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There was a sword and a lance in the forest of forgotten dreams, their blades encased in magical stone. They were trapped there for all eternity it would seem, doomed to see the light of eras fade away like supernovas sparking out of existence in the night sky.
Who placed them there and magicked the stones so that none but someone worthy could wield them, no one knew. The knowledge was lost to time and tale, a distant memory once clear and now long gone.
The weapons had magnificent, strange names which were passed down. Their meanings were now lost to them. The Sword of the Creator was one and the other the Areadbhar lance.
That was the story the villagers told, the ones that lived around the mouth of the forest.
“If you go further, dear child,” an old woman named Renee would say to her grandchild, “you can walk along the light-speckled path. The roots grow in twists and odd knots that straddle the sides of the well-trodden earth as if beckoning to you and clearing the way. You can feel the difference in the air. I have felt it too.”
“But grandmother,” her grandchild would reply. Renee would pat down her blond locks and nod approvingly as she gazed into her azure eyes.
“No buts. Simply listen to me.”
“Is it white magic?”
“Oh, dear child,” cooed Renee, “We can only speculate. My mother used to say that generations ago we once had strong magic in our family, but that time is no more. Perhaps you should speak to the healer down the road. I am sure Betryse will be most helpful to you in finding your answers.”
And so, the little girl decided to go see Betryse. She was a young, curious girl with a bright personality and a benevolent heart. She had been told that one day perhaps that would get her far in life.
She knocked softly upon the door to the healer’s home.
“Miss Betryse?” she spoke through the woodgrain.
The door swung open to reveal a startling woman. Her eyes and hair were a brilliant, ethereal green. Not quite like an emerald and not quite like the green of a tree’s leaves. Jade perhaps, or some other precious stone. There was a glow behind the color that the girl could not name, a mysterious one. But Miss Betryse had always been like that.
She was welcomed in with a slight smile. Miss Betryse was not one to express much emotion, but the whole village knew her to be rather kind.
When the girl explained her thoughts and curiosity, the conversation began as if a question about white magic in an otherworldly forest was natural indeed.
Miss Betryse set a tray on the table between them, biscuits and honeyed cookies balancing upon it. She poured them cups of freshly brewed chamomile tea. The steam still coiled above the porcelain in neat curlicues as they sipped.
“Of course, it’s white magic,” said Miss Betryse. “Black magic does not seal in this manner and dark magic would not dare.”
“But why?” asked the girl. She leaned forward and took a biscuit.
Miss Betryse glanced behind her at a peculiar painting above the fireplace. It looked impossibly old and cracked like it should not have been around still. Like something held the pieces together by an invisible thread.
On it was the visage of a powerful-looking man whose blond hair was tied into a ponytail and a black eyepatch covering one of his eyes. A fur cloak rested on his shoulders, draped around a gambeson of midnight blue. He had striking eyes that reminded the girl of her own and a crown of gold atop his head. Beside him stood a woman whose face was obscured by the curtain that hung from the frame. She could tell she held herself with grace just from the strokes the painter had depicted her with. Her white gown flowed, and her silver wedding band seemed to glint even without the help of a real sun. Her hand rested upon the man’s.
“Once in this land of Fódlan we had a king who united us all after a war,” said Miss Betryse. “He and his queen had a long and prosperous reign that led to peace for hundreds of years.”
“What happened to them?”
Miss Betryse sighed and put down her cup of tea. “All kingdoms eventually fall,” she replied. “The people forgot the king’s legacy and his descendants too did not know the meaning of peace. So, in an act of desperation, the mages of Old Fhirdiad sealed away the king and queen’s legendary weapons in hopes that—when the time comes—the people will remember again.”
The girl sat straight in her seat, her lip trembling. “Will we?”
Miss Betryse smiled. “The fact that you ask this question tells me all that I need to know,” she said. She tapped her chin. “It seems that your grandmother, Renee Blaiddyd, still remembers your family’s past.”
The girl blinked. She was unsure what that meant.
“One day you will see,” continued Miss Betryse. “Our world is a cycle and one day they will be needed again. All the king’s horses will appear on the crest of a hill, and all the king’s men will come.”
Years passed and the girl grew up. She told the story to her children and her children told it to theirs.
The healer watched from her home as her neighbors changed. She did not speak to many of them for a long while, preferring to stick to the sidelines.
Then, in the north where the Sreng Empire inched closer to their borders, war brewed.
She walked through the forest and grasped at the hilt of the Sword of the Creator. Across from her, a man she found familiar held onto Areadbhar’s shaft.
“Beloved,” said the man. “It has been too long.”
The blades slid free from the stone. The eyes of the forest saw all.