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Chapter Text

The last time knights had come to their village, they'd tried to kill Faye and her friends, and now Alm had left with another set of knights, taking Kliff and Tobin and Gray with him. He hadn't even talked to Faye, hadn't even asked if she wanted to go, she thought, taking a drink from her stolen liquor. She could do magic, too! So what if she wasn't as good at it as Kliff, a fireball was a fireball! She took another drink. Stupid knights and their stupid war. Now Alm was going to gods-know-where to die on some stupid battlefield, and she wouldn't be able to protect him! She flung the bottle against a tree, and her sobs rocked her to sleep.

*You feel betrayed, child. Abandoned by the one you love. The one you care about most. Be at peace, he is strong, and he will live. Your anguish has called out to me, and I shall watch over him. If this does not satisfy you, child, heed my advice, and listen well: a woman, bearing Mila's holy brand, shall soon arrive at your village, guided by my whispers. She shall take you to the one you seek. Now, child, rest well. The journey ahead will take strength, should you choose it.*

The voice had not lied. Celica, of all people, showed up at the village, asking after Alm. Faye explained how Alm had left her, had left with the knights, and Celica wrapped Faye in a tight hug, offered to let Faye join her quest, at least until they reunited with Alm. Faye agreed without hesitation, and the voice soon spoke to her again.

*I am sorry, truly, that I cannot do more. The journey will be difficult and often perilous. There is no shame in rethinking it; I will watch over your loved one all the same.*

Why are you helping me, Faye asked the voice. Who are you?

*I do not have a name,* it replied. *I am helping you because I, too, have felt the sting of betrayal and the pain of loss, and I wish to ease that pain where I can. I do not know why I was able to reach you, to call out, but I shall aid you as best I can. If you wish, you may choose a name to call me by.*

Faye thought on it as they traveled. The voice warned when terrors were near, or when bandits drew close, tried to take them by surprise. It taught her how to control her magic, how to to make her flames burn ever hotter. It watched over Alm, telling of his exploits, how he cleared away the bandits, how Celica had narrowly missed him on her way to the village, how he led the Deliverance in a siege against the traitor Desaix.

It comforted her when Alm rejected her devotion. He told her to return to the village where it was safe; she didn't care that it was safe, she wanted to be with him! She was a better mage than Kliff, now, and more deserving to be by his side. She'd proven her strength against the terrors and bandits! She'd do anything just to be near him, she'd cook his food, mend his clothes, polish his armor, fight for him, die for him, kill for him, anything he asked! He'd been worried, told her that she didn't know what it was like to be on the battlefield, what it was like to have to kill or die. She didn't know what he was talking about; she'd slain before, after all, and didn't he always need more soldiers? Alm wouldn't hear it, told her to go, to leave, to get as far away from the war as possible. It was for her own good, he said, as the soldiers dragged her away, kicking and screaming, begging Alm to just let her stay!

Celica had found her, afterwards. Both women had tears on their faces, both had been unable to convince Alm. Celica had wanted him to go to the temple of Mila, to stop fighting this damned war, but he had given the same answer as he had to Faye: refusal. Celica was still going to the temple, Alm or no, and invited Faye to join her, told her she was always welcome if she wanted to come with. Faye followed her without a second thought.

Faye was separated from Celica's group not long after, when a sudden rockslide collapsed the path and shattered the road. The voice, ever protective, ever watchful, warned her, and she briefly considered letting the rocks take her, for why should she live if she could not live for Alm? She thought of the voice then, how it had helped her, cared for her in her times of need. How lonely it would be, how sad, if she died. When she awoke at the bottom of the ravine, it begged her to keep going, to stay alive; it would do anything, anything at all, to keep its only friend.

It was difficult, leaving the ravine; the cliffs were coated in jagged rocks that tore her skin and bit her hands, driving deep red gashes across her palms. Still, she had no choice but to continue, to climb or to starve, and she would not leave her friend as Alm had left her. She collapsed at the top, chest heaving, clothes ragged and bloody.

She made it to the port town nearby without a coin to her name. She stole food, slept in stables, worked where she could. Anything to survive. She never felt lonely, not with her friend, the voice, always near. It would alert her when the guards drew close, when someone had a job she could do, when a fat noble had a fatter purse hanging on his belt. It warned her when her would-be employer planned to trick her, to sell her, and it helped her hide his body.

*I am worried about you,* it said. *Your hands have healed but your heart has not. Is there nothing I can do to ease your pain?*

I just want to get away from it all, she replied. I have lost Alm over and over again; when he left me in the village, when he turned me away, and when he wed Celica, crushing the last hope I had.

*I, too, wish to leave my home. It is cold and dark and the dead stumble about, leaving sharp reminders of my creator's betrayal. You are not alone.*

She was going to Archanea, to Thabes, to free the voice, she decided. The seas were dangerous, but she was a powerful mage and a fearsome fighter, and she would not go unprepared. A nearby shrine held a powerful relic, guarded by a terrifying undead dragon. It was no match for her. She tore it limb from limb, shredding it with her magic, claiming her prize: a holy blade, capable of banishing the living dead and rejuvenating its wielder. She took a job as a mercenary, escorting a trade ship to northern Archanea. She slew pirate after pirate after pirate along the way, fueled by a fierce determination. In time, the voyage was over, and she had a bag of coin and fresh scars to prove it as she stepped onto the docks. The voice begged her, pleaded; it was dangerous, far too dangerous for her to continue. She could not turn back. She would free her only friend, even if she had to take on the world to do it.

She took every coin she had and spent it, buying arms, armor, food, supplies, and the best mercenaries she could find. The labyrinth was horrific, and she would leave nothing to chance. Even still, her group bled as they descended, until it was only she and she alone, standing before the great and final door.

I've come for you, she said. I've come to free you and gift you a name. You are Grima, my truest friend. Grima wept, their six crimson eyes reflecting her smile.

She gazed at their six feathered wings, their mighty scaled back, as they carried her out of the labyrinth. Onwards, they flew, faster than the wind itself, to Valentia. She showed Grima her village, the port town, the shrine where her sword had been held. They landed in the mountains, far from civilization, and lived there for a time, their two neighbors, a kindly witch and her wife, their only company.

One day, the king came to visit. I have come to slay the demon, he said. The demon with six eyes and six wings. Faye could not believe this. Alm had come to betray her again. To slay her friend. Her Grima. She would not let that happen. She drew her holy sword and told him to leave, to let them be, and told Grima to fly away. Neither listened. Alm moved to strike Grima, and Grima moved to protect her. They cried out in anguish as his sword pierced their hide.

She charged, tears in her eyes, at the one she used to love.

Chapter Text

She awoke in the village, years before she left. A sharp ache clutched at her chest, pain winding about her heart. Were they gone? Had she watched them die? Had it all been for nothing?

*Be at peace, Faye. I yet live. I have stolen a trick from the Earth Mother, mimicked her Turnwheel, wrenched back the hands of time. I… forgive me, my dear friend. In doing so, I have marked you, branded you, bruised your hand with my soul.*

Indeed, the back of her hand bore the six-eyed mark that she knew so well, that oft accompanied her in dreams. She rubbed the mark fondly, told her friend not to worry. Told them their soul was a beautiful shade of violet.

The knights came the day after next. As before, Alm would leave without her, would not even say goodbye, and his first, quiet betrayal stung again. She was prepared this time, though, no weeping girl, but a powerful spellcaster and accomplished swordswoman. She found the bandits before they did, freezing them with spell and piercing them with blade. Alm and the knights found her, waiting in the field of corpses, and she offered to come along, to fight for the Deliverance. They could not refuse.

*We are bound together now, my friend, our souls intertwined, inseparable. I can aid you now, do more than watch, but only just. My magic is yours, my strength yours, to call upon as needed, but be careful, my friend. Some would see you, witness your magic, our magic, and call you a witch.*

She wore gloves, hid her mark, hated doing so. The villagers who’d joined, who’d left her behind, told her she’d changed. Alm, her once beloved Alm, was worried about her, called her cold, callous, different, violent. She snapped at him, he’d killed too, hadn’t he? They all had! Was it so wrong to be calm about it, to keep a level head on the battlefield that she’d come to know so well? She wanted to scream at him. She’d been through worse, far worse than fighting against bandits, and her friend was trapped still, locked again in the labyrinth a world away, only able to live vicariously through her.

They stormed through the traitor DeSaix’s castle. The Deliverance grew in size and strength, and many were quick to recognize her skill, marvel at the farm girl turned mage. She didn’t care. She was here only to finish the war as soon as possible, that she might free her friend from their prison, the one they’d dove back into to escape the green-haired royal.

It was funny, almost, to hear the Deliverance talk of freeing Zofia, like the war would end there, like Alm wouldn’t drag them all through Rigel. She knew better, of course; she remembered how her friend had told her all about the Deliverance’s travels through the northern country, and how Celica would cross sand and swamp and muck to reach the end of her journey. Now, her friend only told her about Celica’s journey, how she was saving merchants from pirates, meeting new allies, and avoiding the shrine where Faye’s trusted holy sword slept, wary of its draconic guardian.

Faye hatched a plan. When Celica came, when she and Alm fought, when the mountains fell on top of her, Faye followed. Knowing what was coming, Faye avoided the rubble, heading to the port town, promising to rejoin Celica after a quick errand. She bought passage to the shrine, claiming her sword once more. Upon return, she found Celica offering aid to the Whitewing sisters, foreign soldiers from the continent where Grima lay trapped. Their sister had been kidnapped by bandits, locked away.

Faye thought of her friend, her Grima, her heart, trapped and bound and sealed. Thought of Est, captured and shackled and jailed. The Whitewings, she concluded, were no different from her, seeking to free the one they loved.

They marched to Grieth’s keep, letting none stand in their way. Her friend foiled any ambushes, empowered her strikes, sharpened her blade. Their lightning shattered the walls of the fort, slew the jailers, freed the Whitewing.

They met the witch.

The witch knew what she was, of course. Faye could not hide it, no matter how many gloves she wore. Her being was simply greater than those of mere muscle and bone and sinew, for she breathed magic and bled thunder. Spells did not tire her, and where others walked, she soared. She could slip through the air like a bird, vanishing from one place and appearing in another, though true flight eluded her. Oh, how she longed for the days when she could sail through the sky, her friend’s feathered wings cutting through the clouds.

The witch was not yet a witch, of course; her soul was hers alone. What had come to pass before the clock had been rewound had not yet been done, and the witch could not yet understand what it was like to be so intimately tied to another, to feel the brush of their soul against yours.

Sonya, the future witch, confronted Faye, pulled her aside and demanded an explanation, questioned how Faye still had her sanity, if she had it at all. Faye simply laughed. She was not bound to Duma, like the husks that wandered Valentia, but a gentler, kinder being. She knew of Sonya’s desire to free those bound to Duma, and told her as such, but could offer no aid in the matter; she was tied to a wholly different creature, through wholly different methods, for wholly different reasons. She would, however, help in any way she could, as she felt nothing but pity for the husks of Duma.

Celica halted at the sluice gate, just as she had before. The way was blocked, flooded by water, and would be until Alm cleared it. The whitewings could fly past, of course, but their pegasi would carry only them, and so Celica’s band was blocked.

Save for Faye. She warped past the gates, into Rigel, seeking out the Sage’s hamlet, searching for Halcyon, for his knowledge. He knew, as she did, that Duma was beyond saving, that only a Brand-bearer could slay him, only one of the Valentian royals. But Faye bore a Brand, now, and leaving the task of deicide to Alm would risk the Kingsfang being turned against Grima once more.

She would not allow that to happen. No matter what it took, no matter the trials, no matter how many she had to kill, she would see her friend freed and happy and safe.

*It is no small thing, to kill a god. I know I cannot stop you, I know of your devotion, your love, and I am grateful for it, selfish as I am. But, even so, I worry. To see you harmed, to see you fall, would break me. I have had freedom before, Faye, and the happiness I know now, the joy of being by your side, is enough. Please, my friend, my heart, abandon this foolhardy quest. I shall endure, as I always have. You, by yourself, are already the greatest gift I could ask for.*

Faye understood. She did, truly, but even so! How could she sit idle, while her heart was locked away, enduring horrors she knew so well? How could she not take the chance she’d been given, to make right that wrong?

*Thank you. Your devotion, your love, I… all I ask is that you survive. You mean more to me than you can know.*

Faye smiled. This was the first time her friend had been wrong, though it was not their intent to lie. She knew exactly how much she meant to her friend, for she felt the same about them.

The Kingsfang was in Duma’s temple, Halcyon said, still embedded in Mila’s corpse. Only those with pure hearts could loose it from its rest.

What was love, if not purity of heart?

She ventured north, further and further, the air biting and cold. The temple stood, imposing, impenetrable. Duma’s faithful barred her way, spears and spells in hand.

They were nothing, nothing compared to the horrors of the labyrinth. Warriors, mages, puppets of Duma, all fell to her blade and magic. She cut a path to the center of the temple, wrenched the Kingsfang free from Mila’s skull. It felt heavy in her hands, weighty with purpose. She sheathed her old, familiar blade, and ventured ever deeper.

Duma was rotting. Skin and muscle and fat sloughed off his bones in waves, his last eye bloodshot and twitching. A fetid shriek shook the walls, spraying slime as he roared.

This, she decided, was as bad as the labyrinth. They fought for hours, days; Faye empowered by her conviction, her sword, and her friend, and Duma relentless in his maddening hatred. By the time the fighting had ended, and the victor stood over their fallen enemy, the temple lay in ruins.

It was no small thing, deicide. The death of a god sent ripples throughout the land, puppets falling from cut strings. The poisoned swamps began to heal, barren lands grew lush with crops once more, and all Valentia sought the unknown dragon slayer.

She didn’t want to be found, and so she wasn’t. Her bond with her friend grew closer, closer, and neither needed to speak to be heard, felt, known. She boarded a merchant ship, as before, and fought her way to Archanea, to the ruins.

She did not need to hire mercenaries. The Terrors that plagued the labyrinth, the masked ones, did not frighten her, nor did they fear her.

They should. She tore through the labyrinth, a hurricane of steel and spell, descending far faster than she had before. They were waiting, watching, eager and hungry for freedom. She could feel it as if it were her down there, trapped and bound. In a very real way, it was; she and they had grown so close as to be inseparable, souls and hearts winding and twisting and twining together, blurring and blending until all that was left was joy.

She reached the seal. A shield held it in place, locking the great door, and she reached for it, fingers electric with anticipation. This was it; this was freedom! They would soar through the skies, feel the clouds on their wings! They would be united once more, filled with the ecstasy of touch!

They couldn’t reach it. They clawed desperately, desperately at the seal, trying everything and anything to undo it, to free the half of them trapped inside, but they’d grown too close. There was no Faye, nor was there Grima, not anymore, not quite. They were one soul, in two bodies, and the seal would not budge for them, for it was made to contain them.

They howled in despair. They had fought time itself, slain a god, and a single, wretched slab of metal blocked their way, utterly indignant. Their closeness, their bond, had damned them, and they wept, wishing they could drown the labyrinth in their sorrow.

A small part of them, a tiny, clever part, did not cry. It did not weep, or howl, or wallow in despair. It was Faye’s tenacity, Grima’s insight; their mind, together. It would see them free, no matter the cost.

They were one mind, they knew; one mind in two bodies. But one mind could fit in one body, could it not, and were they not halfway freed? Did one half of them not sit outside the barrier already?

They knew what they had to do. They reached for themself, for the invisible tether that bound their bodies, and snatched it from the air. They pulled, hard, enduring the painful oblivion that came with tearing a soul from its body, and united themself.

They stood. Their body, scarred and aching, stretched its limbs. Clawed hands rubbed at their eyes, and feathered wings spread at their back. Their body had grown, warped to fit the singular two of them, and they were grateful. Powerful limbs carried them up, out, and into the yearning sky, into freedom.