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Sing to me, Muses, of the sorrows of Farron and Yun, of the forgotten daughter of shining and proud Eden, and the lost goddess of heaven, who once ruled the fortunes of man and beast alike as easily as a gambler throws his die.

What madness possessed them?  What arrow sent from stray Desire’s bow struck both mortal and goddess alike?  Begin, Muse, with the fury of the Transgressions, war that had raged between two mighty peoples for many seasons yet unending.

From his castle in the heavens atop Mount Gagazet, Yevon, the Father to all things living, watched with his eyes of sun and cloud.

For the past six years, as men turned the fields red with their own blood, Gagazet, home to the highest of gods, had become empty.  Yevon had long since given leave for his children to take part in the war below, and his eyes were ever more focused upon it.  The will of the Fates, spinning their threads, had long since decreed that the united Pulsian front would repel the invaders, the pale and light-skinned soldiers from the Cocoon Islands to the west, though that time had not yet come.  City after coastal city had fallen quickly before the ships and armies, as autumn leaves to the oncoming winter, but at the vast fortress of Paddra, the splintered tribes of Pulse had banded together at last.  For over five long years, Paddra had held, had continued to hold before the Cocoon onslaught, a stalemate as neither side yielded, the invasion repelled, but unable to progress.

Fate still held the balance, tipping neither side, and how long until that judgement day arrived, none but wise Yevon knew, and so did the war continue, and the ferry to Death remained filled with fresh souls.

Yevon watched from his seat, only two daughters of his to keep company on this day, gentle Aerith, sweet keeper of the divine hearth, who did not care for the violence of men, and Fang, the Lady Luck, revered by many, both human and divine, the ever moving and fickle purveyor of fortunes.  No interest had she shown in the lasting war, biased as she was toward Pulse, the land of of her most fervent followers, for mortal conflict had never been of her domain, and she did not see fit to dabble in such affairs now as most of her siblings did, using the war as reason to openly test one another.

She watched the proceedings of the day, as hundreds died, and as god and goddess alike dared to combat one another, oft times in human disguise, oft times simply using human vassals.

Her interest run dry, Fang turned, eager to be off to her own callings, perhaps further in the Pulsian heartlands, but Yevon called to her, holding her back:

“So soon to be away, my daughter, away from the event that has drawn the gaze of heaven itself?”--Fang opened her mouth, but father of all injected gently, amused but understanding, golden eyes knowing--“I will not hold you, for I know you care naught for this war, but pray take a message to your brother, War, and remind him not to exert himself so much, for humans die, and there are only so many of them for him to play with, lest he try to see an end to this battle before the Fates would decree it.”

“As you wish, All-Father, I would not see your will undone, least of all by myself or my siblings, excitable though we can be.”

She bowed, took her leave of the heavenly palace, eager to deliver her message, to be away to her own devices again, for war was of no interest to her.

The Lady of Luck swooped through the clouds, as light as the eastern wind, easily finding her destination.  The roaring din of battle was unending, filling the air as two forces, two great armies met again on the open fields before the unbreached walls of Paddra, great stronghold of the Pulsian shoreline.  How many dead had already littered the earth?  How much blood had been soaked into the ground, men alongside fellow men?  Great casualties had been taken by both sides in six years, yet neither yielded, and still Father Yevon had not yet seen fit to weigh the scales and tip the war.

She found her target soon enough, for he was hard to miss among the throng of conflict, invisible though he was before simple mortal eyes.

Gabranth, blood-drenched lord of war and battle, stood overlooking his killing fields.  For six years he smiled behind his horned helmet as conflict raged, as Pulsian and Cocoonian alike clashed in furious arms.

“Fang”--spoke the god of war, and the echo of dying men was in his voice--”I did not expect to see you here.”

It was true that the goddess had not been present thus far during the course of the war, for though many of siblings marked their chosen and pitted against one another along the battlefield, Fang had hardly found the fields before the Paddran stronghold to be to her tastes.

The fortunes of men’s and women’s lives in battle were held more closely by the hands of Death and Fate, but ever did Luck alter the destiny of mortals when her hand dabbled into their lives, even in war, and ever had she been long revered by the clans of Pulse.  She was a fickle goddess, Lady Luck, but she held her favored people closer to heart than many of the higher ranking gods on Mount Gagazet, and the Pulsians had ever been among her chosen, for the Cocoonians had long since let her shrines decay, in favor instead of their massive temples to Kain or Yevon, or even fell Gabranth, gods they believed would rain greater good will upon them.

Fang scoffed, and her dismissal was clear, though her brother said nothing of it.

“All-Father Yevon sent me down, a gentle but firm reminder to you, war may be your domain, but recall that this war among mortals is not to be decided by the likes of you or I.”

Now stone-faced Gabranth gave a low laugh back: “I would hardly aim to challenge All-Father’s decrees, as to end this conflict would benefit me not.  I am the god of war and strife, and not of resolution and winning, for the longer Yevon wills this war to last, the more befitting it is to me.  Look with your eyes as you can see, so-called Lady of Luck.  Could not your Pulsians use more of it?  For look what they are up against, for all that our Father and the Fates have called their ultimate victory here!”

She turned and saw, there in the throng of the battle, the sleekly armored Cocoonians, known even to her, for who among heaven and earth could not recognize the such legends among mortals. 

Great Snow, the giant of Bodhum, towering over his brethren soldiers.  His armor was built of massive sheets of bronze, and his shield took two men to lift, yet he carried it with skilled ease, as though it were little more than a toy to him.  Too easy was it to miss his shadow, too glaze over the tiny woman by his side, but the glint of her bronze and the blur of her weapons caught Fang, and she was mesmerized.  Lightning, born of House Farron, was a raw force, a testament to the Furies themselves, and the size and strength and skill of her opponents mattered naught, for her blade was faster than them all, and Lady Luck could not look away. 

Closed though his helmet was, the lord of war was undoubtedly smiling.  Birds of carrion circled overhead, as if sensing the impending bloodbath, eager to take part in the spoils of flesh and bone.

Gabranth, son of Yevon and master of violence, spoke: “So then you have noticed them, even biased as you are wont to be toward your Pulsians.  Do not pray mistake me, for the spears and swords of the tribes of these lands have spilt much life in these battles, but for all that they have the unstoppable Caius, the swift Noel or the famed archer Vanille, so too do these Cocoonians bear their own famed soldiers among mortals, and you gaze upon two of the finest.”

One hand, covered with plate-gauntlet from the hottest forges of Cid, the divine blacksmith, pointed outward.

“See there, the mighty Snow.  Before his blows, clumsy though they might be, men are hewn into pieces.  With his sword, he cleaves a bloodied swathe into his enemies, inciting both Fear and Panic, my ever faithful hounds.  And see near his side there”--War pointed, his finger rested upon the other--”there is one of the blades of Eden, paradise of Cocoon.  She seems nothing next to the lumbering monster that is her companion, but a deadly force within her own, and many Pulsians have already fallen to her glinting blade, for she strikes faster than her namesake, swift and lethal Lightning.”

A frown crossed the beautiful face of the goddess, her attention caught by a mere mortal.  The displeasure of Lady Luck was apparent, and she threw her hand, casting her Luck toward a simple frontline soldier, a Pulsian tribesman, braver than most, wearing but simple leather armor for protection, his sword in one hand, his wooden shield in the other.

Lightning turned toward him, her face shadowed by the bronze helm atop her brow, her weapon readied.  They traded blows in a furious clash.  The warrior of far-away Cocoon gave honor to her namesake, but her Pulsian opponent, meager though he was, had the touch of Fang upon him, and no killing thrust could land on him.  He turned, twisting his sword upward, Luck upon him as the blade managed an impossible angle above the defending shield.

It was a lucky blow for such a lowly soldier, and it managed to strike the daughter of Eden square across her helmet, denting the polished bronze.  Proud Lightning, born of the swift-footed blood of Farron, remained stunned for but a mere second, wresting the useless helmet from her head, her sword already raised high and her shield steadied.  

In that moment, who can say what truly happened?  Did fateful Desire, Balthier god of wants, loosen his terrible arrow?  No god nor man nor beast can lay claim to what course of events followed, and only the eyes of history can lay testament to what was wrought.

The sun beams parted the clouds, and the bared head of Lightning, blade from Cocoon, blazed in the new light.  Fair-haired and terrible, she struck shield to shield with the lucky foot soldier, gutted her blade deep into stomach and gall, reparations for what chance hit he had landed on her.  Blood gushed forth, covering her in a crimson ink, but not dimming the beauty of her person.  She was a warrior fit for Gabranth, but as fair as any creation from the loins of Balthier, and the goddess of Luck found herself helplessly entranced.  Long did her gaze stare after the trail of sparkling hair as the mortal woman took leave back from the battle and toward her tents, to repair her battered armor before the next clash of forces, and the image of clear eyes, the hue of father Yevon’s skies, remained in her memory thereafter.

And so did Luck find herself joining the ranks of her siblings in the War of Transgressions, yet none were any wiser as to why, for though the Pulsians had ever been steadfast followers of her, the gaze of the Lady was turned upon another, and while her siblings clashed against each other in furious contests of wills, using chosen mortals as their vessels, Fang but held back, verdant eyes ever focused on a blade of Eden, and a sore ache growing beneath her bosom.  And ever did she begin offering her gifts of luck outward toward the mortal who had already taken her heart.

Yet her gifts were not accepted, and many even spurned.  Each stroke of Luck earned her neither gratitude nor even curiosity from tempered Lightning, but seeming ire and resentment, no matter how she would lean into Fang’s ghostly touch when the goddess dared even that much, for Fang was not one to quickly unveil herself to mortal eyes, though she yearned more to with each passing day, as Lightning grew more obstinate as a rock before the surf.

The warrior of Cocoon was steadfast in her ways, and refused to acknowledge each saving grace, each stroke of superb and inhuman luck that seemed to govern her every spear throw, her health, and her very well-being, defying almost the Fates themselves, making men around her exclaim and bow their heads.

But fair Lightning gritted her teeth, darkening her brow and ignoring what was before her, until even mighty Snow, who was kin to her, married to her own sister, made comment upon the strange circumstances:

“Surely some god, lesser or minor though they may be, has taken notice of you.  Would it not befit you, then, to honor this deity, and make offerings to them, lest you incur their wrath?”

Lightning, more proud than any, turned away, and her voice was hot, for she relied on none, god or human, to do her work: “And to what god, Snow?  What god comes down from the clouds to guide my blade in battle?  Surely none that I have given dues to, for we all made peace toward the great gods and goddesses of Gagazet only this spring that none might frown upon us.  I see no hand of Yevon or his greater children in my acts.  Chance, luck, coincidence, naught more has been spent upon my deeds, if that, and I should hope to remain out of the designs of any gods, for life is simpler for man when the gods tend to their own devices instead of ours.”

Snow shook his great head, but spoke not again, for he knew that the sister of his wife would hear him not, and he prayed that Lightning would not let her pride be her undoing, and he prayed for mercy from whatever god’s eye she had so unwittingly caught.

And there, discernable to no simple ear, but caught by searching Farron, grew footsteps against the leaves.  It took but only a moment’s hesitation, a quick decision of her open surroundings, crowded by the dense forest trees, and the Lightning ran as the winds traveled over the seas; her feet were light as the hawk’s feathers, and her pace was as brisk as the fox, outrunning any who would follow her.  And still, the sound of feet chased her over the air, running her deep into the forest, all direction lost until she came upon a grotto, quiet except for the steady gurgling of the spring that dribbled over the cliff wall, providing no further option of escape. 

Lightning turned, brave as All-Father Yevon, high in the clouds, to meet what fate awaited her, rewarded but moments later, as her pursuer dared finally to show face.

She was of Pulse, for she looked not at all as the fair-haired and ivory-skinned Cocoonians.  Her tanned skin was long since browned by the harsh rays of the sun, and her hair was wild mess of dark tangles, and in one hand she held a traditional double-bladed spear, painted red as a setting sun, to hide the stain of blood.

Swift-footed scion of Farron held her ground, drew her sword glimmering into the light of day.  She was yet undefeated on the fields before Paddra, and she was not to be deterred here or now, in a forgotten grotto, older than the walls of cities; not to be felled by some nameless soldier that had tracked her down.

They traded blows then, lacquered spear to shining bronze, metal crying under the bright sun, each striving for dominance, Lightning breathing heavy, the sweat reflecting on her freshly washed skin, unable to break her opponent’s adamantine guard.  A quick flash of red, and her blade flew threw the air.  She was disarmed as but a new soldier, raw and untested, before the touch of the experienced master.

No killing strike followed then, only a twirl of color as the spear was lowered away, and Lightning was pinned in place, against heavy rock cliff of the grotto, not by any threat of bloodshed or death, but by a gaze so wizened and knowing and bright, that she dared not move, for she knew that no human woman was before her, and she was suddenly afraid.

And then proud Lightning, this one time caught off guard, wetted her lips to better speak, that she might know who stood before her now.  She spoke, and her voice was small over the trickle of spring water:

“What are you that stands before me?  For no man nor woman has ever matched my foot nor bested me as you, and never with such ease, as though I were a child first learning to hold my sword.  Tell me, I ask of you.”

The Pulsian woman, hardly a simple soldier, flicked her hand aside, and in an instant the spear was gone, vanished into the nothing, and Lightning’s eyes grew wide at the magic of the simple gesture.

At last her opponent spoke, her voice echoing in the air, soft chimes against the wind, and more pleasing than the finest of musicians songs.

“Your people were never ones to make offerings up in my name, but perhaps your memory will come to you now.  I am Fang, I alone who can twist the Fates in my hand like a dice.  I am Lady Luck.”

The cloak of humanity that she wore was cast aside, and Lightning saw fully the goddess that stood before her. 

No longer did any Pulsian soldier stand before her, but instead there was an immortal, finer and more beautiful than any of the marble statues hewn in the temples Eden.  Green-eyed Fang, oft over-looked by the people of the Cocoon islands, rose over her, with olive skin and dark but shining hair, and Lightning was but a simple drop of water before the ocean, struck by the overwhelming beauty and perfection unveiled to her clouded eyes.

And all about Fang, there was a strange and clinging light to her features that almost hurt to look upon.  Lightning trembled, caught against the face of the rock wall, trapped there by what she knew now to be one of the gods themselves.  No wonder that her flight and fight alike had been so futile.  The gods rarely took such vested interest in any individual, but when they did, no mortal could hope to escape their eyes and hand alike; to try to spurn a god’s interest was to invite their furies, which only death could hide her from.

Yet the face of the goddess was hardly the visage of anger, and her lips were curled upward into a toothy smile that gleamed with clear desire.

Lightning turned her head, as shy and bashful as any maiden before a suitor.  The gods were ever fickle, and there were other reasons to pursue mortals beyond vengeance or wrath.  The goddess stepped closer, and Lightning looked away, for she could not bring herself to meet the verdant and knowing gaze any longer, not when the heat rushed through her, hotter than any forge.

“You...” she spoke, looking down at their sandaled feet.

A hand that was softer than new fleece reached out to touch her cheek, and the touch was familiar to her, the same that she had felt upon her for countless days and nights past.  She turned up, met eyes so bright that they dimmed the forest, and she trembled all over again, even knowing that the goddess could feel it.  The hungry lion’s grin on the face of the goddess mellowed into something more tender and gentle.

“I,” repeated the Lady of Luck. “I have long watched you from afar, blade of Eden, and long have you resisted my gifts, freely though they have been offered.  Long have you scoffed at Luck, and in your stubborn way refused to look at what I have so plainly laid out before your piercing eyes.  I am endeared by your persistence, fickle though men may call me, and long have I desired to claim your heart as my own, as my heart has been given toward you, though you may not know it, and I can wait no longer.”

Her chin was tilted upward, and lips, warm and wholesome and as surely as sweet as the ambrosia of the gods themselves, pressed against hers. 

What breath had been in her lungs escaped loudly, much to the clear pleasure of Fang.  When the same lips closed on her a second time, and hands drifted up her sides, Lightning could only lean into the touch, for the goddess before her was beautiful beyond the words of even poets, and no longer was she afraid.

And then Fang drew her down onto a soft bed of lilies that had risen up around their feet, and they did not leave the grotto for some time thereafter.

If the Fates deemed this endless struggle for Paddra to be tipped to one side, their will had yet to be revealed to likes of mere mortals below.

Lightning rose with the dawn, as quiet and boneless as fleeing night.

She smiled as she looked toward her pallet, at the bronzed figure strewn across the bed sheets, no mortal man or woman, but a goddess fairer than the first day of summer.  The nighttime favors of Fang, the ever-revered Lady Luck, still whispered across Lightning’s body.  Her own sweet goddess lay slumbering still, not yet wakened, and Lightning ached to return. 

What hand of of the fates or fortunes had been enacted was uncertain, but as the months passed into years, ever had the goddess remained by her; ever had they grown to share a bed, and ever had Lightning grown to love the immortal by her side, craving the cooling salve of her lips across skin at the end of a long battle, taking solace in her lover more than in her goddess.

Though her Cocoonian brethren knew Lightning as seemingly god-touched, not a one would guess to what extent, for Fang revealed herself to none but her lover, always as fickle as her name.

Lightning donned her fresh tunic, preparing herself for what battle would soon come, as the sun rose in the sky, so too would the Cocoonians attempt to take the gate of strong Paddra again, to crack the last and stalwart defense that had so frustrated their campaign since they first landed ashore, so many years now past.

She turned, and found Fang before her, awake, already clothed in her shimmering blue-gold robes, grander than any king’s finest garb.

The mischievous smile, now so achingly familiar, remained present, yet the glint of sharp green in the goddess’s eyes was muted, shadowed with rare solemnity, and Fang drew close to her mortal beloved.

“Ever have I been with you, this past year and more, but even blessed Luck, coveted by human and god alike, can bow before Will like the reed in the wind.  I would give you something more, that my mind might rest easy as you go forth to the killing fields.”

She signalled then, calling forth her gift, only newly finished, and shining even in the dark of the tent.  A set of armor, finer still than even the commander of the Cocoon hosts, lord Dysley, for human smiths could only forge in pale mockery of what art the heavens crafted.

The goddess of Luck, divine and immortal, knelt before her human lover, no different than a servant arms bearer, and placed the armor onto Lightning, fair-haired daughter of Eden.

First came the shin plates, pressed over shapely calves.  There, across the back of one leg, her fingers ran over a jagged scar, a mark of war given by some too-skilled archer years earlier.  The goddess’s anger, sharper than any metal blade, jumped in her chest, hot as Yevon’s sun in the skies.  Never would she see harm come to her lover, not while under her touch and watch, not while given the blessing of Luck.

A skirt of tooled and oiled leather tassels followed next, new and yet untested, embossed with meandering designs and bronze buttons, a work of art as much as protection.

The breastplate was fitted over her tunic, gleaming, perfectly burnished and brushed, a gift from at the behest of Fang from the hands of the celestial blacksmith himself, Cid.  There was no equal to it on man’s earth.  Intricate pictures were engraved into the flat of the plate, elegant depictions of the creation of earth and man.  Fang rested her long fingers over it, even after she had cinched tight the straps, protection for the fragile body within that her heart loved so dearly.  Even now, her skin yearned to touch bare flesh, to feel the red and mortal blood jump and writhe beneath her touch, but she mastered her emotions, strong-calling though they were. 

Last was the helmet, bright and shining, horsehair freshly dyed and spiked atop the burnished bronze.  The fair hair, so distinctive of the line of Farron, was buried beneath the armor of war.  The daughter of Eden was a fitting image for a follower of Gabranth, dreadlord of war and conflict.  A frown crossed over Fang’s face, for she had claimed Lightning as her own, and would not stand to see any other shadow over that claim.  A press of lips, hard and fast, marked her chosen, dispelling the bout of divine jealousy, and she spoke only after:

“Always will I be with you and watching, heart of mine.  Now go before your field, and put shame to those around you with your fury, and smite any that would dare harm you.”

Lightning, ever bold and forthright, kissed her goddess back.  No law of earth or heaven validated them, for though gods were wont to take simple dalliances with mortals, to take a steadfast lover was something more.  But neither was deterred.  No hand would hold back Love, would cut such tight bonds that bound them together.

And so the brightly shining daughter of Eden again returned to the blood-bathed fields, leading a charge, the Cocoonians strength to be tested again before the yet unfallen gates of Paddra, the last bastion of proud Pulse before their rich heartlands.

Fang, mistress of ever-changing fortune, watched from the shores, for she sensed not any of her siblings upon the fields this day, an unusual circumstance, as all too often did they dabble with the mortal’s war, choosing pawns to exert their will upon, testing one another in red flesh and blood that was not their own, but not on this day.

Lady Luck stiffened, for she felt the stirrings of the Fates within the air.  Her sharp eyes, ever-seeing, cut across the chaos of the battlefield, honed in on the distant gates.  She saw her Lightning, slicing through her enemies, leading a charge and burning as brightly as a star in the heavens.  Yet across from within the gates, an equal if not greater force moved, and the Pulsians rallied around it.

Caius, Sword of Paddra, had come forth.  For seven years and seven days, against none had he fallen, against none had he faltered.  If there were any truly favored by the gods, it was he, and as long as Caius still drew breath, so would the great gates of Paddra remain steady. 

The goddess Fang laid eyes upon the warrior of Pulse, a man of her chosen people, and felt the clear ichor in her veins run cold, and the Fates whispered across wind.  How she knew, without even turning skyward, that the moment had come, that Yevon, father to them all, had picked this moment to at last determine the course of the mortal’s war, that her beloved should shed her blood on this day, and that the people of Cocoon would be turned from the shores of Pulse, defeated by a force greater than their own.

The Lady of Luck cared naught for mortal wars, and never would, but her heart beat rapidly beneath her chest, desperate to find its other half.

Before Lightning, the soldiers parted, Cocoonian and Pulsian both, giving way for the dread master of arms whose approach she had heard coming.  The wide ring was formed around them, a personal arena by which to decide the course of war, by which she could not withdraw, lest she throw away her every honor in doing so. 

She drew her blade before the legendary Sword of Paddra.  The circled one another, as two dogs in a ring, but with a grace and litheness that no animal could honor.

Lightning’s sword flashed in, a golden blaze, but struck a shield, bouncing off, a useless attack before an experienced hand.

Strong Caius’s counter followed, and though her shield was ready, his blow rung along her arm, a greater force than her own behind it.

Sweat beaded at Lightning’s brow, dribbled down to drip past her helmet and strike the bloodied sand below their feet.

Then the cool wind whispered at her back, and she knew that Fang was at her side, and she was reassured. 

Their clash of blades and shields was furious, for the whole of the heavens and earth watched them, waiting for whom would fall, breaths held in anxious expectation, waiting for the first spill of fresh blood.  Each swing was close, glancing, a near miss that echoed in gasps along the line of spectators, their own battles forgotten, watching instead the one that was before them.

Lightning scurried to dodge a mighty swing, and her foot slipped in the soft sands, traitorous earth providing her no anchor, but Luck guided her feet, a seeming misstep, yet placing her but a hair beyond Caius’ guard, his shield too slow to pull back around, to block what swift attack was already directed toward him, his flank exposed and unprotected.

Lightning’s sword, tried and tested, cut through the buckled and strapped side of his breastplate, and the strike was true.  Flesh parted before the flashing bronze of her blade, yielding, and the point skewered through rib and lung to pierce the heart, halting only when the hilt of the well-formed sword clattered against the useless metal of his breastplate.

Mighty Caius, sung of in the ballads, would not yet fall, and held still, too proud to let his weapon drop, though his grip had slackened, and already the light dimmed from his face.  His mouth opened, last words to be uttered, but he was cut off as the sword from Eden pulled her blade loose, and the blood fountained forth.  It coated the ground in a crimson salute to Lady Death, the ever present master of men.

A great wail swept up the ranks of the Pulsians, a dirge of lament and despair, for the greatest among them had fallen, and before his defeat, his comrades could not hope to hold the tide against them.  Men and women alike broke and ran, Gabranth’s hounds of Strife ever nipping at their heels, and the Cocoonians rallied, charging through the gate, crying victory as they pillaged towering Paddra finally, the gem of their conquests.

And in his heavenly throne, Yevon shifted, and then stiffened, surprise and dismay written clearly across his noble features.  The host of gods and goddesses with him atop Mount Gagazet broke out into furious talk, not heeding that the All-Father still sat before them, his will and decree undone, all by a single mortal woman.

“How could...by what luck...”

His brow darkened, the sunny skies across Gagazet grew black with storm clouds.  He spoke again, and his words rumbled as thunder:

“Luck.”

After many long years of disuse, the long wooden ships of Cocoon bobbed in the harbor, a line of pointed masts as far as the eye could see along the coast, crawling with the movement of men aboard them, as ants upon their hills.

Lightning stood on a cliff edge, overlooking it all.

A long and silken red cloak, one of the handsome spoils of fallen Paddra, was wrapped tightly around her war-wearied form.  Summer had left, and the ever cruel Winter was on its way.  With stronghold of Paddra at last taken, the Cocoonians were to halt for a season, regroup and rest before the continued campaigns to expand, a voyage back home allowed for many of the warriors, so hardened by battle, and deprived of family.  Lightning was among them, for she had not laid eyes upon her sister in Eden for seven long years.  Her small fleet of boats were outfitted for the voyage home, with fresh linen sails that were colored with her insignia.

She stood overlooking the beach, alone to her onlookers, though she was yet with company.

“I will see you again in Eden”--Fang, goddess of luck and fortunes, gave her word, a gentle smile of love and desire passing over her lips--“Perhaps even before then, while you still cross the ocean of sea god Kain.  Perhaps I might visit you upon you sturdy vessel, lest I leave you without me for a full half-month whilst you travel and I tend to my own needs, for I have neglected my duties as a goddess while at ever by you, and I must tend to things in the heavens.”

Proud Lightning colored at the teasing of a goddess, but was not dissuaded. “Eden, then, for certain, for I am loathe to go any longer than necessary without you, and it hurts me even now more than any wound to part with you.”

Both women, goddess and mortal alike, moved together, pressing lips in the eternal promise that all lovers make.  Hands clasped tightly around Lightning’s robed shoulders, and her resolve steadied.  Clear-eyed daughter of Farron gazed upon her beloved, felt the soft ache in her chest sharpen, as if Balthier’s arrowhead rested there even now.

Smiling Fang, goddess of Luck, released her at last, though her touch ever remained, invisible to the eye.  Her reassurances were spoken, as steady as the waves in Kain’s ocean, a goddess’s oath, heavier than any promise by human tongue.

“In Eden, I will be with you again.  May the winds guide you quickly back, best beloved of my heart, that I may soon feel your skin against my own.”

Lightning bowed her fair-haired head, embraced her love again, then turned back down toward the cliff walk, for her men awaited her leave, and once back home again in Eden, so would her love be again by her side.

Long did Fang watch the ships set sail, till they were but a small dot even to her far-reaching eyes.  Then she turned, took to the wind and skies alike crossing ocean and land in an invisible flash, back to Gagazet, celestial home to the gods, one that she had been long since absent from.

Thunder cracked across the blue sky, lightning struck the goddess from her flight toward the heavens, and she tumbled, all control lost, only to fall into the rough edge of Mount Gagazet.

Dazed and injured, she staggered upright, fear consuming her with the simple knowledge:

There was but a single god amongst them all who controlled the storms, and to incur his wrath was to be utterly undone.

All-Father Yevon stood before her, the great host of her celestial siblings and family behind him, faces divine but unfeeling, masks that followed the rule of their one king.

Only Balthier, the tender god of love that he was, showed remorse, and his eyes were wet with pity and unending regret.

Fang knew then what was about to happen, but Luck or no, the goddess of fortunes was not fast enough to escape.

The skies flashed again, and Fang fell to her knees, the rich soil of the Mother’s earth dug into her skin.  The rings of adamantine chains were placed across her legs and wrists, and her arms were drawn backward and taut, arms nearly ripping from their sockets, pinned to the holy hide of the great mountain of Gagazet itself.

All-Father Yevon took a hand to her chin.  He raised her head, and through her blurred and tear-trailed vision she met the eyes of the heavens, as bright as the sun and as pitiless as the storm clouds.

He spoke before her: “What madness drove you such lengths?  What heresy pushed you to challenge the law of Destiny, the will of I, Yevon the All-Father, for the sake of a single mortal life?  You have changed the course of man, and for that, there can be no forgiveness, my daughter.  Speak now though, that I might have reason to show you mercy in my judgement.”

But the eyes of Lady Luck were unseeing, caught in a realm that not even the All-Father, with his sunlit gaze, could pierce. “Long have I been struck by a desire and yearning so sharp that it could only be given one name: Love, forbidden though it is between mortal and heaven.  I have loved Lightning, treasured daughter of the House of Farron, long and deeply, and she has ever loved me back.  No dalliance in heaven has given me such completion, no touch from god or nymph or sprite has ever cooled my anger and raised my passion so, has slaked the thirst that I knew not I even had.  If godhood, sacred and forever imprinted though it is, could be abandoned for single lifetime with her, then I should do it in a second.  It is for love that I have turned from everything I ever knew and cherished, and it is for love that I would do it again even now.  Regrets are beyond me, All-Father.  My heart was long ago given to Lightning, and it is with her that it shall forever remain.”

His eyes hardened, and the sun that was in them dimmed.  The hand dropped from Fang’s chin, cold and clipped as the northern wind.  Yevon, mighty king amongst the gods, stood before his own, and the words that came from his mouth held no respite from the pain.

“Then your Fate is of your own doing.  Forever will you remain here, Fang, your Luck chained before the mountain of the gods, forced to watch the sun rise and set on the land of Pulse, ones that you should have blessed with prosperity.  You will watch your people fight and die, generation upon generation, with no peace in sight.  Every night you shall be driven into the rock by the rain and wind and storm that is my everlasting fury, the elements shall lash the skin from your flesh, and you will remember what you have abandoned, and you will remember that it was for nothing, and for a love that could never be, and when my sun rises each morning, it will bring you no relief, but only unending pain.  May the hosts be my witnesses.”

Thunder crackled through the air, and then one by one the hosts left, Yevon last of them all.

She strained against her shackles, but it was useless.  The adamantine would never give, even before divine power.  Her prison had been made, but her punishment had only just begun.

For even Luck was limited.

She felt the moment that Yevon’s wrath turned its gaze upon Lightning, upon her steady vessel traversing the seas toward Eden.  She felt the storm gather from the air and rain havoc and ungodly fury on simple wood and blood and flesh.  She heard Lightning cry out helplessly for her, questioning desperately why their promise had come to naught, why her love had not come to her side in her last minutes, and she felt the moment life fled the mortal body of her lover, parting them as Lightning, clear-eyed and god-touched, was swallowed into the sea, and her soul was collected by the pale and solemn sister of Yevon, Yunalesca, the goddess who keeps the dead.

And then Fang wept all the more, for her love was forever gone, beyond the touch of god and mortal alike, and she cared naught for the punishment that Yevon held her too, for it could never match the raw agony she carried within her chest.

Then Luck was never the same then to mankind, for only barest bits could ever slip out past the adamantine bindings and into the world of mortals, and it is ever more fickle since, for the goddess ever cries out for her lost love, and her thoughts are rarely with the living..  But it is said that Luck can still be had if you find the blue forget-me-not flowers that bloom where her tears have fallen, and that if you listen closely enough in the roar of thunder and the stillness after the lightning dissipates, you can sometimes hear steady but quiet weeping on the wind.