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And So It Goes	By : Rezalda Category: +S through Z > Valkyrie Profile Views: 1320 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Valkyrie Profile series. I am not making any money from this story.

Chapter List
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I like to go through books and magazines and take the first sentence from the page which corresponds with my age. If it meets certain criteria, I must build an entire story or post that includes that sentence. Of course, I will give credit.
The sentence in this story can be found in “Farlander" by Col Buchanan, page 25
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"...Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. There you go." Fauxnel placed the bag of silver coins into his subordinate's hand. "I know you've been working extra hard lately. Buy your sweetheart something nice, or take her out to a fine dinner. I know times are hard, but keep it up. I appreciate your help more than you know."
His subordinate, James, bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lord. You are most generous." He turned stiffly on his heel and left the room.
Fauxnel sighed as he stared out the window. Almost a year had passed since Valmur's death, and the constant fear that he, the murderer, would be discovered was beginning to fade. The sickening weight of guilt in his conscience, however, would always remain, no matter how much time passed.
He had attended Valmur's funeral, as their friendship was well known and to not show up would have been suspicious. It had been difficult to speak with the family of the deceased, especially Phiona, who had once been so hardy and eager to fight. He had admired her courage and pride which contrasted with Valmur's cowardly idealism. Now, the life was gone from her eyes and her appearance was demure and compliant. He did not know if she had lost the desire to fight with the deaths of both her brothers, or if simply abstained so as to not add to their sorrow with the possibility of her own death. She had thanked him for coming and told him that Valmur had cherished their friendship and would appreciate Fauxnel's attendance. He had felt a sudden chill at those words and wondered if Valmur had known, at the very end, who was responsible for his death.
After that day, the thought of praticing sorcery made him sick. After settling a few minor bureaucratic matters, he planned to renounce his title of archimagus and seek other means of redemption for his house. At the same time, he had one more objective: to atone for his past sins. He had known the day would come when he rued his actions, but he had continued to get his hands dirty until it ultimately cost him his dearest--his only--friend.
Now that he looked back on his actions, he realized that Valmur had been a constant reminder of the blood on his hands. He had avoided him, afraid to look into the eyes of the man whose brother he had killed. It pained him that Valmur never acted suspicious, never bothering to question the sudden attacks on his house. Fauxnel had come close to shaking him, screaming at his naivete, confessing his own guilt like the man driven mad by the telltale heart.
After the country stepped back from the brink of civil war, Fauxnel had forced himself to come be honest about who he was: a self-serving, cowardly sycophant, a liar and a murderer, a turncoat and a fair-weather friend. Hadn't he only pursued a friendship with Valmur because he thought it would be lucrative? No, it was worse than that. Even as the two of them grew closer, even as he began to truly like Valmur, in the back of his mind, he wanted revenge for the humiliation his family had faced, for the loss of his house's noble standing, for the suffering his father and mother and their vassals had gone through for a crime they had not even committed. Wasn't his desire for redemption just a front for his primal, bestial need to wrong those who had wronged him?
The hardest truth to face was that he had not felt relief after Valmur's death. Rather, he had found relief after he ordered him killed, after the mercenaries left his sight. Now the wheels were in motion, and now matter how much he regretted his decision, he could not reverse the course of time. It was out of his hands.
He felt the ground sway beneath his feet, and he placed one hand against the wall, bracing himself to fight the nausea that came to him when he remembered that hateful feeling. Valmur had been smart and kind, and would have done far more good than was possible for a man such as Fauxnel.
In an effort to keep his mind off the unbearable guilt and self-loathing that now filled his days, Fauxnel had recently begun to practice with a sword. He was getting quite good at it, and he liked how he looked with a sword at his hip. He had successfully fought off a pack of dire wolves last week and had managed to defend himself against a drunkard looking for a fight the other night. For the most part, however, more people avoided him than they had when he carried no weapon. That suited Fauxnel just fine.
In the end, the two princes had not gone to war against each other; however, the country was still arife with political problems, and the death of Prince Langrey had hardly solved any of them. Rather, the newly-crowned King Kristoff and his council now had the difficult task of not only rebuilding the country, but figuring out which of the late prince's followers were truly loyal to His Majesty. The king had made few appearances since his coronation. The time of mourning had long since passed, especially since Langrey was officially a traitor, but Fauxnel that the compassionate Kristoff had loved and looked up to his half-brother.
Fauxnel thought he understood where Langrey had come from. Although most were afraid to say it, everyone thought Kristoff naive and susceptible to manipulation. There was no doubt in Fauxnel's mind that Kristoff's decision to take up arms against his brother had not been his decision, but that of his council. An idealist could never lead a country. That was the cruel reality of Kristoff's position. Langrey, on the other hand, was always said to be one step ahead of his enemies, clever, and prepared to do what was just instead of what was easy. He had been prepared to stand against the military might of Villnore and Crell Monferaigne. Now, even if there was no civil war, both countries would most likely be eyeing Artolia very carefully, waiting to strike at the first sign of weakness.
However, Fauxnel was not the ruler of a nation. He was a mere courtier, and not for much longer. He was still unsure how he was going to help restore Artolia, but he knew he must do so through peaceful means. It was too easy to justify bloodshed "for the greater good." Some, such as Lockswell, might be able to take the lives of others without growing corrupt, but Fauxnel knew he was far too weak and easily swayed by the promise of power and fortune. No, he would fight only to directly defend himself or the innocent, and kill only as a last resort.
Lost in his thoughts as he neared his home, Fauxnel did not see the lightning bolt fired in his direction until it was too late. It knocked him off his feet, sending him flying back several yards until he hit a brick wall. He groaned in pain, wincing as he reached for the hilt of his sword. Gripping it tightly in his hand, he felt as though it had grown heavier since he used it last. He looked in the direction from which the attack had come.
"Hark! Lightning that rides within the ashen depths, descend now as a storm upon my foes! Gravity Blessing!"
Fauxnel rushed toward his attacker, but again, he was too slow. The great magic spell hit him with a stronger force than he had ever felt before, paralyzing him in an instant of blinding agony, drawing screams that sounded foreign to him, like the howling a banshee might make.
"Forgive me," a voice came from above him. He struggled to his feet, reaching once more for his sword. But, no, he no longer held his sword. It was lying far out of reach, useless to him now. He was now helpless, for he was hardly in any shape to cast even a defensive or healing spell.
"James?" Fauxnel's eyes widened. "Why?"
"You must understand, Lord Fauxnel," his subordinate said. "Your crimes were about to catch up with you. Your arrest was imminent. They came to me first, saying that if I hunted you down, I would have immunity. Dead or alive, they said. I'm actually doing you a favor. How do you think you would fare during the trial? Would you have wanted to hear how much you were despised?"
Fauxnel's limbs trembled from the effort of standing. Not like this, he thought. I haven't had any time to atone. And my family's retainers were relying on me. What will become of them now? But he could say nothing, in scorn or supplication. When he tried to speak, a croak made its way out of his mouth, and he fell to his knees again.
"Goodbye, Master Fauxnel. I do hope you don't take this too personally."
With another lightning bolt, it was over.
***
The first thing Fauxnel saw was himself lying prone on the ground, smoke rising from his body, and James walking away as casually as though he were on a trip to market. Either he was confident that the identity of the murder would not be discovered, or that no one would care enough to press charges.
It was very unsettling for Fauxnel to know that he was staring at his corpse. If his body was there, then what, exactly, was here? It seemed he had a new body, not simply a soul as he had expected. He could do more than see--he could hear, smell, and feel the air moving around him. What was this?
"It's called materialization," a calm, female voice said from above him. "The use of divine energy to create tangible matter."
Fauxnel looked up sharply, and saw floating above him the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her feminine perfection was almost frightening, and he knew she must be a goddess. Furthermore, judging from her feathered helmet...
"Valkyrie," he whispered, and began to tremble. "Where do you intend to take me?"
"I have come to make you an einherjar. I will train you until you are fit to enter Valhalla, where you will fight for Odin, Lord of the Gods."
"That can't be," Fauxnel insisted. "Only the righteous are chosen as einherjar, right? I am a murderer of the worst kind. I am a traitor. I killed one who trusted me. I have caused the deaths of many more. I deserve the harshest of divine punishment, whatever that may be." He did not know why he was petitioning for his own condemnation. Nothing good could come of it, and he was certain she already knew of all his crimes.
"It is true that you ordered the death of a man who had done you no wrong, and deserved to be punished for that sin," she acknowledged. "However, it is clear that you did attempt to make amends for your crime before your death, however fruitless those attempts were. In addition, I recognize your abilities on the battlefield."
"Is that what it comes down to?" Fauxnel asked incredulously. "Even an evil man can be saved if he agrees to fight for you?"
"In cases of truly exceptional power, Lord Odin will request the soul of a warrior who has committed many crimes. But you are not as unique as you assume. Many of my warriors have blood on their hands. Only a few could truly be called righteous."
"What will happen to me if I join you? Will I just keep fighting forever?"
"If you prove yourself on the battlefield, you will eventually be allowed to join the ranks of the divine as a minor god. If you die on the field, your soul will lapse and return to the cycle of rebirth. If you incur the wrath of Odin, you will be banished to Nifleheim as one of the undead."
Fauxnel frowned. "Will refusing your offer incur the wrath of Odin?"
"It depends on how much you are worth to him. He may hand you over to Hel, or he might order that I impress you into service."
"You mean force me to fight for you."
Instead of answering, the Valkyrie's eyes went blank for a moment. Then, as they came back into focus, she said, "I accept your request." A white light shone all around her body, and a second form took shape next to her.
Fauxnel's mouth went dry as he recognized his former friend. The kindness that had always shone in Valmur's eyes was gone, leaving only flames of fury.
"How dare you consider refusing?" he shouted, the heat in his voice surprising Fauxnel. "You ruined so many lives, stabbed both Nicolas and me in the back, lied to and manipulated everyone around you, and you think you have any right to escape any hardship after death? You think you deserve the peace and oblivion of rebirth?"
"I...I didn't..." Fauxnel tried to defend himself, but found he had nothing to offer Valmur.
"I trusted you! I loved you! You were like another brother to me!" Valmur's voice shook, his face softened, and for a moment, Fauxnel thought he would cry. But he shook it off, and gazed at Fauxnel with anger once more. "In truth, you deserve a much harsher fate than to be chosen as an einherjar. But I won't say you deserve eternal torment in Nifleheim. I actually care about the suffering of others. I'm not like you!"
"Brother, that's enough." Nicolas appeared next to Valmur, placing a hand on his shoulder. Then he turned to Fauxnel and glared. "Did you expect anything different? I don't care if you're sorry. You had plenty of chances to redeem yourself, but instead you waited until you were found out. I'll have you know that none of Lady Valkyrie's einherjar think too highly of you. But this is just about the kindest fate she can offer you. Serve your penance, and thank the gods you're going unpunished."
"You...You..." Valmur began again, but Nicolas shook his head.
"Brother, he's not worth your hatred," he said. "Don't let him get to you like this."
"That's enough, both of you," the Valkyrie said solemnly. Both souls disappeared, and she looked back at Fauxnel.
"You see how it is, Fauxnel. I will not force you to come with me, but your soul is far from healed. If you were to be reborn now, there is no telling what kinds of feelings would carry over into your next life. You would have an inclination towards darkness, but without a memory of your sins to remind you of the consequences, you would most likely become a liar and murderer once again."
"And...It is the right thing to do, I suppose," Fauxnel admitted. "Like Lord Valmur said...I don't deserve an easy passage into my next life." He shuddered. "Has he been that angry this entire time?"
The Valkyrie nodded. "His soul carries a burden of anger and hurt at your betrayal. He, too, must work through those feelings before he is ready to enter Valhalla."
"...I see." Fauxnel looked at his corpse again. "I have done more damage to others than I realized. I will come with you."
There was a warm sensation which ran throughout his body, starting in his heart and spreading out to to his fingers and toes and the top of his head and the soles of his feet. The world around him faded, and he entered in a state he could only describe later as a deep sleep.
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And So It Goes