Honor

by Howard Chang

Alias: Brawler Zell Dincht

The way I saw it, I just didn't understand.

I had just watched Cardinal Draclau turn into one of the most horrific beings I'd ever seen, and the five of us – you, me, Natalie, Lydia, and Dashiell – we took him down. But it wasn't any cakewalk; it's not a nice feeling, watching your friends get pummeled. I remember seeing Nat's bow fall to the ground as she collapsed from the pain. Our entire campaign, I'd never heard Dashiell yell out like that: it was mangled, it was tortured; it wrenched my very soul.

Yet there we were. Two knights, with sword and shield ready. Lydia was struggling, but there was a choice we had to make. I turned my head, looking at you. Returning my glance, ever confident, you gave me an affirming nod. Turning our attention forward, with nothing but the goal in mind, we rushed the stairs and charged the Tainted King, Queklain, the man we once honored as Cardinal Draclau. We split up – I went one way, and you went the other. Being the weaker one of the two of us, Queklain turned to face me first, hoping to get rid of me. His eyes pierced my very being; I could feel my boots growing heavier as I trudged through this imaginary mud, growing tired and drowsy.

Yet I was all the distraction you needed.

I suppose Queklain never expected that you would get there so quickly. My eyes were open long enough to watch you thrust your blade into the foul creature's back, and as I fell to the ground, drifting off into a slumber because of Queklain's attack, I could hear him scream.

But what happened next – that, my friend, is what I wish I could change.

I left. I walked out.

After we had all come about our senses, you had a brief talk with us.

"We've just gone against the Church," you told us. No need to state the obvious, I thought.

"I don't know how they'll react, or what will happen to us." You continued. Brand us as heretics, no doubt.

Then you paused, and closed your eyes. It was uncharacteristic of you, and immediately I knew something was amiss.

"We lost Lydia…" you told us.

Later that night, while everyone was asleep outside the walls of Lionel Castle, I laid awake. As I sat on the fresh night grass, with my back against the wall, thoughts raced through my head. I was angry; angry at how you could just let Lydia die like that, after all she'd done for you. You treated her like just another war casualty; when in reality, she had grown during her stay in our troop. You knew it, I knew it, and Nat and Dash both knew it. We all grew. We had grown braver, stronger, and more clear-headed. I regretted not taking the time to toss a potion over to Lydia, but in the heat of battle I blindly followed your orders. Like some kind of dog.

Our families aren't so different, yours and mine. I come from noble blood, too. I didn't want my bloodline to be tainted because I had gone against the Church. I guess our ideas of "honor" are different. I had to protect the honor of my family name, too.

I decided, right there and then, that night, that I wouldn't have it. I wouldn't be used, or branded a heretic. I wouldn't be just another number.

So I quietly packed my things, got up, and left.

I re-enlisted in the Hokuten ranks, under Lord Larg and Dycedarg. After several battles against the Nanten, they recognized my potential and I was promoted. For once, I had my own troop. For once, I had control. I felt alive; like I meant something. When I led my battalion on the field I felt proud about what I was doing, the cause I was fighting for.

…Until that day at Bethla Garrison.

When we awoke in the barracks at Bethla that morning, nobody was feeling well.

In the mess hall, there was some idle chatter as we all tried to eat up to feed our sicknesses.

"…Seems like it's been going around…"

"…Lot of people… coincidence?"

Nobody was in good fighting condition that day. Biggs, one of the best knights in my troop, happened to be taking it the hardest. He approached me just before the Nanten charged on the Garrison.

"Sergeant?" he addressed me, "Sarge, I can barely stand with my armor on. What's going on, Sarge?"

I shook my head, placing a hand on his shoulder and looking him in the eye. "I don't know, kid. But listen; we can't let Goltana's troops and the Nanten take over this fort. I need you to perform at your very best. That's all I can ask from you. If you give it your all, nobody – especially not me – is going to tell you that you messed up."

His eyes showed some signs of renewed vigor. He was almost the same Biggs I knew, but behind those eyes he was still obviously weakened.

Then the Nanten attacked.

They came out of nowhere, it seemed, rushing Bethla Garrison with all their might. It was then that I knew something was wrong. If we had been hit with a cold strain or a virus that had been going around, the Nanten should have been feeling it too.

Before I had much time to dwell on it, though, the Nanten ripped right through us.

I was fighting alongside Dycedarg's troop. We had difficulties holding them off, and I felt like every step, every action, every movement I made brought me closer to a bodily shutdown. The wet morning grass was slippery beneath my boots. My breath came heavily, trying desperately to breathe more oxygen into my lungs to fuel my body.

What I didn't know was that I was breathing in more poison.

Eventually my body just closed up. I tried to lift my sword, but my arms locked. I collapsed, right in the middle of the battlefield.

"Hey, get a grip!" The sound stirred me. Something else happened, but my memory is fuzzy.

"Brother!" That voice. Zalbag?

I regained consciousness as my eyes slowly fluttered open, but still couldn't move. Perhaps that was for the best, as I had no idea what was about to occur.

Dycedarg and Zalbag had gone to Lord Larg's aid, not far away. I could hear them.

"I'll feel better in a while," Larg told them.

Immediately Dycedarg's tone changed. "That's a problem."

I felt a sinking feeling in my chest. At that moment I wanted to leap to my feet, scream, or do something – anything – that might distract Dycedarg's attention. But it was too late. I heard the thud as Dycedarg's dagger penetrated Larg's chest. The sound was unmistakeable. A soldier never forgets that sound.

Larg spilled it. Not just blood, but he revealed Dycedarg's secret. Dycedarg was plotting to overtake the throne. He even killed his own father.

My blood boiled. Ever since then, I've regretted leaving your party. If I had known I was fighting for a corrupt cause, under a leader who was more crooked than a Cleric Staff, I would have never left. I wished constantly since that moment that I hadn't just left without prior warning while we were at Lionel Castle.

I wanted to betray Dycedarg, but the opportunity never arose. Eventually I became a Lieutenant, hoping to gain enough of Dycedarg's trust that I might catch him off guard. We traveled to Igros, where we were stationed for a while, and saw little action.

One morning, several soldiers awoke to some racket coming from elsewhere in the castle. Biggs, myself, and a few others went to investigate. There I saw my golden opportunity. Zalbag was facing off against Dycedarg. Zalbag had finally discovered the truth.

"Zalbag's insane!!" Dycedarg told us. But I knew the truth. I had already devised my plan: I was going to make it look like I was on Dycedarg's side, and then run my blade through his back. Then I'd be able to serve under Zalbag, a leader I at least trusted. But footsteps came crashing in, and I saw you. There you were, along with Natalie, Dashiell, and two others I didn't recognize. Natalie looked the same. She had her hair down, still holding her classic bow. Dashiell, though, looked a little different. He was dressed in dark clothes, with a garb over his face. I'd never seen a ninja before then… but I'd never see another one again.

I froze. On the one hand, I could try to kill Dycedarg myself. On the other, I'd have your party and be back in a place I belonged. I thought perhaps I wouldn't be able to manage killing Dycedarg alone. I stood there, unmoving, watching as the battle ensued. Dashiell had improved quite a bit. He was tearing up the battlefield, hurling objects at his foes – swords, spears – objects a lesser man would believe too heavy to be thrown.

I made up my mind. I rushed towards you and your allies, knowing that you would recognize me and willingly welcome me back into your party.

But you didn't.

One of your allies – one of the ones I didn't recognize, and who therefore probably didn't recognize me – lifted his gun with both hands, and closed one eye. I still remember that feeling of desperation as it struck the right side of my chest. I continued to run towards you, arm outstretched, hand wide open and palm facing out. I mouthed your name, Ramza. But it was too late. Believing that you were in danger, Dashiell had stepped in front of you and delivered two swift, steel punches. They crushed my ribcage and I staggered back, dazed and confused. I made eye contact with you, and right then you realized who I was. I could see it in your facial expression. Surprised, and scared. Scared for my well-being. You turned around to tell the others, but by the time you could get a word out, one of Nat's arrows struck me through the neck, piercing out the other side.

Without another word, I fell.

You whirled around, horrified. "Kalen!" You shouted.

But it's too late, Ramza. I'm long gone. Just another number. But I never got to tell you that I'm sorry. Sorry for leaving without a word, sorry for betraying you, when I knew that you wouldn't have betrayed me. If I had stuck with you, with the right cause, maybe I wouldn't be just a number. I might have become a hero, but I was so blind, Ramza. Like a dog. I'm no better now than I was when I left. But at least now I know the truth. Dycedarg is a wicked man, Ramza, and I know that you won't stand for that. Maybe our ideas of honor aren't as different as I thought.

Whatever happens, Ramza Beoulve, please don't think less of me.