It is Garland's fault, Sara thinks, all of it. It is Garland's fault she sits on this throne and feels no contentment; it is Garland's fault she can feel satisfied with her people's happiness but not her own. It is Garland's fault, this restlessness that seizes her in the night: the desire to move, to run, to fight; to fly, fly higher until the world is hers, her land protected not by crown and sword but the spread wings of Sara's ambitions and desires and dreams.
It is Garland's fault, but it is Merewyn who suggests it: Merewyn, her Knight, the only Light Warrior who stayed with her. Merewyn has eyes that are older than time, and intuition sharper than her blade. "There is a cave," Merewyn says, and her solemn face looks almost wistful: "a cave, and a dragon, who can give you the strength to become who you are meant to be."
"Can you take me?" Sara asks, already knowing the answer.
Merewyn gives her mysterious smile, the one that reminds Sara off the lands and worlds she has not yet seen. "I will," says her Knight. "I will take you there. But you must face Him on your own."
Their departure almost - almost - hushes the rush of restlessness within Sara: the solitude, the fierceness of Merewyn's blade, the simple joy when her own arrows hit their targets. And yet there's still something burning, low at night, a guttering and undying flame. It is still Garland's fault, Sara thinks.
Merewyn stops at the entrance to the cavern, smiling her mysterious thousand-league smile. Sara proceeds into the darkness, feeling strangely caught-between: anxious but not afraid; anticipatory but not confident; solid, but not fearless.
The dragon rears before her out of nowhere and its brightness blinds her, searing its image on her eyes: coils and coils of gleaming jewels, sharper and brighter than anything could ever exist, shimmering with a magic that makes them only look like scales. His wings spread behind Him, veined and laced with metals still molten and warm from the earth, fire-lines, and Sara catches a sob in her throat at the wonder.
"Princess," He says, and rumbling in the echoes of His voice Sara hears the name: Bahamut, Hallowed Father, Dragon-King, First-Sire, Zero and Infinite, Guardian, Keeper, Monster-God... They all sound the same and mean the same thing and Sara grasps at them, forming the letters in her mouth.
"Lord Bahamut." She greets him with her deepest curtsey, her most reverent gesture: she has nothing else to offer him.
"Princess," Bahamut says. "You bring me naught from the Trials - but you have borne trials all your own, and for that, I would listen. What is your desire?"
"I would," Sara says, and she finds she has no words to describe her small, petty, insignificant restlessness in the face of the dragon. "I would learn my role, and become it."
There is a terrifying rumble like an earthquake, like a cataclysm, like the world ending: Bahamut laughs. "Learn your role, Princess? When Princesses are ready, they become Queens. What is your desire?"
"I would be more," Sara says, not knowing until the words have poured from her mouth that this is as close as she will get to putting letters on her unspoken dreams. "I am no brave warrior like Merewyn; nor can I pull lightning from the skies like Birch, or pull life from death like Pan, but I would be more than a symbol and a crown."
The noise He makes is almost a purr, a deep vibration beneath her feet: dangerous amusement. "And what would you be?"
Sara laughs, brittle and short, because there is only one way she can describe it. "I would be you," she means to say, but the words that come out of her mouth are: "I would be yours."
Bahamut's eyes blaze: diamonds, suns, stars, molten heat of the earth; Sara would stumble, but Bahamut rears up before her and spreads His wings, and she wonders whether He will simply strike her down for impunity: but then He laughs again, an infinitely smaller noise made for a human to understand. "That, Princess," Bahamut says. "That I will hear."
The dragon's kiss upon her forehead is like being struck with a spear: so cold it burns, so sharp it merely stings.
Speak my name, Bahamut tells her. Speak but my Name, and I shall come to you, and we will Fly.
Wings (FFI; Sara, Bahamut; G)
It is Garland's fault, but it is Merewyn who suggests it: Merewyn, her Knight, the only Light Warrior who stayed with her. Merewyn has eyes that are older than time, and intuition sharper than her blade. "There is a cave," Merewyn says, and her solemn face looks almost wistful: "a cave, and a dragon, who can give you the strength to become who you are meant to be."
"Can you take me?" Sara asks, already knowing the answer.
Merewyn gives her mysterious smile, the one that reminds Sara off the lands and worlds she has not yet seen. "I will," says her Knight. "I will take you there. But you must face Him on your own."
Their departure almost - almost - hushes the rush of restlessness within Sara: the solitude, the fierceness of Merewyn's blade, the simple joy when her own arrows hit their targets. And yet there's still something burning, low at night, a guttering and undying flame. It is still Garland's fault, Sara thinks.
Merewyn stops at the entrance to the cavern, smiling her mysterious thousand-league smile. Sara proceeds into the darkness, feeling strangely caught-between: anxious but not afraid; anticipatory but not confident; solid, but not fearless.
The dragon rears before her out of nowhere and its brightness blinds her, searing its image on her eyes: coils and coils of gleaming jewels, sharper and brighter than anything could ever exist, shimmering with a magic that makes them only look like scales. His wings spread behind Him, veined and laced with metals still molten and warm from the earth, fire-lines, and Sara catches a sob in her throat at the wonder.
"Princess," He says, and rumbling in the echoes of His voice Sara hears the name: Bahamut, Hallowed Father, Dragon-King, First-Sire, Zero and Infinite, Guardian, Keeper, Monster-God... They all sound the same and mean the same thing and Sara grasps at them, forming the letters in her mouth.
"Lord Bahamut." She greets him with her deepest curtsey, her most reverent gesture: she has nothing else to offer him.
"Princess," Bahamut says. "You bring me naught from the Trials - but you have borne trials all your own, and for that, I would listen. What is your desire?"
"I would," Sara says, and she finds she has no words to describe her small, petty, insignificant restlessness in the face of the dragon. "I would learn my role, and become it."
There is a terrifying rumble like an earthquake, like a cataclysm, like the world ending: Bahamut laughs. "Learn your role, Princess? When Princesses are ready, they become Queens. What is your desire?"
"I would be more," Sara says, not knowing until the words have poured from her mouth that this is as close as she will get to putting letters on her unspoken dreams. "I am no brave warrior like Merewyn; nor can I pull lightning from the skies like Birch, or pull life from death like Pan, but I would be more than a symbol and a crown."
The noise He makes is almost a purr, a deep vibration beneath her feet: dangerous amusement. "And what would you be?"
Sara laughs, brittle and short, because there is only one way she can describe it. "I would be you," she means to say, but the words that come out of her mouth are: "I would be yours."
Bahamut's eyes blaze: diamonds, suns, stars, molten heat of the earth; Sara would stumble, but Bahamut rears up before her and spreads His wings, and she wonders whether He will simply strike her down for impunity: but then He laughs again, an infinitely smaller noise made for a human to understand. "That, Princess," Bahamut says. "That I will hear."
The dragon's kiss upon her forehead is like being struck with a spear: so cold it burns, so sharp it merely stings.
Speak my name, Bahamut tells her. Speak but my Name, and I shall come to you, and we will Fly.