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Chapter Text

The Relics pulse, and the Relics shift. They are alive but they are dead, and sometimes they twitch, trying to return to each other, but the sinews and muscles that connected them are gone, long gone.

Seteth tries to calm them sometimes, when he can find a private moment to sit with the writhing bones, gently running his hands over each and whispering soothing words until the voices cease and the bones still. He can’t hear them nearly as loudly as Rhea does; all he hears are whispers in a long-forgotten language, harsh with rage and pain and despair. Today, from the Lance of Ruin in his hands, he hears only anger.

It is their punishment.

It is right. It is just.

Let them become beasts, for what they did to us! Let them suffer!

Make them pay! Make them pay! 

Make them bleed!

The Crest stones were taken from single Nabateans, but the bones were not; each Relic is a nightmarish jumble of bones from as many bodies as could be desecrated. The Crests had only been stolen from the Children of the Goddess. The most powerful of Nabateans. His family. If only he had been home when the humans came, perhaps he could have saved them, perhaps he could have prevented the massacre of everyone he knew and loved, and yet he knows that he would have been just as helpless as the rest as they were slaughtered. 

Even his wife’s remains could be among these bones, he knows, for he had come upon scavengers tearing apart her body after she fell. Enraged, he had slain them with his own hand, and yet some escaped, her bloodied bones in hand to improve their cursed weapons. She could be strewn about among any number of them, or perhaps she had never been used at all; which was worse, he could not say, and still cannot.

He knows not if she is here in his hand, nor if she is among these voices, for there are none he can recognize. In his hands are the remains of friends, family, all of his loved ones, and yet their voices are so twisted and distorted that he cannot say who is who. Even the Crest stone had been stripped of their original identity, now named after their murderer and not themselves. He knows the true name; he remembers all of the true names of his siblings as if they had been carved into his heart with a knife. This world, so ugly and cruel and stained with blood, no longer deserves to hear their names, and so when he speaks one aloud it is quiet enough that only he and the stone can hear. 

His fingers clench more tightly around the lance’s handle, but he urges his heart to be still, lest the bones feed off of his rage as well. His whispers are quiet as he continues his work, murmuring to the remains of the dead, urging them to finally claim the rest they deserve after long years of suffering. Still, they do not listen, and their rage consumes them, as hot as blazing embers. Still they whisper the name of the man they transformed into a beast, over and over, as if it is a battle cry to rally their power to revenge.

Miklan… Miklan… Miklan... 

He remembers the day well, when Byleth returned to the monastery, lance in hand and enraged voices clouding the air around her with a miasma of hatred. He thought he had grown indifferent and numb to the call of the Relics over the years, and yet that sight, and the later sight of his mother’s spine hanging at her hip, made the wound inflicted so many hundreds of years ago raw and bleeding again, the grief rushing over him and ready to consume him at any moment. 

He’ll go mad if he dwells on it, he knows, and so he doesn’t; he simply holds all the more tightly to those he loves, even when they try to push him away, and quiets the bones when he can.

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The desert is silent, just as Macuil prefers it. He has no interest in the affairs of men, stinking creatures who reek of betrayal and violence and selfishness and greed. Here not even other animals can bother  him, here everything is silent, here everything is dry and hot, and here he is alone.

Still, the humans find him, greedy fools seeking treasures from the ruins, and each time they appear the anger within him that lays dormant is awakened again. Once upon a time he grieved, but his tears were all wrung dry and all that remains is a hot, blistering anger, as fierce and harsh as the desert around him. The voices of his kin, whose bones were twisted and transformed into tools for their own extinction, used to fuel this rage, but he has not heard them in centuries; he stopped listening a long time ago.

Another crowd of humans comes today, thieves, as usual, but some of these are different. In his head, he hears voices that he thought he was long rid of, and his rage burns brighter than it has in many centuries. Seiros’s little pets still see fit to dishonor the dead, it seems.

His eyesight isn’t what it used to be when he was young and proud. A tiny little pink thing- human, no doubt- holds the pulsating bones of his kin, crying out in fury and anguish at their defilement. His foolish sister always said that letting the humans keep their family’s remains as their foul weaponry was a necessary evil, but Seiros is not here to stop him this time. He can crush them. His power, like his eyesight, is no longer what it once was, but he can crush every last one of these insects disrespecting his family. Let them come and try to rend his flesh from his bones, and his bones from his bones. He will crush them before they can even try. 

He takes pause, however, at a familiar face. Cethleann. It must have been a millennium since he last saw his beloved niece, and yet she still looks the same as she ever did. For a moment, his heart is stilled, and then the sight of his eldest brother at her side sours it again.

Cichol was always just as much of a fool as their sister, if not more so; he willingly lived amongst the humans in Enbarr, instead of staying with his kind, in Nabatea. Worse, he kept Cethleann from her own people, raising her amongst the stench of mankind, and then it was too late, all of their kindred slaughtered save the few that barely survived.

Even after that, his brother insisted they trust the humans, and even give them their precious blood to help aid them in the fight against the scum that had slaughtered their people. He found forgiveness for mankind when there should have been none. Cichol had always been too soft-hearted for his own good, in Macuil’s opinion, and yet he seems harsher now, roughened by time.

Still, he is with the humans, humans that stink of the Ten Elites, and even one that stinks of Sothis, and yet he says that they are his companions and friends. He is just as much of a fool as ever, if he associates with the creatures that use the bones of their kin for their own selfish war, and even more a fool if he believes that Macuil can be persuaded to aid them. Seiros is in danger, he tells him, and he snorts derisively; what does he care of Seiros when she allows and even encourages this disrespect for the dead?

He is tired when they leave, and nearly asleep as he watches their retreating forms. For a moment he feels the desire to follow, to be with his family once again, tug at his heart, and yet he ignores it, for there is no use now. He will rest for as long as he must to recover from this battle, and as he surrenders to sleep, he hears only weeping in his head.

The Relics are mourning.

He wonders, briefly, if the humans will come to slay him in his sleep just as they did Sothis, and if that is what the Relics fear and thus why they weep, and then he is gone. 

Chapter Text

Indech knows Nabatea better in death than he ever did in life. He was always reclusive, much preferring the company of himself to others on most occasions. Cichol could be an exception, at times, for he always looked up to him, and the rest of their siblings as well, but they are gone, long gone. Even so, he is never alone in his loneliness, for he hears their voices constantly, as unclear whispers through the water, all clamoring for attention that he cannot give. He had hoped the water would block them out, and yet there are some nights that he cannot sleep for how frightfully loud they are. He urges them to quiet, but they cannot hear him, he thinks, from so far away, and perhaps they never will.

He amuses himself with the humans that come to the lake, accepting their challenges and fighting them as they please. His power has dwindled over the years, spurred on by the exhaustion caused by the constant presence of his family’s grieving voices, and so the battles are not as thrilling nor as quick as they used to be. Even so, as his number of defeats have grown over the centuries, he is never bitter about them; rather, he enjoys the company and the exercise. It keeps him from growing too indolent as he grows older.

Besides, he had long favored weapons over words, not in resolving conflicts, but in connecting with people. He had always been too shy to do much more than keep to himself, but a good-natured spar had always been the best at bringing him out of his shell. It requires no words, only skill, and even if the bond between warriors is naught but a silent one, it is stronger than any blade and fiercer than any fire. 

The voices grow louder, one day, as he sees humans approaching, and at first he thinks of it as nothing but a coincidence. Some days they are simply louder than others. It is a fact he has grown used to.

His heart grows heavy as the humans grow close and he is able to see what they are carrying. The sigh of grief that he lets out is deep enough to disturb the waters around him, but it is not only for his slaughtered kin; it is for the humans as well. Unlike his brother, he harbors no hatred towards them. It is only pity. For centuries they have paid the price for the sins of their ancestors, letting their Crests rule over their lives and ruin them, and dedicate themselves to wielding bones whose origins they have never been allowed to understand, bones who will turn them into monsters one day. They know not what they do, and yet they suffer for it.

Sometimes Indech wishes that their lifespan was longer, so that age may give them the wisdom to understand their own self-destruction, but it is only a fool’s hope. Seiros would never let them understand regardless.

These humans are unique from all the others, even when disregarding the fact that they wield the Relics. The young woman who confronts him is more entertaining and determined than most, and her voice rings clear even above the cries of his family, nearly deafening now that they are so close. He likes her quite a bit. The young man with her is incredibly perceptive, and yet he must still his questioning. It wouldn’t do for his identity to be out in the world, but he is nevertheless impressed and almost regrets having to shush him. Both of these children of men have a bright future ahead of them, he’s sure, and easily prove themselves to be worthy of his trial. 

Among the voices of the Relics, for the first time he hears the voice of his eldest brother and his young niece, and it strikes fear in his heart that perhaps they have been killed and violated as well before he sees their faces. Cethleann’s is the same, but Cichol’s is different, tired, more careworn. He sports a beard now as well, and Indech thinks it suits him, but at the same time, it’s an amusing sight, given how fastidious he used to be about shaving.

It gives him great joy to see them again, after almost a millennia of solitude only broken by a few sparse and unhappy visits from Seiros.

She’s always been the most intense and forceful of his surviving siblings, much too intense for him, and each time they parted ways irritated or simply disappointed in each other. Macuil is simply mean, even if he does care deep down, and refuses to reconcile with his family. If you are fool enough to believe that the children of men can ever be trusted, then let it be your doom. He hadn’t seen his brother since those parting words, when he left for the deserts and wastelands of the north. Cichol had always been the kindest and most understanding, and Cethleann a pure delight to be with. He was closer with Cichol than all the others, and as the years dragged on he still remembered his eldest brother the most fondly. 

Even so, their appearance also gives him great pain. Cichol suggests that perhaps Indech could have helped them, but does not ask; he recognizes the truth before even asking. Just like so many years ago, when he begged Indech to help him watch over Cethleann as she slept and healed, he has failed them. The last time he saw them was at that battlefield, Cethleann near fatally wounded in his arms, and Cichol, always so strong, bloodied and helpless. He had told his brother that he could not remain in Zanado, for the ghosts would drive him to madness, and yet still they found him here beneath the water. 

Just as he did a millennia ago, Saint Indech retreats from his family, from the world, and fades into obscurity at the bottom of a lake, hidden from the children of men beneath waters that echo with voices of the past.

For one blissful moment they grow quiet, and then they return with a howling fervor even as the sight of them fades in the distance. 

Chapter Text

Flayn never knew Zanado, nor did she know its people. When the Relics whisper to her, there is no hint of familiarity in the distorted voices. The only Nabatean she knows among them is her mother, and so it is only her mother's voice that she searches for amongst the writhing bones. She does not hear it, and yet still she listens.

Her father hears the voices, she knows, and so does her aunt. She does not know if her uncles do, for she has never had a chance to ask. Even so, those she can ask are hesitant and quiet in their answers, hushed as if speaking too loud will bring the wrath of mankind down upon their heads again in an instant. It is the same when she asks about Zanado.

Flayn grew up in Enbarr, far away from her people, amidst the hustle and bustle of humans going about their day to day lives. Back in those days she was free to roam among them, making friends and playing with other children, and while her father was protective, it was never to the extent that he is now. She was always curious about Zanado, but their lives were so long that there was no rush for her to settle in their ancestral home. There were a few short visits, of course, but nothing more. There would always be time for Zanado, and she was more curious about the rest of the world. 

And then, in what felt like the blink of an eye, Zanado was gone and her people with it, and a chance that she thought she’d always have was nothing more than a dream lost in the night. When she asks of Zanado now, it is only when she is sure that no one else is listening, and her family always cast wary glances around them before giving her short, curt answers.

Zanado is gone , they say. What does it matter what it was like? It is not safe to talk about it here. The risk is too great.

The books in the library hold no answers, nor do the ones hidden away in her father’s office, and the scriptures written by her aunt are only vague in their descriptions, and so she turns to the Relics, hoping to find some hint of her past in their whispers.

She doesn’t like handling the Relics, for when she sees the bones it makes her feel ill as she remembers the bodies they were torn from. Even if she only touches the metal, it feels as though the poison has seeped into that material as well, and when she picks them up it is hesitantly, gingerly. If not for the fact that the voices became clearer when she held them, she wouldn’t hold them at all.

She wonders, staring at the bones in her hand, how many people were killed to fashion this weapon, and how many more have been killed by it, and then she wonders what those people were like.

Perhaps a blacksmith, or a scholar, or even just an average person. Someone old. Someone young. A child. Someone’s sibling, or parent, or friend, or lover.

Perhaps her mother.

All of these people are long dead, their wisdom and charm and humor and memories all gone with their lives. All that is left is their sadness and pain and anger. She never met these people, or learned who they were, or what their culture was. Now she never will. 

She holds Zanado in her hands, and yet she could not feel further from them. Their voices tell her nothing, and with a pained sigh she sets the Relic back down, finally ridding herself of the awful sensation of holding so many bits of corpses lashed together in her hand.

Perhaps she will ask her father again to tell her stories of the people she never knew, to reassure her that she has some piece of herself to hold on to that will preserve their legacy and pride, or perhaps she won’t, for she knows that it is a fruitless endeavor.

When she leaves the Relics behind she can barely hear their voices, each more unfamiliar than the last, and when she is far enough away there is deafening silence, reminiscent of the heavy silence of the Red Canyon, its soil soaked in blood from ages past and its air thick and still with grief, long dead for over a millennia.

That is the Zanado she knows, permeated with death and sorrow, and she has only the faintest memories of it ever being alive.

Chapter Text

Rhea nearly screams when her mother’s spine is ripped from her grave once again. Finally, the culmination of centuries of work is here, and yet she cannot help but feel that familiar, age-old rage that she had long buried within her heart. Her mother still cannot sleep peacefully, it seems, and if it were anyone but Byleth who held her bones she would tear the wielder’s throat open herself.

Instead, she smiles calmly as she always does, and sweetly tells Byleth that she has faith that she will use it well, for good and not for evil. Seteth gives her a warning look, as if he must remind her whose corpse she is giving away, but she shushes him until the professor is well out of earshot.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, his brow harshly knit with concern and his entire frame rigid and tense.

“What I must,” she replies calmly, and leaves her brother behind with his worries.

What I must . It has always been what she must; one necessary evil after another, to protect her family, to preserve the peace, to bring her mother back and restore Fodlan, and Nabatea, once and for all.

Seteth has always been critical of her actions. As the eldest, he has long seen it as his responsibility to guide his youngest sister, whether she wants him to or not, and took to his position as advisor to the archbishop quite naturally. Unlike Macuil, his concerns are out of love, not anger, but unlike Indech, he has no trouble staying by her side and voicing his concerns when he deems it necessary. Flayn simply watches, but whether it is in judgment or pure curiosity Rhea cannot say. 

When peace finally came to Fodlan, Seteth was too stricken with grief over his wife and worry for Flayn to question what she was doing, and he remained hidden away in Zanado, waiting for his daughter to wake. Macuil, on the other hand, condemned the fact that she not only allowed the Elites to live, but also allowed them to keep their people’s bones, passing them down from generation to generation and never laying them properly to rest. In his mind, the only suitable recourse was the execution of the Elites and their families; in his mind it was but a small price to pay as retribution for the Nabatean blood they had spilled. Indech was more understanding, and let her do as she pleased, but did quietly say that he found it disturbing that the dead could not be given a proper burial.

She ignored both of her brothers, for she had to; the humans were content in their power now, and if it was taken from them, they could turn on the broken remnants of her family to harvest their bones and drink their blood as well. In moments when she found herself faltering and wishing to take the Relics back by force so that they could receive a proper burial, she remembered her brother in mourning in Zanado, and how he would be such an easy target in his grief. She remembered her niece, healing as she slumbered, and how easy it would be for the humans to murder her in her sleep just as they did Sothis. She remembered Macuil and Indech, both alone and easy prey if mankind rallied against them once again and overwhelmed them. 

Peace among the living has always been more important than peace among the dead. With all of these thoughts she steels herself, and masks her grief and anger with a gentle smile when the Relics are near.

She hears their voices, thundering with cries of rage and grief, just as her siblings do, and yet there is one that she has never heard. It is the one that she most dearly wishes she could hear, and yet she remains as silent as the grave.

Mother. 

The Sword of the Creator is almost unsettling in its silence. Time and again she has opened the tomb and pressed her cheek to her mother’s bones, listening in silence for a voice that never comes. It serves to remind her of the work that she still has left to do, and she presses on. Soon the goddess will be revived, and soon… soon, perhaps, her mother will revive Nabatea as well. The bones will no longer cry out in despair, for how could they, with their flesh restored and their voices raised in joy? One day Zanado will surely be filled again with laughter and life and love, and her home will be restored.

Byleth gives her hope that the time has come at last, and yet, there is still one thing she wonders.

“Professor, does the Sword of the Creator ever…” She hesitates, aware that what she is about to ask must sound strange. “...speak to you?”

She is met with the usual blank stare as Byleth seems to think on the words, tilting her head slightly before answering. “No.”

“I see.” She is about to leave, but the professor’s voice stops her.

“But sometimes, when I am near the other Relics, I feel as if there are people calling out to me. I can’t understand what they’re saying, but it still feels that they are calling for me, and me alone.”

“How do they call out to you? With rage? Despair?”

“No,” she says again, shaking her head. “With hope.”

“Hope,” she smiles, feeling heartened by her words. “Thank you, Professor. That is all for now.”

Byleth bids her goodbye and turns to leave, intercepting Seteth on her way out. Rhea pretends not to notice how she takes his hand to quickly pull him along, more for her brother’s sake than anyone else’s; she remembers how mortified he would become in his youth whenever she caught him and his wife caught up in their affections. Stirring her tea, fragrant and soft, she smiles fondly at the memory of those happy days, and then raises her cup to her lips, her smile falling. She only hopes that Seteth will forgive her for taking Byleth from him, and yet at the same time she has no doubt that he will, for his wife will be returned to him. Perhaps Macuil will forgive her as well, when the progenitor god is restored, and Indech will finally return home, and Flayn will, at long last, be able to meet her grandmother.

Her smile returns at the possibility of her family being whole again, and she sips her tea, calming herself for what is to come.

With hope. What a lovely thought.