This Time Imperfect: Chapter 1
May. 1st, 2009 04:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caersidyddTitle: This Time Imperfect
Chapter: 1 - Field of Sorrows
Fandom: Legend of Dragoon
Genre: Action/Adventure
Word Count: 4,853
Rating: T - for violence also suggestive adult themes at some point maybe I think.
Disclaimer: Sony pretty much owns The Legend of Dragoon, however the majority of the characters which will arise in this story belong to me.
Summary: 2,362 years after the destruction of the Moon That Never Sets the world of Endiness is again in dire peril. The Dragoon Spirits awaken to offer their aid, but is it enough to save a dying world?
Edit: I destroyed the intro because I hated it with a passion. Bwa ha ha et cetera.
This Time Imperfect
Chapter 1: Field of Sorrows
A chill breeze threaded its way through the hilly valley, coursing over the grassy knolls and whispering through the sparse trees. It roamed across the valley reveling in its utter freedom as it danced beneath the stars. Chancing momentarily over the figure of a man standing at the crest of a gently rolling hill it lingered to run invisible fingers through his long mahogany hair. Then, tugging on his cloak in farewell, it wandered away once more.
The king of Sandora sighed into the wind.
At the base of the hill stood another man. If anyone had been standing with him they would have seen the worry in his dark eyes as he gazed up at the form of the monarch on the hill. What he truly saw was not a king or a general or even their army’s greatest banner. What he saw was a man, whom he had known since childhood, tired, weak, and unguarded. Unconsciously, he shifted his weight causing his sheathed sword to hit his violet and gold armor with a soft clunk. The sound seemed to rouse him for he suddenly started up the hill.
He slowed to a halt just behind the man and called out, “Your Majesty?”. The king, Richard, started and turned his emerald gaze on the soldier who now stood beside him. “Listening to the wind, Sire?” The corners of the young general’s mouth turned up in an easy smile. “Does it bring you good tidings?”
The smile he was given in turn was small and fleeting, infused with Richard's bittersweet musings. “Nay, Belial,” his voice came out as a sigh as he returned his gaze to the plains. “Would that they could impart to us the tales of their long journey. Alas, they do not boast to us of their secrets.” He blinked and frowned slightly at his unintended use of the majestic plural. “I think I have been king too long.”
Belial seemed to find this amusing for he chuckled softly but heartily as was his way. Then the violet armored general clanked, giving Richard the distinct impression that the man had shrugged. “The men are agitated, Sire. Perhaps you should be among them now.”
He shook his head slightly, “Not just now.”
“Sire?”
Richard turned to the commander. “I shall, Belial,” he replied, sounding defeated, “but for the moment I wish to remain alone to think.”
Belial bowed. “Of course, Sire. I shall leave you.”
Richard nodded and turned his gaze back to the plains as the commander turned to leave. “Belial.” He called suddenly.
Half way down the hill Belial stopped and turned. “Sire?”
“Take a message to Degen and the other commanders. We have made our decision and will not have it questioned. If tomorrow’s campaign fails our army will retreat to Tiberoa as originally planned.”
“My Lord, I do not—“
Richard held up a hand to silence him, “This is the way it must be. Our time here grows short. Nothing can be left to chance.”
“Richard,” the dark haired man began, his voice laced with a tone of familiarity that the king found disconcerting and turned his tired gaze into something stern and sharp.
“We will not be questioned, Belial. We do not suffer optimism and hope where we must look down the maw of reality.”
The knight struggled with his words for a moment, allowing an awkward silence to reign between them. Finally, thinking better than to argue with his king, he let go of his argument. “My Lord is quite blunt in the matter.” He replied, his voice devoid of its former pleading warmth. “I will relay your orders to Degen.”
Richard nodded sharply and returned his gaze to the silent, starlit night. Belial lingered on the hillside. In his mind he made the excuse that it was because he had not been formally dismissed, but in reality it was because he knew his childhood friend, knew him quite a bit better, he thought, than the man knew himself. Sure enough it was not long before Richard spoke again in a softer voice. “You know as well as I that our chances of survival now are slim, but our sister nation can benefit from our demise. Every man counts, and Tiberoa will have great need of them if we fall.”
Belial nodded and then added for his benefit, because the king could not see him, “I understand, Richard.”
With a sigh the tension in the king's stance seemed to leave him, born away on the gentle winds of the plains. He turned and approached Belial, “I know my friend,” he said placing his hands on the other man's shoulders, “and I thank you. Now you go to Degen and we shall go impart what little encouragement we can to our soldiers.”
Belial bowed and backed away a pace before turning and hurrying to find Degen. Richard lingered only a moment before moving toward the first campfire.
The night was cool and sweet. Not at all surprising for fall in mid-Serdio. The lush grass plains spread for miles in every direction, bathed in the light of the moon. Far to the east lay the languorous outline of the Topes Mountain range which separated the countries of Serdio and Tiberoa. To the far west, pale and quiet, lay the Villude Mountain Range, and just to the north beyond a knoll lay the army of the Republic of Basil, waiting.
Richard walked among the camp fires, talking to his men, imparting to some words of comfort, exchanging idle banter with others. They seemed to take comfort in the quiet confidence he had in them, and the words he had for them, but nothing could comfort the disquieting voice inside of him. The whispering voice of the winds on the plains haunted him. It was true what he had told Belial. Richard was not privy to the wind’s secret comings and goings, but sometimes, when he quieted his thoughts and his heart, and listened just so, he though perhaps he was eavesdropping. And tonight something in the air boded ill for Sandora.
Nevertheless he sat with his men, he smiled and nodded and showed them his faith in them. If anything did go wrong tomorrow, he knew in his heart that it was not for lack of strength, love, and loyalty in these men.
These men.
This army.
This country.
Sandora.
Serdio.
Richard looked up at the stars. What cruel fate smiled down upon him that evening he did not know.
No one ever saw the cloaked Basileen soldiers that swung wide around the army’s left flank.
---
Through the early morning haze rode a gold clad figure astride a steed of chestnut and violet. Had the sun been shining he would have shone like a beacon across the plains, but the mornings of late had been wet and gloomy. A herald to the approaching winter, or a land mourning for its people? The gold rider did not know.
The rider pulled back on the reigns, forcing the animal beneath him to a halt. He stood in his stirrups and gazed over his right shoulder, the shoulder of his sword arm. Spread across the field, hidden partially by the fog, an army of gold and violet clad knights stood in rank.
At first sight, the army might have seemed intimidating, but only because their numbers were partially obscured by the fog. The army of Sandora rode only six thousand strong against the forces of Basil.
The gold clad warrior sighed heavily and raised his voice to shout over the crowd.
“Knights of Sandora,” He began, and six thousand voices rose to meet him. “Today,” the cry died down, “is the beginning of the end of fifty-five long years of war,” Again he was cocooned by the voice of Sandora, and in his heart he felt a pang of guilt and regret and other emotions he could not name, none of which was anger. He’d overcome that long ago. He let the cries die down again before he continued. “Remember, twelve thousand years ago, when we were shackled and chained in servitude! The memory is in your blood! Sandora will not yield, Sandora will not kneel! For Sandora, for King Richard! The war ends here, for Endiness!”
The cry rose up over the valley, six thousand bodies whose blood remembered the injustice of twelve thousand years before. Six thousand voices that, with each cry, swore they would grovel before masters nevermore.
Even if those masters were men like themselves.
The sun shone now over the valley. It burned away the fog, and the rider astride his steed shone in the sunlight as a savior must from heaven. At the crest of a high hill just behind the final ranks of the army, another gold rider shone forth. But Richard knew that on the battlefield he did not shine half so brightly as Degen, the golden general below him.
“Ho,” Richard’s eyes flicked toward Belial at his side. “Majesty, the enemy approaches.”
“Sound the horn,” commanded the king and Belial twisted in his saddle to signal the trumpeter.
The clarion sounded, cool and sweet, full of promises and glory. Below, Degen unsheathed his mighty sword.
“Die well,” Richard whispered his voice inaudible to all but the one who stood beside him. Belial turned sharply at his king’s words but was stopped fast by the set of Richard’s face. He averted his eyes to the ground, chocolate orbs searching the earth as if he could find his answers there, then wordlessly he returned them to the field once more.
Richard threw a hand into the air and gestured swiftly forward. The clarion call sounded again and far below the golden rider mirrored his king’s gesture, swinging his sword down in a forward arc, its tip pointed at the heart of the enemy formation.
“Charge!”
His command was drowned in battle cries and the thunder of two advancing armies.
The gold and violet Sandorans crashed against the green and silver Basileens with all the effect of a wave against a mountain, but by some miracle of fate, or the sheer will of man, the line held.
The battle progressed rapidly. Unfortunately for Sandora it deteriorated in the same way. Richard watched the scene before him with grief stricken eyes as wave upon wave of Basileens forced back his own beloved Sandora.
“Your Majesty!” shouted a soldier on horseback as he skidded up alongside the king. “The Fifth has suffered mass casualties.”
Richard gave the man a pointed glare. “They cannot fall back. Send them as many soldiers as you can find to reinforce them, but they cannot break the line.”
The soldier nodded, “Aye, Milord,” The soldier spurred his horse and was gone.
The mask that had swept so easily into place as he faced the messenger fell once more as Richard’s eyes were drawn back to the battlefield below him. His hands tightened on the reigns of his mount until he could no longer feel his fingers and still he did not loosen them. One year ago when he had left Castle Kazas, the capitol of Sandora, on this campaign against Basil he had had high hopes of repelling the advance of his cousin’s army. In the end he had found hope and optimism were not enough to change the course of one’s fate.
“Richard.”
The sound of the familiar voice prompted him to relax his grip. He had no need to turn and look at the man beside him for it was a face and voice he knew well beyond sight and sound.
“Perhaps Your Majesty should see to the wounded.”
“You would relegate us to the duties of nurse, Belial?”
“It would reassure them, Sire.”
“Your Majesty,” called a voice in urgency. Both men turned to watch a young soldier sprinting up the hill toward them.
“Your Majesty,” the boy said again as he came to a panting halt. “The fifth has fallen back, Sire the line could not be held.”
Richard cursed softly. “Belial, send in the sixteenth cavalry.”
The man blinked at the king as his mind attempted to wrap itself around Richard’s command. The sixteenth cavalry was his division and it was the only thing guarding Richard atop this knoll. “But, Sire that will leave your position unguarded.”
“Take them and go, Belial.
The man was even more taken aback. “Me, Sire?”
“You are their commanding officer.”
Belial’s brow creased in consternation. “No.”
Richard turned sharply to Belial, “What?”
“I will send the sixteenth cavalry but with Captain Morris in charge. I will not leave your side, Richard.”
For a moment the two men leveled heated glares at each other, two wills of steel tempered by the same forge battling in a short struggle for dominance, but Belial would not back down and Richard did not have the time to make him. The king relented with a heavy nod, and ,with a grim smile of victory, Belial wheeled his mount around and took off to relay the king's orders to his captain. Richard returned his gaze to the messenger.
“Return to the front. Inform Ferdok that the Sixteenth Cavalry is on its way.”
The boy nodded and for the first time Richard noticed the boy’s pallor. As if just realizing itself that something was wrong the soldier’s body gave out and collapsed to the ground. Richard started. He leaped from his mount and was on his knees by the boy’s side in an instant. Deft fingers unclasped the breastplate and Richard felt his hands come into contact with something slick and simultaneously sticky. A sense of urgency filled him and he tore away the armor. Blood oozed over the boy's hauberk from a deep wound in his side where some smart weapon had found its way into the armor’s blind spot. Richard placed his hands over the wound, pressing down as hard as he could. He felt the boy wince beneath his hands.
“Richard,” Belial’s voice sounded startled and urgent.
“He is wounded, Belial,” Richard replied without looking up. “Has the Sixteenth mobilized?”
“Aye, Milord.”
“Get the healers.”
“Aye.”
Belial hastened away to do as he was bidden, leaving Richard to see to the young soldier until he could return.
“Sire?”
Richard looked up from his blood covered hands at the sound of the boy's voice. He gave the boy a look which he hoped was reassuring but his body felt strangely numb all over, excepting his hands where he acutely felt the soldier’s life seeping through his fingers. “It is better if you do not move.” He reproved in a quiet but stern tone as the boy struggled to rise.
“I must…I must return to the fifth,” the messenger panted, but his movements slowly stilled.
“The sixteenth cavalry is on its way to aide them as we speak,” Richard replied gently. “Do not worry yourself. They are in good hands.”
The boy reluctantly nodded and allowed his eyes to close, though his body showed no signs of relaxing. Suddenly Richard became angry with himself. He could not simply address the soldier as “boy” even if it was within his own head. The young messenger was a soldier of Sandora, true to his king and loyal to his comrades. He’d run wounded up the hill, possibly all the way from the front, carrying his message. He was an exemplary soldier and man.
“Your name, Sir Knight. Pray tell us.”
The soldier opened his eyes and blinked several times, either trying to comprehend Richard’s words or waiting to make sure he was correct in assuming the King of Sandora was actually speaking to him.
“A…Aldrich, Sire.”
Richard’s eyes softened fractionally. “You have fought bravely and well this day, Sir Aldrich. We are proud to count you among our knights.”
He watched as the young knight’s eyes widened fractionally and a small uncertain smile graced his battle stained face.
“Rest now, Sir Aldrich,” Richard commanded gently. Behind him he heard the approaching footsteps of yet another soldier. The eyes of the knight before him focused over his shoulder and his expression twisted into one of surprise and rage. Richard’s brow furrowed in confusion and he made to turn.
“My Lord!” The boy cried and lunged to pull Richard down and to the side. The king heard more than felt the impact of metal glancing off of his golden armor.
Surprised, Richard was nevertheless quick to his feet; he rounded on his adversary, his blade singing as it left its sheathe. A quick glance down informed him that Aldrich was now unconscious from blood loss and the strain of the simple movement it had taken to save his king’s life. The monarch’s eyes flicked up once more to settle on his enemy, a Basileen soldier cloaked in dark green. The man wore a grim expression and lifted his sword to challenge Richard. In his head Richard scoffed at the coward who would have knifed him in the back only moments ago instead of challenging him openly. The Basili probably thought better than to challenge a man as thoroughly trained in war and the way of the sword as the King of Sandora should be.
He will surely be in for a surprise, Richard thought humorlessly.
Their eyes locked, Richard and his would be assassin circled warily, each watching, waiting for a clear opening. Belatedly, Richard wondered where Belial was and why this Basileen was alone in his quest. It was then that he realized that the sounds of battle were suddenly much closer and coming from the direction of the healer’s tents.
They were fighting, Richard realized with a start. His soldiers, his wounded Sandoran soldiers had engaged the enemy before they had had the chance to get to him and only this Basileen had made it through their defense.
Spotting his chance in Richard’s mental distraction the Basileen soldier lunged forward with his sword. Acting instinctively, Richard gracelessly flung his sword out to block the assassin’s strike. The blades came together with a crash that jarred Richard and forced him to take a step back. The assassin leered at him, for the first time realizing the full extent of Richard’s capabilities as a fighter had been grossly exaggerated. Richard’s eyes narrowed at the man as he disengaged his blade from the king’s only to strike again. The swords connected with a clang sending numbing electricity up Richard’s arm. The king grimaced but held onto the blade. The assassin pressed forward, hacking away at Richard’s meager defense and forcing him back several steps. The Basileen then dealt him a blow which over balanced the young king’s fragile stance. Seeing his opening he reared back to deliver what would be a devastating final blow. Richard saw the intent and flung his own sword up bracing his hand against the flat of the blade as the Basileen sword came crashing down against his. Richard was in a disadvantaged position. The man raised his sword again, delivering a quick succession of crushing blows against the sword until the king was driven to his knees. The Basileen shifted his weight into the sword forcing Richard’s defense to buckle slowly under the pressure.
The wicked edge of the Basileen blade crept closer and closer to Richard’s upturned face. Richard narrowed his eyes at the blade as though it was nothing much more than a mere annoyance before refocusing his gaze on the assassin. Their eyes locked, one gleam of victory and one glare of defiance locked in a battle of wills. Richard allowed his breathing to deepen, inhaling slowly and deliberately. As the Basileen sword inched ever downward Richard shifted his weight beneath him then slowly rolling it forward onto the balls of his feet. In swordplay the King of Sandora simply had never developed the amount of skill and stamina necessary to constantly read and counter his opponent in such close quarters. He did, however, have one distinct advantage. What he lacked in stamina he more than made up for in sheer, albiet short bursts of, power.
Richard inhaled and gave slightly, allowing the sword to come down faster than the Basileen had anticipated. The man recoiled minutely to regain his bearings. Richard released the breath and with it forced himself up, his strong legs uncoiling like a spring in an explosion of power. He shoved the startled Basileen back. Both hands gripping the hilt of his blade Richard leaped forward and thrust the point of his sword into the Basileen’s chest, slicing through the assassin’s light leather armor. He heard the bone split beneath his blade and four hand-spans of steel found its sheath in unresisting flesh.
The body of the Basileen soldier slumped to the ground and Richard wrenched the sword free from the body. That task complete, he turned away to aid his wounded soldiers fighting the Basileen assassins behind him. Something hard connected with the side of his head. He fell back, stunned, as flecks of color burst before his eyes. Before he could register the attack, his assailant lashed out again this time to kick the away the sword that now hung limply from the king’s hand. Still trying to shake away the pain and now defenseless against the enemy, Richard stepped away in a flourish from the advancing Basileen.
“Richard!”
The king jerked back in surprise as a crimson tipped sword erupted from beneath the sternum of his assailant. The sword fell from the man’s hands, sticking itself in the ground at Richard’s feet. The king’s eyes widened slightly as the sword tip disappeared once more. The limp body toppled to the ground and his eyes refocused on the dark haired general.
“Belial?” the stunned and disoriented king uttered in bemusement.
“Take this,” The general ordered, thrusting a lance against his chest. Richard needed no further convincing as his hands instinctively rose to take hold of the weapon that stood as tall as he. “The enemy comes directly. Milord, we must sound the retreat!”
The young king nodded shortly and winced, “Where is Thomas?” He asked, rubbing the throbbing knot that was rising on the side of his head.
“The boy is dead,” Belial informed him tonelessly, “he still clutches the clarion.”
“We must make our way to him,” Richard said firmly. “Belial, you must return to the other soldiers.”
The dark haired general's eyes hardened. “I will not leave your side, My King.”
“Your defiance will get you killed one day my friend,”
“Better than my compliance getting you killed,” He replied tersely. “Come, I know the way,” He placed a firm hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Do not leave my side, little brother.”
Richard smirked and nodded, there was no mistaking the glint in his compatriot's eyes. And then Belial was gone, spearing the way ahead into a sea of bodies and war cries with Richard hot on his heels.
“Here!” Belial cried as they approached the body of a young man, relatively ignored by the chaos around them.
“Sound the retreat, Belial,” Richard called from behind him. “I will keep them at bay.”
With a short nod Belial turned to retrieve the horn from the clutches of the dead boy. His spear in his hands, Richard turned to the nearest Basileen, one of many which had recognized and attempted to pursue the king through the chaos. Executing a quick turn midstep, he spun and brought the butt end of the lance down across the soldier's face. Swinging back he slashed the man with the head. He turned and jabbed. The head of his lance found its home in the throat of yet another enemy soldier. He jerked back, and whirled around, but felt no impact where he had expected one. Spotting the Basileen, who had managed to leap back from being struck by the blunt end of the lance, he lunged forward in an attempt to impale him. The soldier struck the head of the lance with his sword diverting the head into the earth, but that did not stop Richard who used the lance's new position as leverage to leap the distance and plant his foot across the soldier's face.
The king could not help the smile that rose to his face as the soldier went down. He would remember to thank Belial once more later on for being such a good teacher. Richard wasted no time in rounding on the next Basileen soldier who attempted to subdue him when the familiar cry of his friend’s voice brought him to a momentary halt. He glanced over his shoulder to where he knew Belial to be. What he saw tore a cry from his throat.
Belial’s sword fell from his slack fingers and clattered uselessly to the ground. His face contorted into a mask of anguish. The Basileen looking into his eyes smiled grimly and leaned against the sword thrust into his belly, driving it further home, tearing another cry from the throat of the general. Without thinking Richard inhaled, turned, and struck an attacking Basileen in the arm. He heard the crunch of metal and bone but didn’t look back as he exhaled and drove forward, powerful legs pumping against the ground carrying him to his brother’s side.
Forgoing his lance altogether Richard flung himself bodily against the Basileen soldier. They hit the ground with a crash and Richard’s fingers closed around the hilt of a sword. He raised the sword over his head and brought it down in a spray of blood and bone. In his pain hazed mind all Belial registered was the blur of gold and the cry of metal colliding against metal and then he was greeted by the eternal blue sky of the plains.
Richard heard the soft clank and thump of Belial’s fall and scrambled off the body of the soldier and to his general’s side. As gingerly as possible he pulled the sword from Belial’s stomach and pressed his hands over the wound.
“Richard,” Belial gasped, “the horn. You must sound the retreat.”
Richard’s brow furrowed but he nodded. Picking up Belial’s hand he pressed it against the wound and carefully removed his own. “Put as much pressure on it as you can, Belial.”
The man snorted in annoyance, “Before it’s too late, Richard!”
The young king scrambled away from his friend’s side and dove for the horn as if it were a life line. Leaping to his feet he brought the mouth piece to his lips and played for all he was worth the clear, precious melody of defeat.
Below them in the valley the surprised Sandorans looked to the Golden General for confirmation. Thrusting his sword one final time into the body of an enemy he wheeled his mount around and urged it forward. All around him the remaining Sandorans mimicked his retreat and with a great cry the Basileens gave chase.
On the hilltop, drawn by the sound of the clarion, the soldiers of Basil surrounded Richard. With neither sword nor lance the young king was nearly defenseless against the soldiers. Glancing to his fallen general he saw Belial as the man struggled to rise, sword in hand, ready to defend his king even as his own dark blood flowed through his fingers. An enemy soldier kicked the weapon away and laid into Belial, kicking him in the side repeatedly.
“Belial!” Richard cried and leaped at the man, knocking him down as he had the first soldier. Several pairs of hands and arms seized him and dragged him off the Basileen. The soldier stood and brushed himself off but his malice filled eyes never left the king.
“Hold him still.”
The man's compatriots were all too happy to comply. Grips tightened and the soldier took a swing which connected hard with Richard's cheekbone. The king made no sound, though he felt like his face had exploded. He tried to shake away the spots and blotches that filled his vision. Behind the punching soldier, Belial made a new attempt at rising. Another Basileen kicked him in the face and Belial was down for good, but he didn't stop there.
The pain suddenly became nothing and Richard cried out to his fallen general, his best friend, as the man kicked him over and over as though taking some sadistic pleasure in the action. Richard struggled hard against his captors as Belial’s body curled in on itself still clutching his stomach. Richard shook his head furiously, his eyes never leaving Belial’s form as the punching soldier turned to laugh. Basil had won the day, the war. Sandora was in shambles all around him and before him personified by the continued abuse of his most loyal general. All logical thought left him. Richard strained forward with every intention of tearing the soldier away from his wounded general. His captors were dragged forward by the sudden display of power and more hands grabbed him. Finally, a soldier raised his sword and brought the hilt down harshly against the back of Richard’s skull. It connected with a sickening crack and a sharp yelp, and the Sandoran king's vision went black.
---
Author's notes:
Richard and Belial are not brothers literally. It's a figure of speech.
Also, I'm gunna say these things now because I don't think there will ever be a point in the story where I can say them.
numero uno – I did a crazy (for me) amount of math for this story and found out that either someone at sony couldn't multiply or someone at translation department didn't think the number was at all relevant but the amount of time it's been since the end of the Wingly oppression (either 10,000 or 11,000 years depending on what part of the game you're in and who is talking) is grossly inaccurate. Charle comments that Rose has killed the moon child 108 times and since it comes every 108 years it has been exactly 11,682 years since the end of (what I dub) the Wingly era (that's actually plus 18 since Shana survived and is now 18 years old).
Numero dos – How did Lloyd survive? Plot bunnies. They administered CPR and lifted him out of the implosion of TMTNS on wings of fluff and love and delivered him into the waiting arms of Wink. Yes Wink. I really don't care (or understand) what you Wink haters think. Sorry.
Seriously though? It was never definitively exposited that Lloyd was dead, and in such an exposition heavy game you think they'd say something. So the possibility runs either way, for my purposes I needed him alive, and let's just say that Miranda, ultimately being a kind and gentle person underneath all of her hate and bitchiness and also knowing Wink's soft spot for him, picked him up and carried him out.
Conclusion: Miranda is a plot bunnie in disguise!! D:
Chapter: 1 - Field of Sorrows
Fandom: Legend of Dragoon
Genre: Action/Adventure
Word Count: 4,853
Rating: T - for violence also suggestive adult themes at some point maybe I think.
Disclaimer: Sony pretty much owns The Legend of Dragoon, however the majority of the characters which will arise in this story belong to me.
Summary: 2,362 years after the destruction of the Moon That Never Sets the world of Endiness is again in dire peril. The Dragoon Spirits awaken to offer their aid, but is it enough to save a dying world?
Edit: I destroyed the intro because I hated it with a passion. Bwa ha ha et cetera.
This Time Imperfect
Chapter 1: Field of Sorrows
A chill breeze threaded its way through the hilly valley, coursing over the grassy knolls and whispering through the sparse trees. It roamed across the valley reveling in its utter freedom as it danced beneath the stars. Chancing momentarily over the figure of a man standing at the crest of a gently rolling hill it lingered to run invisible fingers through his long mahogany hair. Then, tugging on his cloak in farewell, it wandered away once more.
The king of Sandora sighed into the wind.
At the base of the hill stood another man. If anyone had been standing with him they would have seen the worry in his dark eyes as he gazed up at the form of the monarch on the hill. What he truly saw was not a king or a general or even their army’s greatest banner. What he saw was a man, whom he had known since childhood, tired, weak, and unguarded. Unconsciously, he shifted his weight causing his sheathed sword to hit his violet and gold armor with a soft clunk. The sound seemed to rouse him for he suddenly started up the hill.
He slowed to a halt just behind the man and called out, “Your Majesty?”. The king, Richard, started and turned his emerald gaze on the soldier who now stood beside him. “Listening to the wind, Sire?” The corners of the young general’s mouth turned up in an easy smile. “Does it bring you good tidings?”
The smile he was given in turn was small and fleeting, infused with Richard's bittersweet musings. “Nay, Belial,” his voice came out as a sigh as he returned his gaze to the plains. “Would that they could impart to us the tales of their long journey. Alas, they do not boast to us of their secrets.” He blinked and frowned slightly at his unintended use of the majestic plural. “I think I have been king too long.”
Belial seemed to find this amusing for he chuckled softly but heartily as was his way. Then the violet armored general clanked, giving Richard the distinct impression that the man had shrugged. “The men are agitated, Sire. Perhaps you should be among them now.”
He shook his head slightly, “Not just now.”
“Sire?”
Richard turned to the commander. “I shall, Belial,” he replied, sounding defeated, “but for the moment I wish to remain alone to think.”
Belial bowed. “Of course, Sire. I shall leave you.”
Richard nodded and turned his gaze back to the plains as the commander turned to leave. “Belial.” He called suddenly.
Half way down the hill Belial stopped and turned. “Sire?”
“Take a message to Degen and the other commanders. We have made our decision and will not have it questioned. If tomorrow’s campaign fails our army will retreat to Tiberoa as originally planned.”
“My Lord, I do not—“
Richard held up a hand to silence him, “This is the way it must be. Our time here grows short. Nothing can be left to chance.”
“Richard,” the dark haired man began, his voice laced with a tone of familiarity that the king found disconcerting and turned his tired gaze into something stern and sharp.
“We will not be questioned, Belial. We do not suffer optimism and hope where we must look down the maw of reality.”
The knight struggled with his words for a moment, allowing an awkward silence to reign between them. Finally, thinking better than to argue with his king, he let go of his argument. “My Lord is quite blunt in the matter.” He replied, his voice devoid of its former pleading warmth. “I will relay your orders to Degen.”
Richard nodded sharply and returned his gaze to the silent, starlit night. Belial lingered on the hillside. In his mind he made the excuse that it was because he had not been formally dismissed, but in reality it was because he knew his childhood friend, knew him quite a bit better, he thought, than the man knew himself. Sure enough it was not long before Richard spoke again in a softer voice. “You know as well as I that our chances of survival now are slim, but our sister nation can benefit from our demise. Every man counts, and Tiberoa will have great need of them if we fall.”
Belial nodded and then added for his benefit, because the king could not see him, “I understand, Richard.”
With a sigh the tension in the king's stance seemed to leave him, born away on the gentle winds of the plains. He turned and approached Belial, “I know my friend,” he said placing his hands on the other man's shoulders, “and I thank you. Now you go to Degen and we shall go impart what little encouragement we can to our soldiers.”
Belial bowed and backed away a pace before turning and hurrying to find Degen. Richard lingered only a moment before moving toward the first campfire.
The night was cool and sweet. Not at all surprising for fall in mid-Serdio. The lush grass plains spread for miles in every direction, bathed in the light of the moon. Far to the east lay the languorous outline of the Topes Mountain range which separated the countries of Serdio and Tiberoa. To the far west, pale and quiet, lay the Villude Mountain Range, and just to the north beyond a knoll lay the army of the Republic of Basil, waiting.
Richard walked among the camp fires, talking to his men, imparting to some words of comfort, exchanging idle banter with others. They seemed to take comfort in the quiet confidence he had in them, and the words he had for them, but nothing could comfort the disquieting voice inside of him. The whispering voice of the winds on the plains haunted him. It was true what he had told Belial. Richard was not privy to the wind’s secret comings and goings, but sometimes, when he quieted his thoughts and his heart, and listened just so, he though perhaps he was eavesdropping. And tonight something in the air boded ill for Sandora.
Nevertheless he sat with his men, he smiled and nodded and showed them his faith in them. If anything did go wrong tomorrow, he knew in his heart that it was not for lack of strength, love, and loyalty in these men.
These men.
This army.
This country.
Sandora.
Serdio.
Richard looked up at the stars. What cruel fate smiled down upon him that evening he did not know.
No one ever saw the cloaked Basileen soldiers that swung wide around the army’s left flank.
---
Through the early morning haze rode a gold clad figure astride a steed of chestnut and violet. Had the sun been shining he would have shone like a beacon across the plains, but the mornings of late had been wet and gloomy. A herald to the approaching winter, or a land mourning for its people? The gold rider did not know.
The rider pulled back on the reigns, forcing the animal beneath him to a halt. He stood in his stirrups and gazed over his right shoulder, the shoulder of his sword arm. Spread across the field, hidden partially by the fog, an army of gold and violet clad knights stood in rank.
At first sight, the army might have seemed intimidating, but only because their numbers were partially obscured by the fog. The army of Sandora rode only six thousand strong against the forces of Basil.
The gold clad warrior sighed heavily and raised his voice to shout over the crowd.
“Knights of Sandora,” He began, and six thousand voices rose to meet him. “Today,” the cry died down, “is the beginning of the end of fifty-five long years of war,” Again he was cocooned by the voice of Sandora, and in his heart he felt a pang of guilt and regret and other emotions he could not name, none of which was anger. He’d overcome that long ago. He let the cries die down again before he continued. “Remember, twelve thousand years ago, when we were shackled and chained in servitude! The memory is in your blood! Sandora will not yield, Sandora will not kneel! For Sandora, for King Richard! The war ends here, for Endiness!”
The cry rose up over the valley, six thousand bodies whose blood remembered the injustice of twelve thousand years before. Six thousand voices that, with each cry, swore they would grovel before masters nevermore.
Even if those masters were men like themselves.
The sun shone now over the valley. It burned away the fog, and the rider astride his steed shone in the sunlight as a savior must from heaven. At the crest of a high hill just behind the final ranks of the army, another gold rider shone forth. But Richard knew that on the battlefield he did not shine half so brightly as Degen, the golden general below him.
“Ho,” Richard’s eyes flicked toward Belial at his side. “Majesty, the enemy approaches.”
“Sound the horn,” commanded the king and Belial twisted in his saddle to signal the trumpeter.
The clarion sounded, cool and sweet, full of promises and glory. Below, Degen unsheathed his mighty sword.
“Die well,” Richard whispered his voice inaudible to all but the one who stood beside him. Belial turned sharply at his king’s words but was stopped fast by the set of Richard’s face. He averted his eyes to the ground, chocolate orbs searching the earth as if he could find his answers there, then wordlessly he returned them to the field once more.
Richard threw a hand into the air and gestured swiftly forward. The clarion call sounded again and far below the golden rider mirrored his king’s gesture, swinging his sword down in a forward arc, its tip pointed at the heart of the enemy formation.
“Charge!”
His command was drowned in battle cries and the thunder of two advancing armies.
The gold and violet Sandorans crashed against the green and silver Basileens with all the effect of a wave against a mountain, but by some miracle of fate, or the sheer will of man, the line held.
The battle progressed rapidly. Unfortunately for Sandora it deteriorated in the same way. Richard watched the scene before him with grief stricken eyes as wave upon wave of Basileens forced back his own beloved Sandora.
“Your Majesty!” shouted a soldier on horseback as he skidded up alongside the king. “The Fifth has suffered mass casualties.”
Richard gave the man a pointed glare. “They cannot fall back. Send them as many soldiers as you can find to reinforce them, but they cannot break the line.”
The soldier nodded, “Aye, Milord,” The soldier spurred his horse and was gone.
The mask that had swept so easily into place as he faced the messenger fell once more as Richard’s eyes were drawn back to the battlefield below him. His hands tightened on the reigns of his mount until he could no longer feel his fingers and still he did not loosen them. One year ago when he had left Castle Kazas, the capitol of Sandora, on this campaign against Basil he had had high hopes of repelling the advance of his cousin’s army. In the end he had found hope and optimism were not enough to change the course of one’s fate.
“Richard.”
The sound of the familiar voice prompted him to relax his grip. He had no need to turn and look at the man beside him for it was a face and voice he knew well beyond sight and sound.
“Perhaps Your Majesty should see to the wounded.”
“You would relegate us to the duties of nurse, Belial?”
“It would reassure them, Sire.”
“Your Majesty,” called a voice in urgency. Both men turned to watch a young soldier sprinting up the hill toward them.
“Your Majesty,” the boy said again as he came to a panting halt. “The fifth has fallen back, Sire the line could not be held.”
Richard cursed softly. “Belial, send in the sixteenth cavalry.”
The man blinked at the king as his mind attempted to wrap itself around Richard’s command. The sixteenth cavalry was his division and it was the only thing guarding Richard atop this knoll. “But, Sire that will leave your position unguarded.”
“Take them and go, Belial.
The man was even more taken aback. “Me, Sire?”
“You are their commanding officer.”
Belial’s brow creased in consternation. “No.”
Richard turned sharply to Belial, “What?”
“I will send the sixteenth cavalry but with Captain Morris in charge. I will not leave your side, Richard.”
For a moment the two men leveled heated glares at each other, two wills of steel tempered by the same forge battling in a short struggle for dominance, but Belial would not back down and Richard did not have the time to make him. The king relented with a heavy nod, and ,with a grim smile of victory, Belial wheeled his mount around and took off to relay the king's orders to his captain. Richard returned his gaze to the messenger.
“Return to the front. Inform Ferdok that the Sixteenth Cavalry is on its way.”
The boy nodded and for the first time Richard noticed the boy’s pallor. As if just realizing itself that something was wrong the soldier’s body gave out and collapsed to the ground. Richard started. He leaped from his mount and was on his knees by the boy’s side in an instant. Deft fingers unclasped the breastplate and Richard felt his hands come into contact with something slick and simultaneously sticky. A sense of urgency filled him and he tore away the armor. Blood oozed over the boy's hauberk from a deep wound in his side where some smart weapon had found its way into the armor’s blind spot. Richard placed his hands over the wound, pressing down as hard as he could. He felt the boy wince beneath his hands.
“Richard,” Belial’s voice sounded startled and urgent.
“He is wounded, Belial,” Richard replied without looking up. “Has the Sixteenth mobilized?”
“Aye, Milord.”
“Get the healers.”
“Aye.”
Belial hastened away to do as he was bidden, leaving Richard to see to the young soldier until he could return.
“Sire?”
Richard looked up from his blood covered hands at the sound of the boy's voice. He gave the boy a look which he hoped was reassuring but his body felt strangely numb all over, excepting his hands where he acutely felt the soldier’s life seeping through his fingers. “It is better if you do not move.” He reproved in a quiet but stern tone as the boy struggled to rise.
“I must…I must return to the fifth,” the messenger panted, but his movements slowly stilled.
“The sixteenth cavalry is on its way to aide them as we speak,” Richard replied gently. “Do not worry yourself. They are in good hands.”
The boy reluctantly nodded and allowed his eyes to close, though his body showed no signs of relaxing. Suddenly Richard became angry with himself. He could not simply address the soldier as “boy” even if it was within his own head. The young messenger was a soldier of Sandora, true to his king and loyal to his comrades. He’d run wounded up the hill, possibly all the way from the front, carrying his message. He was an exemplary soldier and man.
“Your name, Sir Knight. Pray tell us.”
The soldier opened his eyes and blinked several times, either trying to comprehend Richard’s words or waiting to make sure he was correct in assuming the King of Sandora was actually speaking to him.
“A…Aldrich, Sire.”
Richard’s eyes softened fractionally. “You have fought bravely and well this day, Sir Aldrich. We are proud to count you among our knights.”
He watched as the young knight’s eyes widened fractionally and a small uncertain smile graced his battle stained face.
“Rest now, Sir Aldrich,” Richard commanded gently. Behind him he heard the approaching footsteps of yet another soldier. The eyes of the knight before him focused over his shoulder and his expression twisted into one of surprise and rage. Richard’s brow furrowed in confusion and he made to turn.
“My Lord!” The boy cried and lunged to pull Richard down and to the side. The king heard more than felt the impact of metal glancing off of his golden armor.
Surprised, Richard was nevertheless quick to his feet; he rounded on his adversary, his blade singing as it left its sheathe. A quick glance down informed him that Aldrich was now unconscious from blood loss and the strain of the simple movement it had taken to save his king’s life. The monarch’s eyes flicked up once more to settle on his enemy, a Basileen soldier cloaked in dark green. The man wore a grim expression and lifted his sword to challenge Richard. In his head Richard scoffed at the coward who would have knifed him in the back only moments ago instead of challenging him openly. The Basili probably thought better than to challenge a man as thoroughly trained in war and the way of the sword as the King of Sandora should be.
He will surely be in for a surprise, Richard thought humorlessly.
Their eyes locked, Richard and his would be assassin circled warily, each watching, waiting for a clear opening. Belatedly, Richard wondered where Belial was and why this Basileen was alone in his quest. It was then that he realized that the sounds of battle were suddenly much closer and coming from the direction of the healer’s tents.
They were fighting, Richard realized with a start. His soldiers, his wounded Sandoran soldiers had engaged the enemy before they had had the chance to get to him and only this Basileen had made it through their defense.
Spotting his chance in Richard’s mental distraction the Basileen soldier lunged forward with his sword. Acting instinctively, Richard gracelessly flung his sword out to block the assassin’s strike. The blades came together with a crash that jarred Richard and forced him to take a step back. The assassin leered at him, for the first time realizing the full extent of Richard’s capabilities as a fighter had been grossly exaggerated. Richard’s eyes narrowed at the man as he disengaged his blade from the king’s only to strike again. The swords connected with a clang sending numbing electricity up Richard’s arm. The king grimaced but held onto the blade. The assassin pressed forward, hacking away at Richard’s meager defense and forcing him back several steps. The Basileen then dealt him a blow which over balanced the young king’s fragile stance. Seeing his opening he reared back to deliver what would be a devastating final blow. Richard saw the intent and flung his own sword up bracing his hand against the flat of the blade as the Basileen sword came crashing down against his. Richard was in a disadvantaged position. The man raised his sword again, delivering a quick succession of crushing blows against the sword until the king was driven to his knees. The Basileen shifted his weight into the sword forcing Richard’s defense to buckle slowly under the pressure.
The wicked edge of the Basileen blade crept closer and closer to Richard’s upturned face. Richard narrowed his eyes at the blade as though it was nothing much more than a mere annoyance before refocusing his gaze on the assassin. Their eyes locked, one gleam of victory and one glare of defiance locked in a battle of wills. Richard allowed his breathing to deepen, inhaling slowly and deliberately. As the Basileen sword inched ever downward Richard shifted his weight beneath him then slowly rolling it forward onto the balls of his feet. In swordplay the King of Sandora simply had never developed the amount of skill and stamina necessary to constantly read and counter his opponent in such close quarters. He did, however, have one distinct advantage. What he lacked in stamina he more than made up for in sheer, albiet short bursts of, power.
Richard inhaled and gave slightly, allowing the sword to come down faster than the Basileen had anticipated. The man recoiled minutely to regain his bearings. Richard released the breath and with it forced himself up, his strong legs uncoiling like a spring in an explosion of power. He shoved the startled Basileen back. Both hands gripping the hilt of his blade Richard leaped forward and thrust the point of his sword into the Basileen’s chest, slicing through the assassin’s light leather armor. He heard the bone split beneath his blade and four hand-spans of steel found its sheath in unresisting flesh.
The body of the Basileen soldier slumped to the ground and Richard wrenched the sword free from the body. That task complete, he turned away to aid his wounded soldiers fighting the Basileen assassins behind him. Something hard connected with the side of his head. He fell back, stunned, as flecks of color burst before his eyes. Before he could register the attack, his assailant lashed out again this time to kick the away the sword that now hung limply from the king’s hand. Still trying to shake away the pain and now defenseless against the enemy, Richard stepped away in a flourish from the advancing Basileen.
“Richard!”
The king jerked back in surprise as a crimson tipped sword erupted from beneath the sternum of his assailant. The sword fell from the man’s hands, sticking itself in the ground at Richard’s feet. The king’s eyes widened slightly as the sword tip disappeared once more. The limp body toppled to the ground and his eyes refocused on the dark haired general.
“Belial?” the stunned and disoriented king uttered in bemusement.
“Take this,” The general ordered, thrusting a lance against his chest. Richard needed no further convincing as his hands instinctively rose to take hold of the weapon that stood as tall as he. “The enemy comes directly. Milord, we must sound the retreat!”
The young king nodded shortly and winced, “Where is Thomas?” He asked, rubbing the throbbing knot that was rising on the side of his head.
“The boy is dead,” Belial informed him tonelessly, “he still clutches the clarion.”
“We must make our way to him,” Richard said firmly. “Belial, you must return to the other soldiers.”
The dark haired general's eyes hardened. “I will not leave your side, My King.”
“Your defiance will get you killed one day my friend,”
“Better than my compliance getting you killed,” He replied tersely. “Come, I know the way,” He placed a firm hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Do not leave my side, little brother.”
Richard smirked and nodded, there was no mistaking the glint in his compatriot's eyes. And then Belial was gone, spearing the way ahead into a sea of bodies and war cries with Richard hot on his heels.
“Here!” Belial cried as they approached the body of a young man, relatively ignored by the chaos around them.
“Sound the retreat, Belial,” Richard called from behind him. “I will keep them at bay.”
With a short nod Belial turned to retrieve the horn from the clutches of the dead boy. His spear in his hands, Richard turned to the nearest Basileen, one of many which had recognized and attempted to pursue the king through the chaos. Executing a quick turn midstep, he spun and brought the butt end of the lance down across the soldier's face. Swinging back he slashed the man with the head. He turned and jabbed. The head of his lance found its home in the throat of yet another enemy soldier. He jerked back, and whirled around, but felt no impact where he had expected one. Spotting the Basileen, who had managed to leap back from being struck by the blunt end of the lance, he lunged forward in an attempt to impale him. The soldier struck the head of the lance with his sword diverting the head into the earth, but that did not stop Richard who used the lance's new position as leverage to leap the distance and plant his foot across the soldier's face.
The king could not help the smile that rose to his face as the soldier went down. He would remember to thank Belial once more later on for being such a good teacher. Richard wasted no time in rounding on the next Basileen soldier who attempted to subdue him when the familiar cry of his friend’s voice brought him to a momentary halt. He glanced over his shoulder to where he knew Belial to be. What he saw tore a cry from his throat.
Belial’s sword fell from his slack fingers and clattered uselessly to the ground. His face contorted into a mask of anguish. The Basileen looking into his eyes smiled grimly and leaned against the sword thrust into his belly, driving it further home, tearing another cry from the throat of the general. Without thinking Richard inhaled, turned, and struck an attacking Basileen in the arm. He heard the crunch of metal and bone but didn’t look back as he exhaled and drove forward, powerful legs pumping against the ground carrying him to his brother’s side.
Forgoing his lance altogether Richard flung himself bodily against the Basileen soldier. They hit the ground with a crash and Richard’s fingers closed around the hilt of a sword. He raised the sword over his head and brought it down in a spray of blood and bone. In his pain hazed mind all Belial registered was the blur of gold and the cry of metal colliding against metal and then he was greeted by the eternal blue sky of the plains.
Richard heard the soft clank and thump of Belial’s fall and scrambled off the body of the soldier and to his general’s side. As gingerly as possible he pulled the sword from Belial’s stomach and pressed his hands over the wound.
“Richard,” Belial gasped, “the horn. You must sound the retreat.”
Richard’s brow furrowed but he nodded. Picking up Belial’s hand he pressed it against the wound and carefully removed his own. “Put as much pressure on it as you can, Belial.”
The man snorted in annoyance, “Before it’s too late, Richard!”
The young king scrambled away from his friend’s side and dove for the horn as if it were a life line. Leaping to his feet he brought the mouth piece to his lips and played for all he was worth the clear, precious melody of defeat.
Below them in the valley the surprised Sandorans looked to the Golden General for confirmation. Thrusting his sword one final time into the body of an enemy he wheeled his mount around and urged it forward. All around him the remaining Sandorans mimicked his retreat and with a great cry the Basileens gave chase.
On the hilltop, drawn by the sound of the clarion, the soldiers of Basil surrounded Richard. With neither sword nor lance the young king was nearly defenseless against the soldiers. Glancing to his fallen general he saw Belial as the man struggled to rise, sword in hand, ready to defend his king even as his own dark blood flowed through his fingers. An enemy soldier kicked the weapon away and laid into Belial, kicking him in the side repeatedly.
“Belial!” Richard cried and leaped at the man, knocking him down as he had the first soldier. Several pairs of hands and arms seized him and dragged him off the Basileen. The soldier stood and brushed himself off but his malice filled eyes never left the king.
“Hold him still.”
The man's compatriots were all too happy to comply. Grips tightened and the soldier took a swing which connected hard with Richard's cheekbone. The king made no sound, though he felt like his face had exploded. He tried to shake away the spots and blotches that filled his vision. Behind the punching soldier, Belial made a new attempt at rising. Another Basileen kicked him in the face and Belial was down for good, but he didn't stop there.
The pain suddenly became nothing and Richard cried out to his fallen general, his best friend, as the man kicked him over and over as though taking some sadistic pleasure in the action. Richard struggled hard against his captors as Belial’s body curled in on itself still clutching his stomach. Richard shook his head furiously, his eyes never leaving Belial’s form as the punching soldier turned to laugh. Basil had won the day, the war. Sandora was in shambles all around him and before him personified by the continued abuse of his most loyal general. All logical thought left him. Richard strained forward with every intention of tearing the soldier away from his wounded general. His captors were dragged forward by the sudden display of power and more hands grabbed him. Finally, a soldier raised his sword and brought the hilt down harshly against the back of Richard’s skull. It connected with a sickening crack and a sharp yelp, and the Sandoran king's vision went black.
---
Author's notes:
Richard and Belial are not brothers literally. It's a figure of speech.
Also, I'm gunna say these things now because I don't think there will ever be a point in the story where I can say them.
numero uno – I did a crazy (for me) amount of math for this story and found out that either someone at sony couldn't multiply or someone at translation department didn't think the number was at all relevant but the amount of time it's been since the end of the Wingly oppression (either 10,000 or 11,000 years depending on what part of the game you're in and who is talking) is grossly inaccurate. Charle comments that Rose has killed the moon child 108 times and since it comes every 108 years it has been exactly 11,682 years since the end of (what I dub) the Wingly era (that's actually plus 18 since Shana survived and is now 18 years old).
Numero dos – How did Lloyd survive? Plot bunnies. They administered CPR and lifted him out of the implosion of TMTNS on wings of fluff and love and delivered him into the waiting arms of Wink. Yes Wink. I really don't care (or understand) what you Wink haters think. Sorry.
Seriously though? It was never definitively exposited that Lloyd was dead, and in such an exposition heavy game you think they'd say something. So the possibility runs either way, for my purposes I needed him alive, and let's just say that Miranda, ultimately being a kind and gentle person underneath all of her hate and bitchiness and also knowing Wink's soft spot for him, picked him up and carried him out.
Conclusion: Miranda is a plot bunnie in disguise!! D:
