literature

The Knight

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Literature Text

The Knight

There is a field a mile beyond the walls of great Oerba, a field where no flowers grow, nor will ever grow. It was there, a year ago, that the flower of Cocoon’s youth failed. It was there, a year ago, that the earth drank deeply of brave men’s blood. Not even the birds will cross it now, and not even the wind cares to linger long.

But there is one who lingers.

Her name was Fang, Spear of the Yun, and High Marshal of the Clans. There, upon that barren field she lingered, her eyes drawn to the tall, broken rocks that brooded, still and quiet, another mile away. In the distance, the clouds grew dark, and the echo of thunder rang out across the plains. How well she remembered this place. How well she wished she could forget.

A year ago, the armies of Cocoon had gathered. They came across the plains, marching in flawless lockstep, and threw their might against the wall of old Oerba, walls that had stood for a thousand year and would stand a thousand more. Their flags and banners fluttered in the breeze, and their armour shone pale silver in the sun. Their cries rang out like thunder, and when their archers fired, it was as though a steel cloud had risen, there were so many.

But Oerba had not stood alone. From the ancient city went forth heralds to every clan and kingdom in the land. All of Gran Pulse answered the summons, and Fang was given command. She rode at the head of ten thousand, and through cunning, she caught the enemy by surprise. They fell upon the soldiers of Cocoon from the rear and soon put them to flight. But it was not the soldiers who fled first, but the generals, and then the knights, and then all was sound and fury.

The cries of the dying, the bellows of the living – how clearly she remembered the senseless din of war. Swords rose and fell like waves against some distant, long-forgotten shore, rose and fell until they were blunt from all the flesh they’d split and all the bone they’d broken. Her soldiers waded through bodies piled knee high, and the fields of Oerba would never grow right again.

There would be no ballads sung to honour that battle, no stories told of great deeds. There was no honour in butchery, no great deeds to be found in cutting down an enemy in full flight.

Only a single knight stayed fast to muster the tattered army, only a single knight held firm against the tide of fear and panic. Fang saw her from afar. Her helm was split and cast aside to show pink hair, her brow was cut and bruised, but her eyes still shone. They were the blue of the open sky just shy of summer, and they did not know the meaning of surrender.

That lone knight seized hold of the five hundred that still remained, and led them fighting from the field on which their fellows perished, to a place of jagged rocks and winding paths. For a full two weeks, Fang set her forces upon those five hundred, but she might as well have set them against a mountain for all the luck they had. All around those jagged rocks, and all along those winding paths, her soldiers fell. And soon where only eagerness had been, only fear remained.

“They are not men!” her soldiers cried. “They are demons!”

But Fang did not see demons, she saw men. Brave men. Proud men. Desperate men. And at the head of them, her eyes aflame and her sword aloft, was that solitary knight. Her armour was broken, her cloak stained and torn, but she was resplendent still, shining with the glory that only hopeless battle could ever bring.

At last, Fang had no choice but to lead the attack herself. So she gathered a thousand of her finest and led them into that place of jagged rocks and winding paths. Almost at once, the soldiers of Cocoon fell upon her, and if they were not demons, they were close.

As the battle raged, the lone knight herself came forward, and with a cry, she threw herself at Fang. They met in a clash of sword and spear, and their blows echoed loud over the chaos of battle. Each blow of the knight’s sword threatened to tear Fang from her horse, but she waited, waited keenly for the chance to put her spear to work. Just one strike and the battle would be done.

Fang had fought many battles, and she had earned her rank a hundred times over, but she had never fought anyone like the knight. The knight knew neither doubt nor hesitation, and she cared not at all for her own life. In the end, she would fall before Fang’s numbers, but she would sell her life as dearly as she could.

Finally, the knight’s long weeks of battle began to take their toll. She tired, and Fang leaped forward, and her spear struck home. The weapon bit deep, and the knight was thrown to the ground. It was a mortal blow, but as Fang sought to pull free her spear, firm hands closed about it. Through lips already pale, the knight spoke.

“Let them go home.”

Fang had heard the words of a thousand dying men, but no words like this had ever passed their lips. “Speak again,” she whispered. “So that I might hear.”

“Let them go home.” It was a prayer, spilling from the knight’s lips. “Let them go home.”

Fang’s hold on her spear grew loose. The knight sought for mercy – not for herself – but for her men, for those she had led when all others had deserted them.

“Why?” Fang asked.

And the knight replied, “I am dying, and so must all my men if you do not relent. But if we must die, then we will kill ten for every one of us that falls, and the tears of our people will be matched only by the tears of yours.” Fang looked about and saw the knight spoke truly. So many had died again, and so many of them were hers. “You have won the war. Oerba is safe. Let them go home.”

“And you?” Fang whispered. “What of you, who cannot go home?”

“This bare earth must be my home now.” The knight’s grip grew loose upon the shaft of the spear, and her eyes, though they still shone defiance, began to cloud. “But let them go home.”

And Fang’s heart was moved. All the other knights had fled and the generals also, but this knight had stayed, stayed to fight a hopeless battle that could only end one way. Yet, perhaps there could be a worthy ending, for above all things, the Yun prized valour. How could she deny the knight’s request?

“Stop!” Fang cried. “Stop!”

At once, her soldiers fell back into formation, and guardedly, the soldiers of Cocoon did likewise. Fang turned her gaze then to the knight. “I will let them go home.”

The knight smiled. “Thank you.” And then she was gone.

“You there.” Fang looked at the boy who had dropped to his knees beside the knight. “What was her name?”

The boy looked at her, pale hair stained with blood, and green eyes glittering with tears and fury. “Her name was Lightning.”

Fang turned on her heel. “You and your fellows shall live because of her. You are free. Go home.” Cries of outrage came from her soldiers, but she silenced them with a snarl. “Where is the honour here? Our city is safe. Their dead litter the fields. Let them go home. Let them speak of the courage of their leader, and of the honour of their enemies. Let them say we were warriors not butchers. Let them say that the clans still honour valour.” Her men grew quiet, and she turned once more to the boy. “How do you bury your dead?”

“With fire,” the boy replied. Others came to take hold of the body, but he would not let it go. “But there is no wood here for a pyre.”

“You shall have wood,” Fang replied, and with a gesture, she sent some of her men to fetch it. “Not for the earth and the worms so fine a knight, not for the vultures to pick clean. The fire is fitting. Let it burn her. Let it give her to the winds and the sky. That is how a knight should pass.”

And so wood was brought, and the knight was carried to the greatest of the jagged rocks. There, they built a pyre and burnt the knight upon it. When it was done, the knight’s men went home, and Fang watched the winds scatter the knight’s ashes to all the corners of the earth.

A year had passed since then, and Fang stood once again, upon the field looking toward the rocks. Cocoon would come again, and again she would turn them back. But there would be no Lightning this time, for some things and some people only come but once.

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Author’s Notes

As always I neither own Final Fantasy, nor am I making any money off of this.

Well, I’m not sure what to say about this one really. It’s definitely a bit more melancholic than the others. With regards to style, I like to mess around a bit, see what works. I’ve been interested in writing something a bit more archaic for a while now, and this prompt seemed appropriate (it’s Prompt #40: Two knights clash weapons. One fights for kingdom of Pulse, the other for Cocoon. Art or fic is cool.).

There is a certain… lyrical quality to some of the older writers (perhaps the most well-known example of this would be Tolkien), and it’s something I’d like to add to my writing toolbox. Anyway, let me know if you think it worked or if it fell flat on its face. This chapter (more than the others) is something that is meant to be read aloud. It never hurts to learn how to write in different styles, and this is getting me back in the mood for Whispers of the Gods.

A few people have asked if I’m going to revisit the “steamy” stuff (e.g., Chapter 1). The answer is… probably. There’s a particular prompt that’s caught my eye, so we’ll see how it goes.

If you have the time check out my blog. You should also check out at Fangrai February.

As always, I appreciate feedback. Reviews and comments are welcome.
On a lonely field beyond the walls of Oerba, Fang remembers.
© 2013 - 2024 RazielTwelve
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ChaosOmegaNova's avatar
Such beauty with words and such an astounding short story of bravery and honour.