Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lewyn knew that they had made a mistake once the mages began to line the upper gates of Bellhalla Castle. By then it was too late— he should have known before that. Far, far before that, while they were all the way back on the outskirts of the Aed. Discovering what happened to Lady Ethlyn and Prince Quan was already a sign. Gods, Grannvalian backed reinforcements helping his uncle’s rebellion should have already made it clear that they couldn’t be trusted, but their little battalion had nowhere else to go, and Lewyn could not abandon Sigurd, not after everything. 

And still, Lewyn had hoped. He had hoped for the truth to be revealed, for a bit of rest, after years of feeling like he was running from something. He had hoped for a little peace before he returned to Silesse and fully claimed his own part of this destiny that Father Claud would whisper of. A foolish hope. One that might have been just as strong as Sigurd’s. 

The courtyard changed from a formal welcome to a trap that none of them were prepared for. It wasn’t a battle— it was a massacre.

Lewyn ran and ducked to the side, his holy blood affording him the speed necessary to dodge the first onslaught of meteors. He did not look back to see the friends that were beside him during the lineup. He had no time to lose, running down the side of the courtyard wall as fast as the wind would carry him towards the front of their party, towards Sigurd. 

And Sigurd was still standing! He had dismounted from his horse and was screaming something up at the battlements, but Lewyn was still too far away to hear what it was. And he never got close enough to hear. Amongst the crashes of burning rock, he saw what he only ever heard described in books about Fjalar’s might and power, unleashing the flames of the sun upon her foes with Valflame’s might.

And all of Valflame’s might was centered on Sigurd.

Lewyn had to turn away as the holy weapon made its mark, his eyes unable to withstand the blast. He thought he had already felt the worst of what light could do: on clear winter days in Silesse, when the sunlight reflected on the ice and snow; in the Aed Desert, where the only thing that blocked out the sun’s oppressive rays was the circling of vultures. This was worse. So, so much worse.

Half-blinded already, Lewyn staggered back along the side of the courtyard wall, feeling his way along the rough stone until he reached a small opening in between the walls. An alleyway, leading away from the castle and into the city of Bellhalla proper. Not allowing himself time to think, Lewyn went through the passage.

He found himself in a narrow stairway, the walls climbing high and enclosing on either side. What he could still see of the sky was dark gray with sudden flashes of bright, burning orange as the ground shook with another impact. There was no other way but up and forward, and so he went forward, yet instead of getting farther away, he began to ascend. Lewyn paused for one second before he continued, heaving needful breath after breath.

If he was doomed, the least he could do is take a few of those bastards with him. 

“I am the wind that howls along the mountaintops.” He whispered as he took two steps at a time, mirroring the voice in the back of his mind. 

“I am the hurricane that can move earth and sea.” He said as he reached the top of the battlements, enshrouded with smoke that he passed through like a ghost towards the first figure in his way.  

He raised his hand, calling forth all the weight of his inheritance. “I am the last breath you will ever take.”

Suddenly, the smoke cleared, and then one figure, then two, then more, rose into the air. 

“I. AM. FORSETI’S. RAGE. ” 

Lewyn closed his hand into a fist.

And all the bodies fell. 

But before he could feel even a sense of triumph, not of a battle won but of landing a hit, Lewyn himself was enveloped by darkness, howling faces of agony encircling him as he collapsed in pain. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the gold trim of a long, black robe.

“Ah, a fair attempt, child.” A voice unfamiliar to him rasped in a low tone before a foot was pressed against his head, grinding his face further into the stone. “But one measly Crusader is nothing compared to the years of planning and the power I have behind my cause. Your destiny is to fall, here and now.”

Instead of anger, Lewyn closed his eyes. The last thought he would have in life would be relief, because before the meteors fell, he knew at least one person wasn’t there. At least they are safe, my—

The darkness consumed him, and then he thought no more. 

The body that was once Lewyn, descendent of the Crusader Ced and heir of Forseti’s will, was pulled away in a cart, to be deposited with what remained of Sigurd’s army in the outskirts of the city. Arvis was assured that there would be no demand for bodies, not with the shock still fresh. The first mistake. His killer also did not take the Forseti tome away from him, as it was anathema to his touch, and he convinced himself that to be buried along with its last master would be enough to keep it in check. The second mistake. 

Once they were all deposited, it was far too dark to bury them, even for hands that were used to navigate the tombs' darkness under Dahna. It was decided they would bury them at first light. The third and final mistake. 

Where humans forget that death is not always the end of destiny, other forces know all too well how wrong that is. 

The body is cold and broken among the heap, and then, like a breath of air on an early spring morning, the body is no longer a body, but Lewyn again. 

This should not be. This cannot be . But it is.

Lewyn’s body is broken, ravaged beyond even the repair work of an excellent staff. And yet he crawled out of the heap of his fallen comrades. He staggered to his feet once he was on solid earth, but he shambled little better than– than a corpse.

That was what he still was. A body, a corpse. No longer a him but an it . And yet, he moved, nothing pressing him forward but the unending urge to move, move forward, keep moving from a voice that is not his. 

He tried to speak, to refuse. This isn’t what is supposed to be. You can’t, you can’t!

“We must keep moving,” Lewyn said out loud, and Lewyn had not willed it. 

He opened his mouth wider to scream, only for his mangled fingers to cover his mouth and stop it. 

And then nothing more was heard that night, save for the cry of the winds and the shuffling of a corpse’s feet.