-Artor POV-
The cremation was silent; the crackling whispers of the pyre only broke the hushed reverence. We stood, a somber group, as the flames began their inevitable work on Prasutagus's earthly form. I remained still, a silent watcher at the edge of the inferno, my eyes fixed on the agonizing dance of fire consuming him. The world outside this space of deep sorrow seemed to have stopped, each moment stretching into an eternity as the ritual progressed. My gaze, as if by an unseen force, could not stray from Prasutagus. The intense heat gnawed at him, the flames consuming flesh and bone, dismantling the man who had so much to rule a kingdom. A deep sorrow filled me: Prasutagus, this undignified end was not what he deserved, not after the hard road he traveled, the sacrifices he made, the sheer determination he showed to reach the throne. His legacy deserved a more noble farewell than this all-consuming fire.
The air hung heavy and thick, a palpable shroud of grief that seemed to absorb all sound save for the heart-wrenching chorus of mother's light sobs. They echoed, a mournful melody, through the entire crematorium, a constant, painful reminder of the void left behind. Beside mother, I could see father's firm hand was a steady anchor, his quiet murmurs of comfort a balm against the raw pain. Though he strove to maintain a façade of stoic strength, the subtle tremor in his voice, the unshed tears glistening in his eyes, betrayed the depth of his own sorrow. Prasutagus, our beloved brother and son, had been a beacon of unwavering goodness, a soul who never once uttered a complaint. His passing had drawn the entire Iceni nation to his side, a testament to the love and respect he commanded. As we stood vigil, a single dry tear was a rarity amongst the mourners; the collective grief of our people flowed as freely as the very flames that consumed his earthly form.
The crackling of the flames was a stark contrast to the profound silence that had fallen over the Iceni encampment. I walked towards the pyre; the heat radiating against my face, my eyes fixed on the solemn sight of Prasutagus's body. A heavy sigh escaped my lips, a mixture of grief and burgeoning resolve. "You did not deserve this, Prasutagus," I whispered, my voice barely audible above the roar of the fire. "But I promise you, your death will not be in vain. You have my word, brother, that the sun will rise. I will protect the Iceni. I will not let Rome destroy our home." My hand reached out, as if to touch the rising smoke, to convey my solemn vow. I would not let his sacrifice be in vain. Turning my back on the pyre, the embers still glowing like angry eyes, I began the walk home, my mind already racing, preparing myself for the arduous journey that lay ahead. The path forward was uncertain, fraught with peril, but the image of Prasutagus and the burning injustice of his demise fueled a fire within me that Rome would soon come to fear.
"From your memories, I can see Prasutagus was quite the honorable man," Sothis said, her voice a gentle she appeared, hovering over my shoulder. "He reminds me of Byleth's student, Dimitri. I can see that both share the same unwavering compassion and sense of duty. It is a shame he left this world too soon." I looked at Sothis from the corner of my eye, remaining silent, but nodded my head, acknowledging the truth in her words. The weight of her observation settled upon me, a quiet affirmation of the legacy Prasutagus had left behind.
I could see how Prasutagus reminded Sothis of Dimitri. It's funny how horribly they would have had in common. Dimitri losing his family in his youth and how in the original timeline of events Prasutagus would lose his. It was depressing how similar the two were. 'Sothis, can you hear me?' I asked, trying to project my thoughts to Sothis. Judging by the way her ears twitch, I could tell received my message.
"You don't need to send your thoughts, you can just speak to me normally," Sothis said, and I just stared at her.
"Sothis," I muttered, my voice a whisper, directed at the space beside me. My brow furrowed in a mixture of exasperation and self-consciousness. "I don't know how you communicate with Byleth, but this... this isn't normal. Speaking out loud to no one, like a lunatic. If anyone were to see me, they'd think I'd finally lost my mind." The words tumbled out in a frustrated rush as I attempted, once again, to explain my predicament to the ethereal presence I knew as Sothis. I ran a hand through my hair, a nervous habit that did little to calm my frayed nerves. The sheer absurdity of the situation, conversing with an invisible entity that only I could perceive, was weighing on me. I could feel the imaginary eyes of any passerby judging me for my one-sided, nonsensical dialogue.
"Hmm, Byleth never seemed to have that problem?" Sothis's voice, tinged with an almost childlike confusion, echoed in the stillness. I couldn't help but roll my eyes at her observation. Of course, Byleth never had that problem. It was ludicrous to even consider. They were the reincarnation of the Fell Star, a legendary mercenary and the new leader of the church. Who, in their right mind, would question Byleth's odd habits.
"We should start getting used to communicating with our thoughts around people, Sothis. We never know who may be listening," I said, discreetly looking around to make sure no one was watching. But it seemed like everyone was giving Mother and Father condolences.
"If we must," Sothis conceded, her brow furrowed with concern, "but I have to ask, Artor, are you truly fine leaving home while you are so young? You can stay here and train under my tutelage before you meet Scáthach. Your well-being is paramount, and this journey is fraught with peril for one so green." The words hung in the air, a gentle yet insistent prod at my resolve. I couldn't help but pause, my mind replaying her statement, the weight of her concern settling upon me. Was I ready? The allure of the unknown, the burning desire to prove myself and to seek Scáthach's legendary wisdom, warred with the comforting familiarity of home and the promise of further, more structured training. The prospect of leaving everything I knew, of facing the world at such a tender age, felt more daunting than I had allowed myself to admit.
Staying to train with the tribe offered appear safety, but it was a precarious one. Roman officials would arrive, demanding answers about the slain senator. Remaining would put me in their crosshairs, raising suspicions. It was far wiser to vanish and hone my skills in secret, far from Roman eyes. Rome's long shadow cast a pall of danger, and my continued presence, even within the tribe's embrace, was a gamble I couldn't afford. My departure, though daunting, was no longer just an option but a crucial step for my survival and for achieving my ultimate aim.
"I cannot remain here, Sothis. The whispers of my dragon form have already rippled through the tribe, and it has only been a few days. I know that within a week, the news will have permeated every corner of the land, detailing the cataclysmic destruction I wrought. To stay is to expose the tribe to an untenable danger." I articulated my plea to Sothis, the words heavy with a truth I could not deny. Though every fiber of my being yearned to stay, the circumstances left me with no viable alternative. The sheer scale of the damage I had inflicted was a burden I could no longer ignore.
"Let the Romans believe," I continued, a nascent strategy forming in my mind, "that Britain still harbors dragons. While they marshal their legions, dispatching armies to hunt the beast for its supposed prize, we can seize this opportunity to slip away unnoticed." The thought solidified as I considered Rome's inevitable reaction. The Empire would dispatch countless soldiers in pursuit of my dragon form, driven by a thirst for glory, or perhaps by the lure of the raw, potent materials my very being could provide. This offered a window of opportunity for me to vanish as Rome chased shadows across the land.
"You are not wrong. Humans have always converted the power of dragons. In every age that I have seen, that has not changed. If you plan on leaving that I must ask you first to make your way to the grave of Albion," Sothis said, and I couldn't help but frown.
"Sothis, why do you want to see Albion so much?" I asked, my voice a whisper tinged with genuine confusion. I couldn't fathom her overwhelming eagerness to encounter Albion. While I understood her desire to meet another pureblooded dragon, even one who was now deceased, there was an intensity in her request that went beyond mere curiosity, a fervor that made it difficult for me to comprehend. It felt as though there was a deeper, unspoken motivation driving her, a reason I couldn't quite grasp from her words alone.
The moment I asked that question, Sothis's expression shifted. My eyes widened, and I suppressed a gasp of fear, careful not to draw attention. Sothis appeared more serious than I had ever seen her. "Artor, the reason I want to see this Albion is that I've never encountered a being who may have had the chance to be the will and soul of an entire planet. Based on your memories, this Albion had the Arctype Earth. The closest being I can compare to Arctype Earth is myself," Sothis declared, astonishing me. I understood Sothis was formidable, but to compare herself to Arctype Earth was astonishing.
I thought back to what I knew about Sothis. Her awareness of all events transpiring within Fodlan already established her omnipresence. This awareness, coupled with her complete dominion over linear time, presented a unique challenge for comparison. It was difficult to conceive of any entity within the entire Nasuverse that possessed such a profound level of temporal control without incurring significant, universe-altering, negative drawbacks.
The closest parallel I could draw was to Aoko Aozaki and her mastery of the Fifth Magic. However, even this comparison revealed stark differences. While both wielded immense power, the nature of their abilities diverged. Sothis's control over time did not carry the catastrophic risk associated with Aoko's Fifth Magic, which, if misused or pushed to its absolute limit, could lead to the heat death of the universe. Sothis, in contrast, seemed to operate without such a dire existential consequence attached to her temporal manipulations.
Then there's the fact that Sothis was technically a Type considering she is an alien. The more I thought about it, the more I couldn't help but compare Sothis to Kukulkan. 'They even both have green hair and don't understand social norms,' I thought. I shook my head, not wanting to think I had a Type inside of me. Why would Sothis want to see Albion besides seeing a potential Arc Type Earth candidate?
The realization struck me with the force of a physical blow: Sothis had seen my memories. My mind reeled. Had she seen what I knew about Lostbelt Six? My gaze snapped to Sothis, my eyes wide with a mixture of fear and astonishment. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips, a sight that did little to assuage my growing alarm. "Sothis," I managed, my voice trembling, "are you thinking about bringing Melusine to life?" The question burst from me, a shocked exclamation at the sheer audacity of what her plan might entail. Consciously restraining myself, I clamped down on the urge to shout my disbelief as the implications of such a monumental undertaking swirled in my head.
"Of course, Artor, after all, seeing how sad her ending was, how could I not? It's been so long since I created a new Divine Dragon," Sothis said, and I could feel myself feeling dizzy from her words. The thought of Sothis creating a new race of Divine Dragons almost made me fall over in shock.
'What kind of opening is that?' I thought disbelief; I didn't want to think of the implications of what Sothis wanted to do. The crazy part was that I knew she could succeed after all. If Sothis failed, all she needed to do was rewind time and try again.
"I'll deal with this later." I muttered, the lingering scent of the pyre a grim reminder of the funeral service that was nearly complete. As the last rites concluded, the daunting task of packing loomed large. Heading home, I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling of being watched, a persistent sensation of eyes on my back.
I risked a glance over my shoulder, my breath catching in my throat. Then, I had to physically stop myself from a full-blown facepalm. There, partially hidden behind some hay, was Boudica, comically failing at her attempt at stealth. She was, without a doubt, spying on me. The absurdity of the situation, juxtaposed with the solemnity of the day, was almost too much to bear. What could she possibly want?
I shook my head; I had more important things to focus on as I found myself back home. The familiar scent of aged wood and the faint aroma of herbs greeted me as I stepped through the threshold of the roundhouse, a structure I knew intimately. I immediately entered with a specific purpose, my movements driven by an urgency that had been simmering since my recent return. My gaze swept across the room, seeking the familiar worn surfaces, before settling on the object of my immediate attention.
Sitting innocently in the corner was my new haversack. Without hesitation, I grabbed the bag and searched through it. I recalled Boudica mentioning that she found it next to me when her mother found my unconscious body. I did not know where the bag came from, but I knew it was important just by staring at it. My fingers fumbled with the buckle, a knot of anticipation tightening in my stomach. As I looked through the haversack, my heart leaped into my throat, a sudden, sharp jolt of disbelief and dawning realization washing over me.
Sticking out of the bag was the hilt of a familiar sword, one I could never forget. How could I, when this was the most famous sword in all of Fire Emblem? As my fingers closed around the hilt, a chill ran up my body. The Mark of the Exalt glowed brightly, my arm shuddering with power, and a hint of joy? Drawing the blade from the bag, I saw the Fang of Naga gleam with power, and a small part of me shivered in fear.
I couldn't quite articulate the feeling, but as I held the blade, a sense of comfort washed over me, mingled with a distinct fear. At first, this conflicting emotion baffled me, but then it clicked. Falchion was renowned as the most powerful dragon-slaying weapon in the entire series. I had completely forgotten that I possessed dragon blood coursing through my veins, not to mention that Sothis herself is a dragon. It made perfect sense I felt such apprehension from this blade; it was my absolute antithesis. I did not know what the consequences would be if Falchion were to strike me.
Despite the overwhelming odds I would face in the future, a grin spread across my face, irrepressible. "Eat your heart out, Gilgamesh!" I declared, a surge of exultation coursing through my voice. "I possess something that would never grace your legendary treasury." The Gate of Babylon, a repository of all the treasures humanity had ever conceived, was undeniably vast. Yet, it was a collection bound by the limits of this world, its origins firmly rooted in the known. And my prize, this magnificent weapon, was born of something far beyond that. Especially considering that a Divine Dragon forged this weapon. Falchion, I knew with absolute certainty, was a singular artifact, a one-of-a-kind weapon destined to remain an exclusive heirloom belonging to my family line alone. No amount of gold or legendary blades could ever replicate its unique existence, a testament to its alien origins in this reality.
"Oh my, what a wonderful-looking blade!" a voice rang out behind me, causing me to jump. I clutched my chest in shock and turned around to see Boudica smiling. "Lord Artor, where did you find such a blade? I've never seen one like it before," Boudica said, leaning closer to me to get a better look at Falchion.
The chill of apprehension tightened its grip around my chest as the realization struck. I had been so consumed by the frantic preparations for departure and with finding Falchion that I had completely overlooked a crucial detail: Boudica's watchful presence. A wave of self-recrimination washed over me; how could I have been so careless? My brow furrowed in confusion and a touch of concern as I observed Boudica's gaze fixed upon Falchion. Hesitantly, I voiced the question that had been echoing in my mind, "Boudica, why have you been spying on me?" The words hung in the air, laced with a mixture of bewilderment and a growing unease about her uncharacteristic behavior.
The flickering torchlight cast long, dancing shadows across Boudica's face, muting the usual fire in her eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, but it held a trace of sorrow, a reflection of the recent tragedies. "I was worried about you, Lord Artor," she began, her voice a low, steady cadence that carried a weight of concern. "You have just lost a brother, and to so suddenly leave Lord Prasutagus's funeral... it weighs heavily on the spirit."
Her gaze swept over me, lingering for a moment on the worn leather haversack clutched in my hand. It was more than just a bag; it was a symbol of my impending departure, a tangible sign I was not settling into the quiet grief that had descended upon our people. A knowing look settled in her eyes, a recognition of the restless spirit that had always driven me. "But it seems," she added, her voice softening slightly, a touch of resignation now tinged with understanding, "that you are leaving us, Lord Artor." The words hung in the air, not an accusation, but a statement of fact, a poignant acknowledgment of the path I felt compelled to take.
I remained silent, gazing into Boudica's eyes. "You are not wrong, Boudica," I replied. "I plan on leaving soon. With Prasutagus' and the Roman Senate's sudden deaths, the Romans will start asking questions. Questions I don't want to answer. If they learn I was the only survivor, it will bring trouble to the Iceni."
Boudica frowned at my words. "Lord Artor, everyone in the tribe has seen your arrival and presence at Lord Prasutagus's cremation. If the Romans arrive, someone will surely mention your survival, alerting them to it," she pointed out, highlighting a flaw in my plan.
I winced at her words because she was right. Someone was bound to speak up, but I had a plan for that. All I needed to do was find a mage who could at least scramble everyone's memories of me. That meant I needed to find a druid.
"I have a plan," I explained to Boudica. "Before I leave, I'll communicate with the druids to shield my presence from everyone's eyes." I couldn't help but smile at my clever idea, but Boudica's next words wiped the smile right off my face.
Boudica's words hung heavy in the air, a knot of worry tightening in my chest. "What about Lord Antedios and Lady Niamh will feel? Will you break their hearts fooling even them?" she questioned, her frown a mirror of my own internal turmoil. The weight of her concern was a stark reminder of the delicate dance I was about to begin.
"I don't know Boudica," I admitted, the words tasting like ash. "But if it's the only way for the druid's spell to work, I'll do it. If breaking everyone's hearts is what it takes to help everyone in Iceni in the future, I will." The conviction in my voice warred with the pang of guilt that knew my actions would inevitably wound my family. "My father has already given me his blessing to find Scáthach," I added, though the statement felt hollow, a meager comfort against the storm I was brewing.
As I grappled with these heavy thoughts, a desperate plan formed. "Boudica," I began, my voice urgent as I grasped her hands, her skin surprisingly warm against mine. "Will you watch over my family? You're a child, just like me. No one will suspect you know anything. Mother and Father will be the first people the Romans question if they find anything suspicious. Can I trust you to protect my family?"
Boudica's face flushed a deep red at my touch, her expression shifting to one of thoughtful consideration. "Why would you trust me, Lord Artor?" she asked, a hint of bewilderment in her tone. I offered her a smile, a silent testament to the strength I saw in her. Boudica, I knew to be fiercely loyal and protective of her home and loved ones. "I trust you, Boudica, that's all," I replied, my smile conveying a sincerity I hoped she could feel.
Her blush deepened, and a shy smile graced her lips. But the moment of warmth was fleeting, replaced by a worried frown. "Lord Artor, I would love to help you, but I am weak," she confessed, her voice tinged with genuine concern.
I shook my head, a wave of confusion washing over me. How could she speak of weakness when her offer of help was so immediate and heartfelt? My gaze then fell upon my haversack, and a flicker of curiosity drew my hand towards it. Reaching inside, I discovered the familiar weight of Falchion, and my mind immediately wondered what other secrets might be concealed within its depths.
With renewed interest, I delved deeper into the surprisingly capacious bag. My fingers brushed against the hilt of another weapon, and with a quick pull, I drew forth a blade that shimmered with an ancient power. I gasped as the Sword of Seiros revealed itself; its appearance was instantly recognizable. Boudica's eyes widened in pure astonishment as the mythical sword emerged from the unassuming pack.
"Lord Artor, how?" Boudica asked, shocked as I pulled the blade from the bag like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. I couldn't help but snort at her question and gave her a cheeky smile.
"Magic~" I said as I teased her. As I gazed back at the Sword of Seiros, I frowned. Boudica couldn't use this blade unless she had the Crest of Seiros. Thinking how Boudica could wield the blade, I thought about the green hair Goddess in my soul. I knew all Crests came from Sothis, so if anyone could help me, she could.
'Sothis, I need your help,' I thought to the Goddess within my soul. It wasn't long before Sothis appeared before me, and I could see her eyes widen when she noticed the Sword of Seiros in my hands. 'Sothis, I know this might be disrespectful, but can you grant Boudica the Crest of Seiros?' I pleaded with the goddess.
The air crackled with unspoken tension as Sothis's gaze, sharp and unyielding as tempered steel, fixed upon me. Each second stretched into an agonizing eternity, a silent preamble to the unfolding spectacle. Then, with a deliberate grace that belied her power, she turned her attention to Boudica, her ethereal form drifting effortlessly towards the young warrior. My breath hitched in my throat, a captive audience to the impending interaction. Sothis reached out, her translucent fingers closing around Boudica's head. I braced myself for a struggle, an outcry, but Boudica remained oblivious. Though Sothis's touch was real, a tangible connection bridging their disparate planes of existence, Boudica felt nothing.
Sothis then pressed her forehead against Boudica's, and I watched in unadulterated awe as a luminous aura, invisible to all but myself, enveloped both their forms. The glow was fleeting, a mere whisper of light, but as it receded, Boudica herself seemed to be imbued with a radiant inner luminescence. "What a sad child," Sothis murmured, her voice resonating with a profound, almost maternal sorrow. "To think she faced a fate worse than death in another timeline." I instinctively averted my eyes, a visceral understanding of Boudica's original, horrific destiny seizing me. It was a future I swore, with every fiber of my being, to prevent in this life.
A sudden shift in Sothis's demeanor brought my gaze snapping back. Her maternal smile, so recently displayed, twisted into something sly, something decidedly unnerving. "Artor," she announced, her voice now carrying an almost playful, yet undeniably chilling, undertone, "you may give Boudica my daughter's blade." A shiver traced its way down my spine, an involuntary reaction to the palpable shift in her aura. "After all," she added, her tone dripping with a newfound, unsettling amusement, "your future wife needs a blade worthy of her." And then, with an abruptness that left me reeling, Sothis vanished.
Her parting words, however, did not dissipate. They hung in the air, a phantom echo that seemed to burrow into my very consciousness. "I beg your pardon?" The words, torn from me in a strangled gasp of disbelief, hung in the charged atmosphere, eliciting only a bewildered glance from Boudica, who clearly hadn't perceived the exchange. Sothis's only response was a disembodied, echoing laugh that resonated within the confines of my mind, a clear sign her machinations had only just begun. A dull throb began behind my eyes, a nascent headache that promised to be the first in a series of Sothis's troublesome interventions.
Chapter 2: Footsteps of Fate End.
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