Digimon [Digimon Tamers Fantasy AU] Of Gods and Men

Ryuugi

Well-Known Member
#1
Whelp, it was that time of year again and I entered into DLPs annual Secret Santa Writers, cause Jon's my friend, even if was really wary about starting another story right now. Still, it doesn't seem right to tell someone to fuck off on Christmas or to withhold generosity, so in the name of the Holidays, here's yet another story.

A few people might recognize this old idea from the Digimon Idea thread of Spacebattles. Kinda wanted to write the Nanoha cross, to be honest, but Santa gives what the kiddies ask for. Not gonna lie, though--I'm right near the climaxes of several stories and I want to get further with them before focusing on yet another fic (and school starts again in two weeks besides), so after a longish first chapter/prologue this will be going on hiatus for an unknown period of time until I have time enough to focus on it.

But for now, Merry Christmas, Mishie.



Of Gods and Men



Drip. Drip. Drip.



He heard the droplets fall in an uneven rhythm, but could not even open his eyes any more. The sword, the same blade that had decided his fate so long ago, lay buried in his chest and in the tree behind him. He hung on it, no longer able to stand, feeling the edge of the blade being pressed hard against his ribs by his own weight. His blade should have cleaved him in half with its impossible sharpness, but for some reason merely pressed against the bone uncomfortably. Was it the bladeÆs loyalty that kept him alive then?



Or was it the magic of the tree?



His body shuddered, wracked with sudden pain as something moved inside his body, extending from the wound on his back to the tips of his fingers and toes. It wasnÆt physical, but it was real and it twisted through veins and around his bones and even up into his head. He could feel them in his eyes, where theyÆd crawled through the blood vessels and around the nerves, but it was his brain they were truly after, and he could feel them digging into his mind like roots.



Perhaps that was what they were. Roots of the tree Barnstokkrùof fallen Yggdrasil. He could have laughed at the image, but opening his mouth was too much of an effort. He had not eaten in eight days and it had been just as long since heÆd had water. He was too weak to even breathe on his own anymore. It was those roots that curled around his heart and kept it beating. That curled around his ribs and lungs and made him breath. This tree that should have been dead was all that was keeping him alive and he wondered for a moment why.



He thought he knew, but just remembering was hard, now. HeÆd been fading in and out of consciousness since heÆd been impaled upon this tree and what little time he had to think between the fever dreams and nightmares was spent too exhausted to contemplate whatever random thought seemed to want to walk through his brain. But he tried anyway, because he wanted to knowùwhy was he here? Why was he in so much pain? Why was he still alive?



But instead, he felt himself falling, back down into the dreams and nightmares, and all he could think of was the Blade through his chest.



Its name was important for some reason, and that, at least, he could remember. Its name wasù



XxXXxX



ôùGram?ö He asked his father, finding this topic far more interesting than the bread dough he was absently kneading. ôIsnÆt it cursed?ö



ôAye, or so legend has it,ö His father nodded. ôBut the Oracle said that without, we would never be able to defeat the North, so the King has commanded it be drawn.ö



The man lowered his voice, like he did whenever he told a story to his son, and the boy looked at him with unabashed interest.



ôItÆs said that every knight in the KingÆs Court tried and failed to draw it from Barnstokkr,ö He said. ôSo the king commanded that every man, woman, and child attempt to draw it tomorrow, and that whomever succeeded would be knighted on the spot.ö



ôAnd if the stories are true, no title is worth having to draw that blade.ö His mother cut in glaring at her husband. ôAnd whoever draws it will be drafted into the war, whether they want to be or not. A cursed blade and a life of danger is all theyÆll really get. DonÆt go putting bad ideas in his head, Takehiro.ö



His father just smiled, winking down on the boy.



ôIf no oneÆs draw it, how do we know itÆs cursed,ö The boy interrupted.



His fatherÆs smile widened and he turned his son around by his shoulders to face his mother before resting his elbows on his shoulders.



ôYeah, Mie,ö He said. ôHow do we know itÆs cursed if no oneÆs drawn it? ItÆs been there since before this city.ö



There was laughter in the fatherÆs voice, but the boy looked inquisitively up at his mother, as if expecting her to have all the answers. She just sighed, gently brushing her husbandÆs arms off the boy before reluctantly joining the story telling.



ôThe Second Codex says the sword belonged to one of the Thirteen Fallen,ö She said. ôItÆs a DemonÆs Blade. The tree itÆs planted in withered into a husk, the land around it sees no rain even though clouds constantly blot out the sun, and itÆs said the gods were the ones to bury it in the tree, that it would never trouble the world again. They made it so that none could draw it and unleash it upon the world, and thatÆs why itÆs buried in Barnstokkr to this day.ö



ôAw, you skipped all the good parts,ö Takehiro complained. ôThe Second Codex told the story way better.ö



ôHowÆd it tell it, Dad?ö



ôYou can read it yourself when youÆre older, Takato,ö Mie interrupted, glaring at her husband again. ôBut I donÆt know what the King in thinking, having that blade drawn. Forget the War, what will he do about the Gods? And to have everyone even after all the Knights failed?ö



ôObviously, the King sees the hidden greatness of the common people,ö Takehiro joked with a laugh. ôBut I wonder who will draw it? WeÆll have to try to, you know. You think you can draw it, Mie?ö



ôGods, no,ö She said. ôHopefully no one will draw it at all, but if someone does itÆll probably happen long before we ever have to touch itùand isnÆt that something to be thankful for?ö



ôAw, thatÆs not what OlÆ Steelbreaker Mie would have said. I bet that arm of yours could still knock that old tree right down!ö



ôI donÆt know about a tree, but it could sure knock you down again, Takehiro!ö She said, but they both grinned, as if remembering something.



ôBut if no one draws the blade,ö Takato began, thinking. ôWonÆt we lose the War? ThatÆs what the Oracle said, right? WonÆt that be bad?ö



Mie huffed.



ôYour mother here thinks sheÆs nothing but a fake,ö Takehiro said, seeming to find it amusing. But Takato had noticed long ago that his father seemed to find everything amusing.



ôYou donÆt believe in the OracleÆs mom?ö Takato asked, surprised.



ôOf course I do,ö Mie rolled her eyes. ôBefore your father and I moved to the South, we met with the priestesses at Mount Shourai several times and she saved the town we lived in from storms and war. But the KingÆs Oracle was kicked out of the Temple of the Seeing in the Westùshe hardly has a reputation that promotes confidence.ö



ôShe was kicked out for what she did with the ability, not the lack of it,ö Takehiro murmured as he leaned closer to his wife, though Takato heard the words regardless. ôAnd even if she has broken the SeerÆs Code, I think sheÆs proven her skill at the art. I think we should take this seriously, Mie.ö



Takato risked a glance up at his fatherÆs face and noticed that his smile seemed a bit strained and as he went back to kneading the dough, he couldnÆt help but think that they hadnÆt answered his question.



If no one drew the sword from the tree, what would happen?



XxXXxX
 

wingthesword

Well-Known Member
#2
First Reply.

In the original Gram shattered when facing Odin's blade.

Since he's facing the gods after the war how will that work out?
 

Ryuugi

Well-Known Member
#3
XxXXxX

He couldnÆt help but glance towards the tree whenever he had a chance. The gathered people had been arranged into a rough line that moved quickly. Most people pulled on the sword for a few seconds until were given the nod by one of the men the King had standing by the frontùand then they were pretty eager to let go of it and get out of the line.

He wasnÆt in the line yet. His father had received a pardon from the King to sell bread and water by the line after trying and failing to draw the sword early, and since the men went before woman and children, heÆd apparently managed to convince him to let his wife and son help. TheyÆd have to go first whenùif, he reminded himselfùthe woman and childrenÆs turns came. For now, though, they were allowed to help his father sell bread.

It was going well, really. TheyÆd long since sold all the bread theyÆd spent the last few days making and had had to start making more. There was a line waiting for them to finish with the next batch and heÆd been running back and forth fetching water pretty much constantly as his mother and father worked. Even if his arms hurt and it was tiring, they were doing great business, butà

He glanced at the sword again. It was almost noon and no one had even made the sword budge. No one seemed surprised that no one had been able to move the bladeùmaybe, in spite of the OracleÆs words, they didnÆt want anyone to draw the blade from its resting place.

He couldnÆt help but wonder at that, just a little. Even if he was a kid and had never been allowed a chance to read it, he knew that the CodexÆs words carried weight, but if there was really a chance that all of them could get hurt if Gram wasnÆt drawn.

And Codex or not, it certainly didnÆt look like a monsterÆs blade. In his mind, heÆd envisioned bloodstains and a dark glow and all sorts of stuff from the ghost stories his friends had told him at school, but it was nothing like that at all. The blade, even though it couldnÆt have been tended to in centuries, gleamed as in it were freshly polished, with not a stain or spot of rust to mar its surface. It had not particular decorations or embroideries, though given its age they might have simply wore away, but even without them it was beautiful in its simplicityùjust a blade, but a perfectly made and lovingly handled one.

Whatever had been said about it in the Codex must have been awful for people to fear it so, but maybe it was just because he was a child, butàhe couldnÆt see it. All it did to him when he saw it was cause him to get lost in his thoughts as he carried water back and forth, which seemed to make the tedious work go by fasterùwhich is why he did it whenever he got the chance. Lacking any real idea what the story in the Codex was, he made up his own; just one at first, but then a dozen, a score, a hundred different histories for the blade until he didnÆt even want to know the true story anymore, sure that theyÆd do nothing but disappoint compared to the dreams in his head.

Of course a god with a hammer that shook the earth with every thunderous blow had forged the blade, deep down below the surface where fire flowed through the veins of the world. It had been forged from a fallen star and cooled in a dragonÆs blood, spilt in that same forge by the hero for whom the blade was destined in order to prove his worth. HeÆd sought out the God and endured his trials without complaint, for he needed to blade to slay the King of Demons, whose forces had ravaged the land in the days before history, determined to free it from his graspùand sure enough, the blade had done so, striking fast and piercing the Demon KingÆs heart. But so foul was the demonÆs evil that its very blood had tainted both the blade and the hero, turning them into his own replacementsùbut as the Demon King had replaced his predecessor, in a cycle that had continued a thousand years. The blade was chained into the tree by the next hero, upon rising to be the new evil.

Or perhaps it had been for a woman, the kindest and most beautiful woman in the worldùso beautiful that the Goddess of Love and cursed her to die. The man she loved wouldnÆt stand for it though and had searched the length of the world for a way to save her, only to find that nothing forged by man could save the woman he loved or challenge the Gods and turned his gaze to the lands beneath, down amongst the devils and fallen gods. He made a bargain with a forger or horrors, betting himself against the monsterÆs finest bladeùthat he could undergo a month of his worst torments without giving in for the sake of the woman he loved. The monster had excepted and before the gathered hordes of hell and done his utmost to break the man, whittling and carving and tearing at him every day until there was nothing left, only to remake him in an instant with his infernal magic the next morning to start the process again. But the hero hadnÆt given in and had won the blade, returning to the mortal realm with it at his side and setting it at once against the Goddess whose jealousy stroke so harshly at his love, ascending to the gates of Heaven in his anger and carving a swath of bloodshed to her very doorstep before facing her to the death in battle. He won, taking the source of her power down to give it as a present to his loveùbut the punishment for slaying a Goddess was steep indeed. He was cast down into hell once more, his sword taken from his fingers by the GoddessÆs brother and chained to a tree, even as the woman herself rose to become the new Goddess. The reason none can remove the blade is because she refuses to allow anyone unworthy, man or god, to lay a hand on the blade of the man she loved.

Or maybe it was made by a mortal swordsmith, the finest one the world had ever known, whoÆd boasted that he could make a blade finer than any wielded before and had made good on his promise. Everyone, from the Gods of War to the Knights of ten thousand kingdoms, had come to him, each asking for the blade and promising him gold, riches, and a thousand other things to have it in their possession. WhoÆs offering struck his fancy, none can say, for outrage and fear had seen to it that all of the others had turned swiftly against him, and the resulting battle had stained the fields red with human blood and godly ichor. As punishment for being the cause of such a travesty, the smith was turned into a tree and the blade was buried forever within his bark.

Or possiblyà

ôTakato,ö His motherÆs voice startled him out of his thoughts. He blinked twice, suddenly realizing how long heÆd been lost in thought while carrying waterùthe men and women, it seemed, had finished. Which meantà

ôItÆs your turn,ö She said, the worry plain on her face, as if she was dreading what was too come.
 
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