Heuloix Estate
Pre-Calamity
Early Morning
Olivie scrunched her face up and stared at the infant, swaddled as he was against his mother's bosom. She dropped back to her feet and huffed.
"Well, I suppose he's all right. What's his name?"
"Martiallais," her mother replied warmly.
"Oh. That's a big name for a little person."
"He won't always be little."
She chewed on the end of her braid, and patiently her mother reached over to extract the plait from her daughter's teeth. The room was open and airy, sunlight just peeking over the rooftops of the city. Hours of arduous labor had lead to a perfect baby boy. Whatever that meant. As far as Olivie was concerned, he had pointed ears and big bright eyes.
"Mama?" she asked after a prolonged silence.
"Yes, little bird?"
"Do you think Mar-Mar will be my best friend? Alfonse told me he didn't want to be my best friend, he said I was being silly." Her expression was crestfallen, blue eyes trained on her feet.
Her mother laughed softly and stroked her hair. "Let him grow up a little bit, and then we'll see, all right?"
"Yes, mama."
---
"-- and this is an orange!" She produced the fruit happily, setting it in front of her brother. The toddler looked skeptical, eyes darting between it and his sister.
"Here, let me show you." Olivie scooted over and picked up the fruit. "You have to peel the skin off first, then you can eat it. It's always a pain to start, but once you get going peeling it is easy."
The girl took her time, tongue between her teeth as she painstakingly attacked the rind. Her brother giggled and propped his hands on her knee, watching with great interest. "And they good?" he asked.
"Very good."
"Very?"
"A whole lot." She gestured, making a big space between her hands. The boy nodded his understanding and went back to watching her peel. Soon the fruit was devoid of rind, and Olivie took her time breaking it into segments. She handed the first one to the boy.
"Try it," she encouraged.
The boy put the piece of fruit in his mouth and chewed, a thoughtful expression on his small face. Olivie helped herself to a segment and watched, smiling. Martiallais swallowed, then laughed and clapped his hands.
"Very! More?"
---
"You need to keep your arms up, like Master Devonne said."
"I'm tired."
"I know, but you have to fight tired. Monsters don't care if you're tired or not."
"You're mean," the boy pouted.
Olivie leaned in, stealing a glance at her older brother, who was deep in conversation with the weaponsmaster. "No, Alfy's mean. I want you to be a great warrior!"
Martiallais smothered a laugh, then straightened his face and dutifully lifted his wooden shield and sword. The girl circled him, correcting his stance with minor adjustments.
---
"-- if it's so important, you marry the duke's son!"
"Don't be so petulant. I have to inherit father's estate. You need to marry well."
"I don't want to get married! I want to be a dragoon, an adventurer! I want to see the world, not -- not get chained down to some ugly man."
"I don't see what his appearance matters."
"Ugh!" Olivie threw her hands up, turning to pick up her spear.
"Where are you going?" Alfonse demanded. "He's downstairs right now."
"Then he can stay there!" She huffed, turning about to brush past her brother. He caught her by the arm and looked down at her. She in turn scowled up at him.
"It's your duty, Olivie."
"To Halone with my 'duty'!" She jerked her arm free and stormed past him.
---
She was pale-faced and shaking, tears threatening but never spilling.Â
"You should've accepted his offer," Alfonse had said coldly. Martiallais had raised his voice to protest, but a gesture from their father silenced him.Â
The Lord Antonlioux had taken his last slight from the girl; his offer was sound. No reasonable woman would continuously spurn him. She had to be a witch. He had the influence and position to level those charges, and not have them be countermanded. Her father's hands were tied, just as hers were.
Lead between two knights, they marched silently along the path to Witchdrop, where her ultimate fate would be decided. It didn't matter what she said, the nobleman had a counter to everything she came up with. His will would not be denied, and her pride would not allow her to cave to his wishes. She would be no man's wife, no trophy to be dressed up and displayed and never taken seriously.
Why had Mar come along? Why did he have to see her brought so low? She wanted to tell him to leave, to go and not look back, but every time she'd opened her mouth to speak she'd been reprimanded. The second time she'd tried, the knight to her left had struck her, his gauntlet opening a gash across her face. She felt so humiliated and powerless, it made her sick to her stomach.Â
Olivie may as well accept her fate. She would fall, broken at the bottom of the precipice, left for the scavengers. Just another heretic caught in Ishgard's justice. She wouldn't see what Mar would become, the great warrior he was meant to be. Only he look distraught -- their father had been resigned, Alfonse accepting. Her baby brother.
The tears spilled down, trailing down her face to mix with the blood seeping from the wound on her face. She wanted to turn and tell him how much she cared, for him not to miss her when she was gone. She was willing to risk being struck again if it meant she could have last words with her brother.
"Mar --"
The knight opened his mouth to yell at her again, but only made a startled, choked noise as an arrow whistled into his eye. There was a moment's pause within the group, a sense of disbelief, before hell broke loose.
The mercenaries fell upon them, the element of surprise in their favor. The fight was messy, sword striking shield, lances drawing blood. Olivie dropped to the ground and scrambled out of the way, narrowly avoiding armored boots.Â
The mercenaries were losing their advantage, and Olivie saw her chance. She bashed her bound fists into the knee of one of her captors, who went down with a yell. She sprung to her feet, frantically looking for her brother. He was engaged with one of the mercenaries, obviously out-classing the ruffian. He would be fine, he was more than a match for these people.
"Martiallais!" she called. He dispatched his foe and spun to look at her.
"Live!" She shouted, voice cracking, before she turned and ran. Her only option was to run; after the mercenaries were handled, they would just continue to the drop. She could never return home; by now her fate had made the rounds. No one would harbor her. There was nothing left for her in Ishgard
So she ran, stumbling, eyes blinded by tears, as she left the fight -- and the last person she loved -- behind.
---
Present Day --
Mikalaos stared at Papataru's handwriting for what seemed like the hundredth time. Wyrnzoen at the marauder's guild was expecting her, and she felt some trepidation. It didn't take her by surprise, not a bit, but it was change. She'd gotten used to her regime, her life as a smith. She liked her life as it was.
But Papataru and H'naanza had taken her aside the day before and spoke plainly. Her work was suffering. Her attention often drifted. "You have lost your spark," H'naanza had said.
"You were meant for more than this," Papataru continued. "We're happy with our lot in life, but you -- you're meant to do more. Greater things than hammering metal all day. We don't want you to stifle yourself just for the sake of complacency. You need to take risks. You need to find your destiny."
They weren't wrong, per se, but Mikalaos was cautious. They assured her that she wasn't being thrown out, and if it didn't work out she was very welcome to return. "Think it over," the lalafell urged.
Mika had slept on it -- not really, she'd been tossing and turning all night. Hadn't that been her drive, to find glory? To make her name, to carve out her niche in history? How long would she let the specter of Alfonse's hatred keep her from reaching her true potential?
The elezen sighed and stuffed the parchment into her pocket, taking purposeful strides forward. She had to try. She owed it that much to Olivie Heuloix, to see the dream realized, to find where she truly belonged.
It wasn't a name she thought about much anymore; she'd stopped thinking of herself as Olivie years ago. As far as anyone was concerned, she was a nobody who happened to like manual labor. She was kind, loyal and hard-working. That should have been enough, but deep in her heart she wanted more. She wanted to live that girlhood dream, to be great.
She paused at the large wooden doors and took a breath, then pushed them open.
Pre-Calamity
Early Morning
Olivie scrunched her face up and stared at the infant, swaddled as he was against his mother's bosom. She dropped back to her feet and huffed.
"Well, I suppose he's all right. What's his name?"
"Martiallais," her mother replied warmly.
"Oh. That's a big name for a little person."
"He won't always be little."
She chewed on the end of her braid, and patiently her mother reached over to extract the plait from her daughter's teeth. The room was open and airy, sunlight just peeking over the rooftops of the city. Hours of arduous labor had lead to a perfect baby boy. Whatever that meant. As far as Olivie was concerned, he had pointed ears and big bright eyes.
"Mama?" she asked after a prolonged silence.
"Yes, little bird?"
"Do you think Mar-Mar will be my best friend? Alfonse told me he didn't want to be my best friend, he said I was being silly." Her expression was crestfallen, blue eyes trained on her feet.
Her mother laughed softly and stroked her hair. "Let him grow up a little bit, and then we'll see, all right?"
"Yes, mama."
---
"-- and this is an orange!" She produced the fruit happily, setting it in front of her brother. The toddler looked skeptical, eyes darting between it and his sister.
"Here, let me show you." Olivie scooted over and picked up the fruit. "You have to peel the skin off first, then you can eat it. It's always a pain to start, but once you get going peeling it is easy."
The girl took her time, tongue between her teeth as she painstakingly attacked the rind. Her brother giggled and propped his hands on her knee, watching with great interest. "And they good?" he asked.
"Very good."
"Very?"
"A whole lot." She gestured, making a big space between her hands. The boy nodded his understanding and went back to watching her peel. Soon the fruit was devoid of rind, and Olivie took her time breaking it into segments. She handed the first one to the boy.
"Try it," she encouraged.
The boy put the piece of fruit in his mouth and chewed, a thoughtful expression on his small face. Olivie helped herself to a segment and watched, smiling. Martiallais swallowed, then laughed and clapped his hands.
"Very! More?"
---
"You need to keep your arms up, like Master Devonne said."
"I'm tired."
"I know, but you have to fight tired. Monsters don't care if you're tired or not."
"You're mean," the boy pouted.
Olivie leaned in, stealing a glance at her older brother, who was deep in conversation with the weaponsmaster. "No, Alfy's mean. I want you to be a great warrior!"
Martiallais smothered a laugh, then straightened his face and dutifully lifted his wooden shield and sword. The girl circled him, correcting his stance with minor adjustments.
---
"-- if it's so important, you marry the duke's son!"
"Don't be so petulant. I have to inherit father's estate. You need to marry well."
"I don't want to get married! I want to be a dragoon, an adventurer! I want to see the world, not -- not get chained down to some ugly man."
"I don't see what his appearance matters."
"Ugh!" Olivie threw her hands up, turning to pick up her spear.
"Where are you going?" Alfonse demanded. "He's downstairs right now."
"Then he can stay there!" She huffed, turning about to brush past her brother. He caught her by the arm and looked down at her. She in turn scowled up at him.
"It's your duty, Olivie."
"To Halone with my 'duty'!" She jerked her arm free and stormed past him.
---
She was pale-faced and shaking, tears threatening but never spilling.Â
"You should've accepted his offer," Alfonse had said coldly. Martiallais had raised his voice to protest, but a gesture from their father silenced him.Â
The Lord Antonlioux had taken his last slight from the girl; his offer was sound. No reasonable woman would continuously spurn him. She had to be a witch. He had the influence and position to level those charges, and not have them be countermanded. Her father's hands were tied, just as hers were.
Lead between two knights, they marched silently along the path to Witchdrop, where her ultimate fate would be decided. It didn't matter what she said, the nobleman had a counter to everything she came up with. His will would not be denied, and her pride would not allow her to cave to his wishes. She would be no man's wife, no trophy to be dressed up and displayed and never taken seriously.
Why had Mar come along? Why did he have to see her brought so low? She wanted to tell him to leave, to go and not look back, but every time she'd opened her mouth to speak she'd been reprimanded. The second time she'd tried, the knight to her left had struck her, his gauntlet opening a gash across her face. She felt so humiliated and powerless, it made her sick to her stomach.Â
Olivie may as well accept her fate. She would fall, broken at the bottom of the precipice, left for the scavengers. Just another heretic caught in Ishgard's justice. She wouldn't see what Mar would become, the great warrior he was meant to be. Only he look distraught -- their father had been resigned, Alfonse accepting. Her baby brother.
The tears spilled down, trailing down her face to mix with the blood seeping from the wound on her face. She wanted to turn and tell him how much she cared, for him not to miss her when she was gone. She was willing to risk being struck again if it meant she could have last words with her brother.
"Mar --"
The knight opened his mouth to yell at her again, but only made a startled, choked noise as an arrow whistled into his eye. There was a moment's pause within the group, a sense of disbelief, before hell broke loose.
The mercenaries fell upon them, the element of surprise in their favor. The fight was messy, sword striking shield, lances drawing blood. Olivie dropped to the ground and scrambled out of the way, narrowly avoiding armored boots.Â
The mercenaries were losing their advantage, and Olivie saw her chance. She bashed her bound fists into the knee of one of her captors, who went down with a yell. She sprung to her feet, frantically looking for her brother. He was engaged with one of the mercenaries, obviously out-classing the ruffian. He would be fine, he was more than a match for these people.
"Martiallais!" she called. He dispatched his foe and spun to look at her.
"Live!" She shouted, voice cracking, before she turned and ran. Her only option was to run; after the mercenaries were handled, they would just continue to the drop. She could never return home; by now her fate had made the rounds. No one would harbor her. There was nothing left for her in Ishgard
So she ran, stumbling, eyes blinded by tears, as she left the fight -- and the last person she loved -- behind.
---
Present Day --
Mikalaos stared at Papataru's handwriting for what seemed like the hundredth time. Wyrnzoen at the marauder's guild was expecting her, and she felt some trepidation. It didn't take her by surprise, not a bit, but it was change. She'd gotten used to her regime, her life as a smith. She liked her life as it was.
But Papataru and H'naanza had taken her aside the day before and spoke plainly. Her work was suffering. Her attention often drifted. "You have lost your spark," H'naanza had said.
"You were meant for more than this," Papataru continued. "We're happy with our lot in life, but you -- you're meant to do more. Greater things than hammering metal all day. We don't want you to stifle yourself just for the sake of complacency. You need to take risks. You need to find your destiny."
They weren't wrong, per se, but Mikalaos was cautious. They assured her that she wasn't being thrown out, and if it didn't work out she was very welcome to return. "Think it over," the lalafell urged.
Mika had slept on it -- not really, she'd been tossing and turning all night. Hadn't that been her drive, to find glory? To make her name, to carve out her niche in history? How long would she let the specter of Alfonse's hatred keep her from reaching her true potential?
The elezen sighed and stuffed the parchment into her pocket, taking purposeful strides forward. She had to try. She owed it that much to Olivie Heuloix, to see the dream realized, to find where she truly belonged.
It wasn't a name she thought about much anymore; she'd stopped thinking of herself as Olivie years ago. As far as anyone was concerned, she was a nobody who happened to like manual labor. She was kind, loyal and hard-working. That should have been enough, but deep in her heart she wanted more. She wanted to live that girlhood dream, to be great.
She paused at the large wooden doors and took a breath, then pushed them open.
Olivie Heuloix - The Rusted Blade
Julianya Devon - The Hospitaller KnightÂ
Balmung
