Chapter Text
This was the first story she remembered being told. It was the same story that her father remembered being told, and his father before him.
When the god Galdera turned against the others and strove to take all the power of the heavens for himself, Aelfric lead the remaining gods against him. The war against Galdera embroiled the land of Feiren where his worship had once been the strongest, but his cruelty lead the kingdom to turn against him. Even one who bore his blood, Odin Crossford, abandoned Galdera and sought tutelage under the archmagus god, Dreisang.
The war waged for many years, but united, the twelve gods overwhelmed Galdera. Aelfric tore an opening between the realm of the mortals and the realm of the gods and cast Galdera within. Aelfric's flames bound Galdera, and Odin Crossford used the powers contained within four stones to seal away the realm.
The stones were the keys to Galdera's prison, and what they locked they could unlock as well. Yet the same power contained within them that allowed them to seal a god also prevented any god from destroying it.
The jail door would forever remain in the land where Aelfric had first created the tear between realms, and the keys to opening them could never be destroyed.
The second prince of Feiren, Beowulf, was given the unenviable task of guarding it all.
He founded the kingdom of Hornburg on the lands, and prayed that Galdera would remain safely sealed even after the departure of the gods.
But the war had cost the people too much. Some perished in the battle against Galdera, others in the famines born by the bloodied fields that refused to nurture crops, or the plagues brought by the diseased rats that grew fat off the corpses.
The boundaries between the world of the living and the world of the dead grew thin as numerous souls made their journey to the other side.
From the land in between, Galdera cast out his voice. He beckoned from his prison, whispering into the ear of the mourners, all too willing to listen. They are right here, with me , he would say. Open the gate, and let them through. Let them go home.
The gods did what they could with their remaining time in the realm.
Aelfric spread his flames to warm the hearts of men and quiet Galdera's voice. Dohter healed those around her. Sealticge danced and brought a moment's joy.
But for beings who did not know death, there was little they could do to stop the tide of death and the ensuing despair from the swallowing the fragile creatures who knew it intimately.
And so Galdera's whisperings grew louder.
They gnawed at King Beowulf night and day. Some nights, when silence fell in his castle, he could hear the voices of his wife and firstborn intertwined with Galdera's.
The four stones. Keys to the gate that with each passing day, he desired more and more to throw open.
At last, when he could hardly bear it any longer, he called his knights before him.
The stones could not remain in Hornburg. They had to be taken far, far away, until even Galdera's voice died in the wind.
The knights leapt at the chance of guarding the treasures, each claiming their strength could overcome any foe who tried to wrest the stones from them. But in their eyes, King Beowulf saw the same desperate desire that he knew was in his own. His gaze fell away from the knights that squabbled for his attention.
A single knight stood rigidly at the wall, eyes determinedly averted from the commotion. A thin reed of a man, young and hardly grown into the old armor that he wore. A knight from a small household, whose family name Beowulf could not recall.
Beowulf called out to him. "What say you?"
The knights before Beowulf stilled, and the lone knight grew stiller yet. Beowulf waited for an answer.
The silence grew and settled like dust. Finally, the lone knight spoke. "I can hardly help the living and barely keep back the dead. I lack the strength to guard the stones."
"Oh?" Beowulf narrowed his eyes. The other knights' eyes shined bright with desire for control of the stones, but the lone knight's lacked any luster. "Rather than lacking in strength, it seems that you fear them."
The lone knight swallowed. "I do. Forgive my cowardice."
" I do not lack in bravery!" someone cried, and the squabbling began anew.
Beowulf had already made his decision.
That night, Beowulf approached the man to force upon him the very task that he had dreaded. Again, the man refused. He wasn't capable enough. He lacked the power in both ability and influence. He lacked the will to keep Galdera's whisperings from his head--
"There is no one who can ignore Galdera's voice, but there are few who still have the will to fear it," said Beowulf. The man stilled. "The power that you speak of can be given to you easily enough. The wisdom of how to use it does not come so naturally." Beowulf bowed low. "Please, you are the only one I can ask."
The man was silent for a long time after that, but at last, he gave his word that he would do as Beowulf requested.
The man was to leave Hornburg in secret and take the stones with him to a faraway land. Not even his family was to know of his departure, and not even he knew of his destination. Best to have no plans, Beowulf had said, and simply let fate take him where it may.
On the evening of his departure, he had slipped away and expected no one to see him off. To his surprise, twelve figures waited with Beowulf by the roadside.
The gods. The man flung himself to the ground, scarcely daring to gaze upon them. One of the goddesses scoffed. This was the one who was to be guardian of the seals after their departure?
The man could say nothing. He felt even less assured than the gods.
The same goddess laughed at his silence and hauled the man back to his feet. "If you're lacking, then I suppose we'll have to make up for it," the goddess said. "To you I grant this boon: whatever war may cross the path of your household, one who bears your blood will always survive."
One by one, the gods granted their boons. Aeber swore that no thief who stole in his name would ever be able to steal the stones. Bifelgan blessed the man with good fortune and for wealth to find its way to his household. Dohter promised that even the worst of plagues would spare at least one child.
The man stared, awe forcing his silence. He was working up a will to thank the gods when Aelfric approached. The lightbringer. The leader of the gods. The man had the urge to bow low yet again, but Aelfric spoke first.
"I'm sorry," Aelfric said. The man jolted, a stutter of no need falling from his lips. The gods had already given him so many blessings, there was nothing else that he could ask for--
"No. Truly, I am," continued the god. "Hundreds, thousands of years from now, perhaps even we will be forgotten and the strength of ours gifts as weak as the memories of our existence. Yet even then, this duty will be bound to your bloodline. Whatever gifts we may give you, there will come a day when this seems more a curse than a blessing. In those times, keep faith and I promise you this: there will always be someone who will extend you a hand in your time of need."
The last gift came from Beowulf: a name. One that suited the duty that he was to carry out. Caught somewhere between the light of this world and the darkness that laid beyond the gate. Ravus.
And so the first of the Ravus family left Hornburg.
Time passed and history drifted to myth. Fact became embellished by the bards who sang their tales. The mythical stones became the dragonstones, the prison the fabled Gate of Finis, and King Beowulf more legend than man.
And whispered among the Ravus family halls was their own place in the legends.
Sometimes Cordelia wondered who the first Ravus had been, before he had been chosen. Was his family still in Hornburg? Had that branch survived through the years? If Beowulf had chosen otherwise, what would she be called then?
But in the end, whoever the man was, it was not a detail that would be remembered.
Galdera. The Gate of Finis. The dragonstones. Whoever he was , he had no part to play in that story; only a Ravus did. Only that name mattered. All other details would be scrubbed away.
Just as her father was. After a mere 10 years, the details of the previous Ravus were already growing fuzzy. Cordelia could no longer be certain of the timber of his voice, of whether or not the paintings had captured him accurately. She couldn't recall more than snatches of disjointed moments, all covered in a hazy quality that made her unsure if she had half dreamt them.
All she could remember with clarity were the stories he told her. The myths. The stuff of legends. They told her who she was. Not Cordelia, but a Ravus.
And house Ravus only existed for one reason.