Chapter Text
Dullahan took another slow spoonful of pottage. Though he was stumbling a lot less, his hands still shook from using even the simplest of tools. Lady Sonja told him it was a regular side-effect from being struck by lightning-- not that he had any prior experience to reinforce her claim.
He grimaced. Did he really lose to mere animals? He was losing his touch.
The bigger problem is the orcan. Are these people aware? It could be here any minute now. Dullahan stared into his bowl’s soupy contents.
“Y’know, if you keep up that face any longer, it’s going to stick,” his chaperone called out to him from the kitchen, rubbing her hands on her apron. “How’s the food? Not too shabby I hope?”
Dullahan looked up, shrugging. He didn’t have the energy to speak-- especially not when, to his dismay, Aht and the Queen seemed to be avoiding him.
Raynie gave a helpless grin. “Cheer up, man,” the raven-haired woman said, edging closer to the table. “Just... Don’t worry too much? We’ll sort everything out eventually. I think.”
“Easy for you to say,” Dullahan muttered simply.
When he saw Raynie edging dangerously closer to him, perhaps within a few feet, Dullahan scooted across his bench to maintain their distance, his bowl in tow. This wasn’t the first time his chaperone tried to pull this sort of trick-- he caught her once trying to watch him sleep.
He had absolutely no idea how to deal with this woman.
“I was really surprised, y’know? Bumping into you again after that time in Alistel,” Raynie huffed, crossing her arms disappointedly. “You’re in one hell of a ride now that we know about you.”
“I’m in hell already.” Dullahan buried his face in the bowl, not wanting to make eye contact. So what if they were interested in him? It was none of his business.
Everyone should just go away and leave him be.
“... You’re really not,” she said with a sigh. “I, uh, heard quite a bit about you from Aht. Where you come from, sounds like hell too. I mean, Vainqueur’s pretty messed up too, but. I can’t imagine living in a world without any traces of magic, just sayin’.”
“And I, you.” Can he just go away already? Was there an application for a change in watchers? Even better, can his legs support him far enough to escape this mad house, at the very least?
Raynie, however, was watching his every move. He could hardly remember his earlier encounter with the woman, considering the events that followed-- three months in Vainqueur felt like decades-- but she was being unbearably fixated on him.
The woman suddenly put a hand on his forehead, taking him by surprise. It was by sheer miracle he did not choke on his food. Dropping his spoon, he gently tried to pry her fingers away from him. “Oh good, the fever’s receding,” he heard her say, but he wasn’t really listening.
“Y-yes, I’m fine,” Dullahan replied quickly, standing a bit too abruptly, eager to keep his distance. His legs gave way from the short notice, and Raynie quickly went to steady him.
“Oh, shit, sorry!” Raynie jerked back immediately after watching him flinch from her clutch on his wounded arm. If anything, majority of the support came from Dullahan’s own palm on the table. He shook his head repeatedly.
“I lost my appetite. I’m heading out for a walk.”
Raynie diligently tailed after him with a cloak and a scarf.
-------
Rosch uncomfortably watched his raven-haired subordinate follow the foreigner around Celestia as the man took in the sights. “Sonja...”
“What is it?”
“Are we... really sure that’s not him?”
Sonja sighed exasperatedly behind him. “He had a different sets of scars. It’s not him. Unfortunately. Also, that’s the fourth time you asked me the same question.”
“... But--”
“Rosch. While I can’t blame you for being distracted, please remember the reason why we’re gathered in Celestia in the first place.”
Rosch turned around to look at his wife-- but the person who greeted him back was Director-General Sonja, her eyes solemn with the weight of her research. Scattered all across the table before her were notes on Mana preservation and rejuvenation of the continent. It had taken her three years to gather this much from the few clues Stocke left behind, and it was time for her to present her findings to the few who gathered who still remembered the man.
“... I’m sorry,” Rosch replied, scratching his head. The foreigner’s arrival was by far the biggest surprise of this year’s gathering, even if the Queen did warn them in her correspondences beforehand.
He merely wasn’t ready to greet such a man while the same man was dying, that’s all.
Though neither of them said anything, the couple were struck by a painful sense of deja-vu. Logic-- history-- dictated the impossibility of their memory.
He and Sonja were not alone. Marco, who first noticed the discrepancies, had worked for the past three years to compare versions of events that their tightly-knit group recalled. While astonishing if interpreted alone, the nature of the parallel events ceased to be mysterious when the Queen told them outright on the possibilities of the White Chronicle.
His wife folded her arms before him, but let out a reassuring smile. “The Chroniclers’ meeting this year will make a breakthrough with that foreigner, I’m sure of it.”
======
Over supper in camp, Stocke gave the Maxwell household-- Elena, Rosalyn, and Pommel-- a brief rundown on Vainqueur, the concept of Mana, and the difficulties he had faced here in his short stay. For the benefit of the younger member of his small audience, Stocke made sure that his explanations were brief and concise.
Though Rosalyn was excited to hear more, her sentiments were not shared by the others. Pommel tilted his head incredulously, and Elena outright shook her head.
“You are mad,” Elena said simply. “The power of enchantments belong only to the Goddesses, and its rights granted to only the most loyal of their subjects. It is beyond the reach of commoners such as you and I.”
“These people, can you lead me to them?” Stocke paused. “Is Mort one of these… subjects?”
Elena pursued her lips. “The ‘subjects’ were our ancestors, members of the Capitolina Empire. To use magic and enchantments now, as a commoner, is a sin.”
Stocke frowned, but held a hand to his chin. “The Empire?” The two worlds share a Historia, dissimilar in appearance they may be... are they really that different?
Elena nodded slowly, putting down her mug. “Our ancestors once made a grave mistake, the price of which is still being paid by us today.” She gestured to the village around them. “This includes the loss of our ancient knowledge in magic. Not a trace has been found since the destruction of the Empire. We essentially had to rebuild civilisation from naught since the day of the Reckoning.”
“Reckoning?”
“Raccooning!” Rosalyn chipped in. She had wandered across the fireplace, coming to rest her head on Stocke’s from behind him. “The End of Capitolina!”
Stocke froze in place, not wanting to make any movements in case Rosalyn lost her balance.
“We must learn from their mistakes, which is why we record them dutifully,” Pommel agreed, folding his arms. “And that is the Sect of Principality. Most of us are devout followers of the Sect’s teachings.
“Eight hundred years of history from the day of the Reckoning, and it grows daily. That is the duty of the Sect-- to record history in the making, and to prevent history from repeating again.”
======
Dullahan concluded the boring religious narrative heard a million times in his childhood, and another million times from his own wife. He met his gaze with the small crowd before him.
The “Chroniclers”, they called themselves-- a group with seemingly unknown relations banding together to solve Vainqueur’s greatest mysteries. Dullahan made diligent effort to learn each name, but there were familiar faces all round regardless.
Prime Minister Raul.
Director-General Sonja of Alistel’s Military Hospitallers, with her spouse, General Rosch of the Regular Army.
Viola, ex-Field Marshal of Alistel’s Regular Army.
Patriach Barranca, the leader of the Celestians, flanked by Aht and Elm.
Raynie and Marco, the kind strangers from the Alistellan bar.
Kiel, the jailer from the Sand Fortress.
Lastly, Queen Eruca and Marie, representing Granorg.