[Closed to Vayne]

[blessedsaint]

Characters: Vayne Solidor, Ultima/Ajora
Where: Ruins of the Sky Fortress Bahamut, Dalmasca
When: Just before break of dawn, 17 Plumfrost*, 710 Old Valendian
What: Returning an Emperor to the site of his fall.
Warnings: Ultima should be warning enough. Vayne might be one too.
*Plumfrost = January

Outside the Royal City of Rabanastre rests the hulking ruin of the Sky Fortress Bahamut. Even in the dead of night, the monstrosity of Archadian technology casts a heavy and dread shadow over the city. Never shall she be truly free of the Empire, for it has left a firm reminder in its wake. One that cannot be blotted out by sheer determination, nor turning a blind eye. The people see it as a monument, and as a reminder.

Within, there is naught of light. That which once powered the Bahamut has long since been drained away. It is not, however, the lack of mist that keeps away any illumination. The once proud superweapon of Archades is a crypt. Hundreds of bodies were never recovered from the collapsed sections of the sky fortress after it fell, soldiers and crew with the misfortune to be denied escape. Over the years, the remains have decayed in the dark, a final resting place for many. The dank, ripe smell of death lingers in the air.

In the deepest bowels of this titanic tomb, stands a lone figure clad in black. He is but a vessel for the true presence, she who is greater, who rose in rebellion against the gods. Submitting to her will, he relinquishes his physical body for her manifestation.



Light bursts in the darkness as the High Seraph comes forth, with wings of gold and red shimmering against the black and shadow. Her brilliance blots out all vision, save her own sight, though none alive are present. Once again, she moves against the gods, raising her defiance high and stealing away one given into the hands of death. The holy scion plunges deep into the nether and grasps hold of her next chosen. One whose resurrection will serve her purposes in this next life. That they have both defied the gods is a shared bond, one which gives her immense pleasure to return to Ivalice. Where his lapdog will cause strife by mere existence, this man has the strength of will to contend with gods.

On the cold metal floor, the blood seraph's work is made flesh. His spirit hovers over the ground as she knits together a physical form to hold it. A simple Hume body, no longer filled with a mortal's rebellious creation, nor glutted with a rouge Occuria. Just that of a young emperor, a third son of a dead ruler. Releasing a burst of holy power, she integrates the spirit with the body, waiting for his first breath.

"No longer shall the gods drive the course of history."

Comments

[cruentatafoedus]

There's a sound or a - a light? Fingers spasm and ache to touch, to move and sing. His throat feels mangled, twisted, but there is no voice, no soundless scream that echoes from so many years past, there are only the edges of memory, the identity of self being returned to home.

Is it home? The question feels right, but the situation -

A tangle of bare limbs and body, he, self, I, is recognized, muscles unused to themselves, their limits like a child too eager. His eyes raise as he pushes from the cold metal floor, body registering cold, chill, and, last of all, sting.

The man recognizes the figure cut in glory, in holy, and the same eyes widen, lips parting before pieces come back to halt his voice falling out of his mouth - "High Seraph Ultima - "

A name, his name, cracks into his head like a gunshot, and the wide eyed expression of youth, of awe, is broken, face hardening in the dark illuminated by the filtered gold from purest wings of she whom has cast a long shadow since the time of his birth.

He smiles compulsively, taking in a stuttering breath. Faram - how cold his flesh is.

No, no indeed. Gods are to not, to never, entangle themselves in the affairs of man and yet - here they are. Two creations of Gods themselves, unwavering. He feels a pang he will later come to identify as fear.

The words come out, rounded and worn, though he expects no answer, not from the Seraph herself. "Why?" Such a broad question, but he gestures with a hand as if to suggest all things, himself included, are out of place. Even a book espied, cast so upon the floor which seems so simple, so plain, feels incorrect.

[blessedsaint]

In long silence, the High Seraph considers her work. Something akin to a smile settles on her lips, though there is no warmth or kindness in it. They are both of them created, created and rebels, though she is the better, being not mortal. The hard look matters not, nor his indication that he is out of place. She has determined otherwise. Vayne will forward her plans, whether he wishes it or no. Merely drawing breath once more is enough.

Why? he asks of her. It smacks of ingratitude, insolence. The very traits she hoped to raise as a weapon against the gods. Why indeed. Though he may not expect an answer, one is forthcoming.

Ultima leans forward, her cold smile spreading, as she meets his eyes.

"The time has drawn nigh and dawns now."

[cruentatafoedus]

The silence is damning, but he can wait. He has time enough in the world it seems, and he knows now she has called him, she has dragged him from a spitting Hell, broken her own cycle of reincarnation and for what? To bring him back? Indeed, there must be some purpose she has sought him for, something far darker that clings to her smile.

Her smile, of course, he reflects back as though he were her mirror, inner fingers clenching around the flutter of his heartbeat, the stench of raw power unchecked, chains shattered for reasons he cannot even begin to grasp, making his head feel as though trapped in a haze.

That fear? He knows what it is now, and he would laugh to the heavens to expel its curse, that mortal plague. Only Vayne Solidor would be so mad to trade teeth for teeth and stand as though the playing field was equal. A politician indeed, a man who has lost so much and given everything.

"You mark me for a pawn? Were I to know your thoughts, Seraph, I may inscribe myself better to your whims."

It's a boldfaced lie and they both know it, but she can kill him, make his suffering complete. Perhaps he wants it, he has had enough of games, of his flesh boiling over, wires in the framework stretching him so thin the sun's rays did cast themselves through.

[blessedsaint]

The lie is seen for just that and Ultima still coldly smiles in Vayne's face. Yes. She could well kill him. Perhaps should kill him for that impudence. She will not do, however, as he serves better purpose alive. He recognizes that she has brought him forth as a pawn in her service. This matters not. Even should he rage against the whole host of the scions, he will only forward their agenda. Her heart has been veiled since they rose up against the gods and the High Seraph has no need to lift that veil even now. Her own counsel she keeps.

Once more she studies him. It is to let him bask in her presence, to drink in the significance that he is once more living and that she is the one responsible. Her radiant power could drive a lesser man to his knees. That Vayne has not succumbed is satisfactory indeed.

"I would treat with you again, mortal."

Her smugness is palatable, yet within that statement is the clarion ring of truth. Here is one she would deign to strike an accord, should such opportunity prove profitable.

Without further comment, the High Seraph vanishes, taking all light with her and plunging the metal tomb into darkness. Her host takes his leave in the shadows, with nary a footstep to mark his departure.

[cruentatafoedus]

So close, so much closer - he swears he could reach out and touch and see that she is not flesh at all but metal and the biting cold that seeps into his bones and has sung him to bed at night when there were only nightmares and memories of blood so familiar -

He finds himself smiling at nothing, and he shudders, losing his footing as the weight of an Esper, one of the highest, sees fit to disappear. It makes it so he can breathe again, his face and skin slick with sweat. His knees smart and the framework of his body tremors again, the ripened edge of terror hounding at the absence of the glorious, one bittersweet agony.

Shemhazai's hind-end he's scared. The fear is inescapable, an insane rush. It seems his body knows who to bow to and there is a twist of his lips, a resentment of that unholy truth though the exhalation of air from his lungs is more akin to a laugh.

There are only a few things he knows must be true now - that she would have to be about means someone has to have let her go, has delved into the darkest heart, the greatest prison known and pried her from the gilded cage like a monstrous canary, voice laden with a siren's song. She has been summoned, her auracite smashed, her brand upon the body of someone who seems to be even madder than Vayne himself. He also knows if she has raised him, there is something she wants more than anything else to bring him back (though where and how he can't imagine, this floor, this place - ?). He sees the lines crossing, the paths converging - that she did not kill him to raise him again, to kill him and raise him again? What a fool.

It's too cold to remain here, and he forces, makes his limbs right themselves and do as he commands, gaze casting itself about -

He forgets to breathe.

In the light that has begun to creep in, as his eyes have adjusted slowly without his knowledge - he sees it. He understands.

The aged patches of blood burned forever into the blackened surface, the circular surroundings - the arena. Vayne's lips part once more, but no sound escapes, the knitting of his brow darker than the room.

"Burn in Hell - Gabranth...!"

"Even a stray has pride - "

"Though I lack your power - "

"I am only myself - "

The hole he has found himself closes up again as he pushes them away, all the voices, all the sounds -

Now is not the time.

How he gets out, he doesn't care - from amongst the dead, soldiers who have spent, Faram knows how long, rotting in their armored shells (he can barely look, let alone think), and he thanks them soundlessly, all the while slowly discovering the book of earlier unwilling to be left behind.

And Vayne? Vayne is unwilling to stay, unwilling for a moment to stay confined. The book he snatches up, promising he will look into it later to uncover why it keeps tripping him, why it keeps insisting -

The descent from Bahamut is long and empty.