily. "We should wait until morning to drop in on Miranda. If we want to live to a ripe old age, that is."
The axe hit the floor with an exceptionally loud 'thud' as Kongol slammed the weapon down just a bit too forcefully. Right about now would be the time he was supposed to claim Haschel had already reached his old age, but he'd grown weary of the routine rather quickly today. So, we go to the castle tomorrow.
Best to leave him alone when he's in this kind of mood, the other man realized. This time, his sigh was unhappier, and his clear blue eyes were almost resigned as he flung one arm over his face. "This was the inn we took Shana to when Deningrad was attacked, remember?"
A slight, sarcastic smirk.
A short, searing glance.
A single scarred hand pulling away from the axe.
"Yes."
Haschel raised his arm away from his face and sat up, wincing as sore muscles protested at the movement. "Sooo… damned dragon nearly destroyed the place, Kongol."
The Giganto was already stripping the bedclothes from the other mattress, neatly laying the blue coverlet and sheets on the carpet. Even sleeping on the floor was more comfortable than trying to rest on a bed that was too small and flimsy to handle his weight. "The Humans rebuilt quickly," he replied automatically, his eyes heavy-lidded and shadowed in the dim light of the room. "Winglies had to have helped with the castle."
Normally, it was impossible for the martial artist to discern what his friend was thinking at times like these. However, eccentric as Haschel might be, he was by no means unobservant, and he realized more than Kongol thought he did. "All the more reason for me to go check and see if they made proper repairs to the bar downstairs!"
He tossed out a far too cheerful, "Going to get plastered! See you in the morning!" Before Kongol even had a chance to respond, the door slammed shut. He stared at the spot where Haschel had been seconds earlier, trying to wrap his mind around the idea that a man who had been complaining about wanting to rest suddenly decided to go carousing. He smacked his forehead with his palm, resisting the urge to call after Haschel and ask him to bring back a bottle of Fine Spirits. Tomorrow. I think maybe I can wait.
The sharp, gleaming shard of the Crystal Palace sparkled at him from the window, as if it were made of a thousand cold, mocking stars, and his eyes darkened as, in one smooth motion, he turned his back to it.
Slim, elegant fingers neatly slid beneath the corner of the page, turning it with a soft whisper of old parchment. "Hear that, Aunt? If a princely woodcutter can take time out of his busy schedule to rest, so can the Queen of Deningrad. Worry about getting better. Doctors, what do they know--"
Propped up on an obscenely large pile of pillows rested Her Royal Highness Queen Theresa. The pale, thin woman's brown hair was loosed from its typical knot on her head and the mass of it fell in a soft tumble down her shoulders and along her arms. She whispered a hoarse; "you're a liar, Adrik, but a kind one." Her smile was wan, yet almost too noticeable in a face that was far too thin.
Adrik's brown eyes flickered darkly at the prone form of the queen, her sharp, truthful words cutting him like a knife's edge. With the country's ruler near death and without an heir, the Sacred Sisters had undertaken the daunting task of running the country so that Theresa could live out her final days in peace. Most of them were too busy to come see her any longer than a few moments a day. Then the 'symbols of the queen' would be called back to serve God and country, and Theresa was left alone to her pain.
Yes, most of them were too busy to come see her, so other than he and one other, the Queen was alone. Wink had actually stopped by a few minutes ago, just long enough to exchange a few quick words with Theresa and to hear her request before she had to scurry off to do something else. His aunt had few people to speak to but for the he, the servants, and that blonde bitch, Miranda. I would guard the throne so that the Four in your final hours could surround you, if you'd but ask.
However, in the end, wasn't that the problem? Queen Theresa had yet to name her successor and she showed no signs of making her decision anytime soon.
"I wonder if I shouldn't have sent for her. She's so weary." This statement was but a breath of sound, softer still, "So are you."
The unspoken message rang clearly in the Duke's smooth reading, and Theresa relaxed against the pillows in relief. For all bravado, she did not want to be left alone. Death could take her at any moment—she had accepted that. It was just that when she did pass on, she wanted someone to be there with her.
There was a loud shuffling of feet from behind the door that indicated Owen had shifted his sizable bulk to one side to allow access to the room he was blocking off. Speak of the devil.
Those that lived in the castle often called Sister Miranda 'Iceberg', and as the tall blonde woman strode into the chambers, Adrik could understand why. It was as if her very arrival had sucked the warmth out of the room, leaving only chill wind in place of the merrily crackling fire in the corner.
Their eyes met in the long, measuring gaze always shared between rivals, icy gray-blue meeting warm sorrel brown. He waved one hand at her casually, beckoning her inside. "Don't stand out in the hall, Sister Miranda. The room is cold enough as it is." Knowing damned well what he was doing, Adrik winked at her, before flashing an insincere grin.
She gave him a withering look. "Lord Adrik," she said flatly, inclining her head. Don't you even think about starting up with me.
Not all that concerned with how her blonde hair frizzed out around her face and that her clothes were dripping wet with melted snow, the First Sacred Sister approached the bedside. "Queen Theresa," she murmured, falling down to her knees in a habitual kneel. The sick woman reached out and gently rested her palm atop the mass of golden hair, tousling it gently. "How are you feeling?"
Why is it she always has to kneel before her, anyway? he wondered irritably. If the Sister wasn't slapping someone around, then she was kneeling before them and singing their praises for all to hear. If she's so insistent on forgetting her peasant roots, then she should stay off her knees so much.
Heh; she should stay 'off of her knees'. That was a good one. Feeling particularly pleased with himself, the dark-haired man began to run his thumb along the worn leather cover of the book in his lap.
"Like a woman dying," Theresa replied in that ever-faint voice she'd taken to using. Miranda's face twisted in pain for an instant before her features smoothed back to 'normal'. It was as if she'd slipped a mask over her obnoxiously pretty little face to hide her emotions, dismissing them as unimportant.
A woman like that has no business on the throne.
Miranda ducked her head, sliding her head out from underneath the clammy palm, grasping the small hand in her own as a trade-off. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that," she told her simply.
Adrik's sonorous voice filled the room as he started to read again.
He didn't know if he was trying to be polite and pretend he wasn't watching their exchange or not. He had a feeling he just didn't want to listen to Miranda plastering her lips against the Queen's arse in hopes of earning a few more points in her favor. These were Theresa's final days of life, and every moment they did or didn't spend with her could drastically alter their individual fates. It seemed cruel to think such a thing, because he honestly loved his aunt. She was good and kind—perhaps too much so. However, Adrik had grown up in court, and he was no stranger to the way things worked. Still, that didn't mean he had to like the way things were.
The innocent little fairytale meant to amuse his aunt suddenly seemed unbelievably depressing. He wanted nothing more than to take the book and throw it as hard as he could—preferably at Sister Miranda's head.
"I shouldn't deny what—" Theresa grew quiet, and a strange look flickered across her face like a shadow. The woman kneeling by the bedside tensed and released the hand she was holding, instead slipping her arms underneath the monarch's back and helping her to lean over the edge of the mattress. "Oh—" she wheezed out, doubling over and clutching at her belly.
Miranda's lips curled into a panicked, worried snarl, her hair whipping about her face as she looked up at him sharply. "Get the basin, Adrik. Now!"
The open book did indeed go flying, but it was to the floor. He lunged for the chipped porcelain basin that rested on the table near the bed, half-tripping over the discarded piece of literature in his haste to get it to her.
He didn't make it.
splatsplatsplat
The vomited blood fell almost sluggishly from Queen Theresa's lips as shudders seized her body. Held tightly in the grip of her illness, all she could do was hang there, supported by Miranda as she continued to gag, gag so violently she saw sparks, sparks in her vision, richest orange and brightest violet—
--orange and violet that had rippled so vibrantly, she saw they hadn't been sparking at all—
--so real, so true that those colors might have been human—
But oh, a thought like that didn't make any sense at all. Half-sobbing in relief as the convulsions left her, Queen Theresa gulped in deep draughts of air, allowing herself to collapse against Miranda.
Adrik cast his gaze down slowly to the floor, noting with peculiar intensity the mess that was even now congealing atop the top of his equally dark boots. I still can't get used to how dark it is…
"Nice catch, idiot," the Sacred Sister snarled at him, indicating the blood with a sharp jerk of her chin. She absently smoothed one hand down Theresa's back, not noticing the dark splotch that now stained the sleeve of her shirt. It was funny, how well darkness hid the blood on ones hands, while bright, pale light was unable to conceal what it had done.
The Light couldn't mask such evils because it went against its very nature. Light was meant to heal, to warm—not to harm others and leave icy chill in its wake. What kind of country would Mille Seseau become if the throne were left to Miranda?
He didn't want to find out.
*hacks and slashes at the other Kongol fangirls out there, fighting a brave, valiant battle to become the One True Kongol Fangirl To Rule Them All *
*pauses *
Uh… hi. I'm Sharra, and uh… ignore the dead people on the floor?
Ahem. Well, chapter one is done, and I'm a little happier with it than I was when I started out. This is set, as you can tell, about a year after the game ended.
Yeah, Kongol is speaking a bit better than he was at the end of LoD, but I figure with practice, he would get a bit better at the language. I'm going with Swiftgold's theory (go read Healer, Killer) that the Giganto language is extremely intricate, and if you grow up speaking it, it's nearly impossible to ever speak another language properly, so it's unlikely his language skills will ever get much better than this.
And again, going off of Swiftgold's theory (I love you, Swifty-chan!), the 'elements' people are born under in game act almost like horoscopes or astrology, in a sense that their personality usually relates to their element. This is with some variation, mind you, as, if everyone were the same, stuff would get really boring really quickly. Miranda doesn't exactly fit the typical 'Light' element, now does she? Well, when life sucks for you, what can ya do?
Thunder—Arrogant and stubborn, standing very firm in their beliefs.
Fire—Aggressive, charismatic leader-types. (So that's why the Red Guy is always Leader…)
Earth—All born under the Earth element have some type of Giganto blood somewhere along the line. As a child must inherent an element from one parent, the Earth element is the rarest to be born under. While Gigantos have an affinity to be born under Earth, it's not uncommon to find they were born to other elements as well. Earth elements are extremely determined and steadfast, especially when compared to the other elements.
Wind—The thinkers, sometimes prone to being quiet and reserved.
Water—Typically, they're playful and whimsical types, prone to quick changes of mood.
Light—Gentle, healer types, caring and understanding.
Darkness—Serious and more often than not, a bit brooding when left alone.
Yes, the bickering friendship between Haschel and Kongol is meant to mirror that of Kanzas and Belzac. That Earth/Thunder dynamic, dontchaknow.
I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Amanda Swiftgold, for generally being Swiftgold and sucking me into this fandom, and to Matt, who let me pick at his guy brain, because he's a guy and I'm not.
Hm, what else…?
Aha! I don't own Legend of Dragoon, la la, don't sue me, la la. I do own Adrik (such as he is), so don't snag him without permission!
*wipes the blood off her sword * Any questions? Good.
See you in chapter two! ^_^