My Love, Which Will Live Forever

by Writer Awakened

FE8. Love is a happy sort of madness. Sir Orson's tragic and disturbing tale, a story of letting go and coming back. Feedback is always greatly appreciated.

My Love, Which Will Live Forever…

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A chronicle of the duty, love, and eventual fall of Sir Orson of Renais.

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Ten Years Prior to Game's Beginning

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"Orson!"

Orson of Renais turned in the direction of the familiar voice and watched his bride-to-be rushing towards him in her modest white wedding gown, her feet bursting along the dark green grass. He stood under the shade of twin willow trees near a tranquil glade and an untouched, open spread of Renais country just west of the castle grounds. It was a fine day to hold a wedding ceremony outdoors; the skies hadn't looked as clear for at least a week, and though the rain of a day before seemed at best inauspicious, on their wedding day the sun shined brightly and with devotion. Orson straightened the collar of his formal brown attire, well aware that his charging bride would likely shift it out of place.

"Monica!" Orson swept her up in his arms as she ran over, and kissed her, smiling.

"You look daringly handsome today, Orson," Monica said, and she laughed. "I've never seen you looking quite so sharp before." Orson had always felt a little uncomfortable in fancy clothing, and his wedding day was no exception—he far preferred his armor and greaves to suits and dress shoes, though he had always received the impression that Monica generally preferred a third, more casual style of dress for him, something that sat comfortably in-between. Still, it was worth every second of discomfort if only to hear her compliments. It was worth well-earned.

"And you, Monica, you—you are so lovely," Orson replied, almost unable to speak, stroking her cheek with his hand, taking in her scent—the sweet scent that was indescribably her. She was beautiful. The way her long brown hair swayed every which way with the wind. The way her white and gold gown shaped her gorgeous body. The way she flowed like water, from the swift curve of her hips to the subtle sensuality of her legs drifting out from beneath her wedding garb. The way her eyes sparkled whenever she looked at him.

"Look," Monica said, pointing to a stone pedestal. Chairs carved of willowwood and oak were lined in rows. A large cherry tree bloomed near the pedestal, its leaves providing solace from the beating sun. Cherry petals floated down from every direction, blanketing the earth below in white and pink. Although cherry trees did not grow naturally in Renais, many had been planted in the nearby grove, the legacy of a gift given to them from an island nation as a gift of goodwill long ago. "That's where our ceremony will take place. I told the people preparing it to get it done right—they did better. Isn't it wonderful-looking?"

"Yes," Orson said. "Indeed, that is the place we will be wed. It will be perfect! I could not have asked for anything better. Monica, you will always be by my side. I love you. Love you! I will never abandon you. After today, we-"

"I know," Monica said. She looked up into his eyes. She was some years younger than he, but their minds were born on the same day in the same garden where all lovers dream, in a land where the natives had no word for goodbye. That was how, first and foremost, they saw themselves. "Always hiding a romantic side, a passionate side, that's what I love about you. I would not have expected that from such a dutiful knight," Monica said teasingly. She drew closer. "I love you, darling. We're going to have such a good time together. I promise."

Monica's breath was warm and sweet against his face. He could have stood there forever, just breathing, feeling her breath against his cheek, watching the dreamy, passionate look in her eyes, and there was nothing else, nothing else that mattered, nothing else that had ever mattered to him more than she did.

"Monica…" Orson said, and again threw his arms around her as they kissed again. People began to walk around the area, women talking, men laughing heartily, children scampering carefree. They didn't exist to him, not now. Orson's hands, which clamped Monica's arms firmly, began slipping down her body, down to her hips, his lips moving down to her neck—

"Orson, please," Monica said with a touch of embarrassment, and Orson stood up and looked at her with the eyes of a stray kit, and she had to stifle a playful laugh, knowing it was just like Orson, just what he should be, the honorable rogue with a sense of fun and little patience. She leaned over to Orson and whispered in his ear.

"Later," she breathed, and he shuddered with content. She giggled and kissed Orson on the cheek. Orson tried to look nonchalant shrugging the feelings away, but the fire had already begun to burn in his heart. His body was burning. He nipped gently at her face with his lips and she giggled.

"My mother and father always said you were a passionate young man. I guess they were right," Monica said, smirking, turning her face slightly as if to show her face in profile. She toyed with the collar of Orson's coat and teased him that he had never looked so good in his life and probably never would again, to which Orson agreed. He laughed.

"Ha ha...but I daresay I'm not a young man anymore. I'm already several years past thirty, and I joined the Knights of Renais at a relatively late age. Some boys nowadays are joining the knights' stable before they come of age."

"I wonder if I should anticipate turning thirty; it would be only a couple of years away now," Monica thought aloud.

"You should anticipate every night from now until forever," Orson said. He felt his heart beating faster. She smiled to match his. Orson knew that her heart was beating as fast as his.

"It is a shame your parents couldn't be here," Monica said off-handedly, and she immediately regretted saying anything. Orson smiled, but he turned his head away slightly, out towards where the green plains flowed like the waves off the Frelian coast, and where the green hills and valleys rolled along until they touched the mountains to the north. He didn't want to say anything, but it didn't really matter. Orson thought of himself as a man that never let anything in the past bother him, and every excursion into the past was like a walk through the devil's court.

"I wish you could have known them," Orson said at last, sighing away some thirty years of heavy memories. "My mother died of illness shortly after I came of age, and my father died some years ago in an...in an accident. He had his demons to deal with. The bottle, the barrel, the cask, the ale- those are the names of the ghosts that chased him his entire life."

"I'm sorry, Orson," Monica said, with her hand on his cheek.

"Don't be, darling. It is only to be expected that we all must die. I don't expect my life to be spared any of that."

"But don't let their memories haunt you, Orson. Use them to strengthen your resolve. You are a knight, after all; you need all the resolve you can muster!"

"That is true."

"So don't take everything so seriously," Monica said, and she chuckled. "It doesn't bode well for the senses, or so I've heard. You're a good man, Orson. Don't worry about anything. Just enjoy yourself while you can."

Orson smiled, grasping her hands in his, and looked into her eyes. After a moment, Monica shook her hands free from his.

"Now, I have to find my mother and father. I need to ask them to assemble the rest of the people. The ceremony should be beginning shortly!"

Monica turned and rushed away, grabbing the fringes of her dress so as not to dirty it. Looking at her walking away, seeing her figure fade into the distance, Orson sighed.

This is truly Heaven.

---

The visitors (acquaintances of both families) sat in their seats arranged on the grass, all dressed in their formal ceremony clothes, listening eagerly to every word the bishop standing at the pedestal was saying. The sweet smell of fresh fruit and flowers hung around the pedestal, where Orson and Monica stood, behind the holy man, beside each other, waiting, listening.

The bishop talked with a voice so enduring and graceful it might have been given by Latona's Archangel Herself, never seeming to tire. Orson suppressed a yawn, and could not help but thinking that his speech was going on far too long, and that he would rather be alone with Monica now, his excitement so strong, his heart beating so fast in his chest he thought it was going to leap out and start a new life without him. His eyes were affixed to hers.

"On behalf of Lady Lucia Stellazul from a foreign land, settled in Renais, an apparent friend of Lady Monica, I say unto you this: 'I am not sure of the certain ritual significance of marriage, but I can only hope that these two people will be able to experience love as I have.'" Lady Lucia, a blue-haired woman in a strange red garb, sat in the back row next to a young man in a yellow cape.

"On behalf of one R. Lee, I say unto you this: 'Always enjoy the springtime of your youth, like fresh flowers. Like the blooming of the lotus, youth occurs but only once.'"

Only a few people applauded.

"On behalf of one Sir S. B. Godot of Grado, who seems to have been delayed in arriving, I say unto you merely this: 'I congratulate you on your wedding, and I hope you shall go. Shall you go? Yes.'"

On and on the bishop spoke on behalf of acquaintances of both families, from Alex to Luna to Atreides to Estragon to Tessie to some man named Kahran, when at last:

"On behalf of King Fado of Renais, I say unto you this,"

Orson rose his head. He hadn't expected any words from the king, but Orson smiled as he listened to the king's words and he remembered how proud he was to have been born in the kingdom under the moon.

"'This union is a magnificent tribute to the spring of youth. Sir Orson is a fine young knight, and a man of great character. I personally give my blessing, and I am assured that the people of Renais pray for Orson and his wife's happiness.'"

At the conclusion of the bishop's speaking on behalf of others, he cleared his throat and began again.

"And now, the bride and groom please step forth."

Orson and Monica stepped forward to the front of the pedestal, and some of the audience cheered prematurely. The air was ripe with the smell of joyous tears and the sound of the sun screaming to get on with it or it would hide behind the cloudy shower curtains and wash up for the night.

The bishop cleared his throat to silence the crowd. He sounded halfway to tears himself about he emboldened his voice. He spoke. "Sir Orson of Renais…dost thou swear, upon thy justice and thy honor, to love and cherish this woman until death parts thee from this world?"

"On my honor." Orson responded through a mouthful of sand, putting his right hand over his chest.

"And thou, Lady Monica…" the bishop said. "Dost thou swear upon thy beauty and thy grace, to love and cherish this man until death parts thee from this world?"

"On my grace." Monica replied, crossing her right hand over her breast.

The bishop turned to Orson. "Dost thou accept this entwining of fates granted to thee by the Holy Nurturer, Latona?"

"I accept," Orson said, and he could barely speak. He could only hear bits and pieces of the bishop's words over the beating of his heart and the roaring of his thoughts. I feel like a child again. There's something I want—something I need—and I can't not have it!

The bishop turned to Monica. "Dost thou accept this entwining of fates granted to thee by the Holy Nurturer, Latona?"

She nodded.

"Then clasp hands," the bishop said, his brown eyes welling with emotion.

Orson and Monica clasped their hands together, and each looked longingly into each other's eyes.

"By my divine grace, I bless this union," the bishop bellowed, his voice mighty. He rose his staff high into the air. "Now join your lips together and forever be as one, as willed so by the Holy Nurturer and as consecrated by the Archangel!"

Orson and Monica leaned together and kissed at the bishop's command, and at that sign, the crowd rose from their seats and applauded, the men hooting and whistling, most of the women in tears, some embracing each other.

They were never going to leave; eternity, Orson thought. Death was nothing, death was simple, but eternity—eternity was amazing, eternity didn't slap them on the ass and tell them it was all over—Orson planned to do enough of that for both of them. They stood together kissing, embracing, and Orson heard a bell ringing off in the distance. It rang loudly and deeply, something mysterious and intriguing from another world entering his ears, rattling around in his skull, and it didn't sound like the town's church bell nor did it come from that direction; the sound came from everywhere. That moment and that sound were indelibly etched into his memory.

Later that night, his new wife's moans—a sound with which he wanted to become intimately familiar—etched themselves beside the sound of the bell in his mind.

"Oh, Orson…"

The rooms of Orson's small house were cold in the moonlight. The night breeze filtered in through the bedroom's open window, and the pale light illuminated the bare forms of the two newlyweds. The cool air brought on its tail the echoing ring of a bell from the city below, a sensuous shadow's call, sending rapturous shivers running up and down their spines. A single candle flickered and burned gently

"Monica…" Orson said to the woman lying below him, his breathing deep and heavy, his arms on either side of her body, supporting him as he looked down into her eyes. Their room, at least, was pleasantly warm. "I love you more than any man could ever love a woman," and, at least in Orson's mind, it was completely true.

"I love you too," she whispered. She nibbled gently on his ear. "I could spend my whole life here…I would be happy dying here, in your arms, Orson…"

"No! No, I will never leave you. Never. Don't talk of dying. We'll never be apart, ever. My angel...I promise you this."

"I wonder," Monica said, touching his chest with the palms of her hands, "how you could be so warm and yet feel so cold?"

"I was cold without you. It sounds quaint, but it's true. I need you."

"Orson," she pleaded, kissing the air inches from his suspended face, "Orson, please…you don't plan to leave lying me here forever, do you?"

She ran her tongue along her upper lip, and though Orson had been given everything—she had given him everything, her whole body, her trust, her love—he could see only her eyes, the eyes he had fallen in love with the moment he had seen her, the eyes that looked into his as though he were the only man in the world. She was an angel. His angel. She was perfect.

"What do you want, darling?" Monica said. Her voice was beautiful. It sounded like it was coming from inside him. "Be a good boy and maybe I'll give it."

"I want you," he said, kissing her, taking her in his arms, feeling her hot breath against his ear and the side of his face, embracing her, touching every inch of her body, and he heard the sudden sharp gasp and felt her teeth clasp his ear as he felt her, and then colors exploded in his head and he felt everything. She clutched onto his shoulders and hung on for dear life.

Orson and Monica made love long into the night to the sound of nothing, giving each other everything they had. For the first time in his life, Orson knew who he was meant to be and what he wanted to fight for. He felt important, and he wanted to let her know, without wasting any words, that she was as well.

The next morning, Orson awoke to the sight of his wife's peaceful, sleeping face and knew that he had made the best decision of his life.

---

One Year Prior to Game's Beginning…

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"You summoned me, King Fado?"

Orson stood in his paladin's garb, a light but effective coat of form-fitting mail under a teal doublet, with a polished silver sword hanging at his belt. He was no longer a young man—he was now over the age of forty, and the years and the stresses of his duty were beginning to settle over his face. Although he was decidedly more reserved and quieter than he had ever been as a young man, the older, more learned Orson had not lost all of his youthful passion, nor his fervent dedication to his duties.

The last nine years had tempered his desire, but he had steadily grown accustomed to having a woman's presence in his house. The more time passed, the more he appreciated having someone around to greet him with a smile when he walked through the front door or the door to their bedroom. He came to appreciate having someone who knew how to turn the fresh vegetables and fruits he bought at the marketplace into delicious salads, someone to help him turn meat on the roast on the nights when he was simply too tired to do it himself. As years passed, the frequency of their lovemaking decreased, and Orson quickly came around to understanding that he cherished her much more than he could hope to explain with a word or a kiss or a sleight of his fingers. Rather, with her he felt complete, and it was something impossible to explain, so he never tried to articulate exactly what he felt.

Nine years had seen Orson serve Renais unerringly, eventually achieving the rank of Paladin as a distinction given to the finest mounted knights. He was better paid and could better support his family and their lifestyle, though Orson and Monica had no children. Monica had been the one who told him he took himself too seriously, and the nine years spent living with her, Orson realized, were the most entertaining years of his life. She was always the one who started the games they played. Monica had given Orson her family's polished oak chess set which they used almost nightly in recent years. She introduced Orson to acquaintances at the stables, who lent them horses to go riding together. On particularly adventurous days she removed her jewelry, put on ragged clothes and a tough smile and hauled Orson over to one of the town's pubs, where they shared a few legs of roast lamb, a mug of ale, some bawdy singing and some uproariously lewd banter. Monica had a great sense of humor. She was the only one who could ever make Orson's laugh so hard he feared his sides would explode. This was all in a man whom Forde, among other knights in Renais' stable, referred to as "the most serious man in the history of humankind".

"Orson," King Fado said, and Orson shook off his introspection.

"I'm sending Ephraim and a group of knights and delegates to Jehanna for a meeting with Queen Ismaire. This is one of the first times I have had him represent our kingdom himself."

"I—ah, understand, my lord." Orson replied. "Shall I…accompany them, then?"

Orson was always resolute in his service to King Fado, but that particular day was his and Monica's ninth wedding anniversary. Would that he be missed for a single day of service to Renais in order to dote on his loving wife! The duties of a kingdom were important, yes, Orson thought, but still! Weren't there more important things in life?

"Are you well, Orson?" Fado said. "You seem as if your thoughts are elsewhere today."

"No, milord," and Orson shook his head. "I am quite well."

"Very well, then. If there is anything that is troubling you, speak. As king, I would be lax in my duties if I were not to listen to my nation's guardians."

"Of course, milord," Orson said. "I am all right. When is the caravan to depart? I shall—"

"Hold, Orson," Fado said, and Orson seemed startled at the king's sudden interjection. The king smiled, and were it not for his robes and his crown and his bold blue hair, he could have been Orson's father. "To-day is your wedding anniversary, is it not?"

"Ah…" Orson exclaimed. He smiled slightly. "Yes, milord, 'tis. I am honored you remembered!"

"It is the same day every year, is it not? I know you make it a point to remember, and I understand that fully. Ah, if you could have met my wife as well!"

"My king, I do remember the queen somewhat…I was only a young man then, of course."

King Fado smiled. "Well, what I mean to say is that you are dismissed for the day. I will send Sir Seth with Ephraim instead. There are plenty of knights remaining to retain Eirika."

If Orson had hoped for this, he most certainly was not expecting it. He stood looking at the king for a few seconds, both confused and happily humbled. "I—my lord, are…are you serious?" He knew quite well that the king was serious.

"Of course, Orson. Go, be with your wife."

"My lord…" Orson said, and he was embarrassed to find that he was on the verge of weeping. Without even acting or thinking, he smiled. Orson fell to his knees and bowed his head, staying several seconds before rising again. "I—thank you." Without further fanfare, the knight turned and left.

After Orson had gone, Fado sat back on his rightful throne and smiled. A little part of him wished that Orson would keep his love for his wife under lock and key, never so strong as to threaten his well-being. Above all men in Renais, the king knew what it felt like to lose a wife.

---

Still dressed in his paladin's garb, Orson returned to his house and rapped on the door. He could smell her perfume through the wood. He and Monica lived in the same little house that they did when they were wed, some nine years ago. It was unimpressive from the outside, but it was home. After a moment of waiting at his doorstep, listening to the sounds of movement (Orson disliked barging in on anyone), his wife appeared in the doorframe.

"You look beautiful," Orson said automatically. The woman at the door wore a flowing red dress, both remarkably similar and radically more courageous than the gown she wore on their wedding. The bottom of the dress hung down with slits showing the length of her legs, and the line of the fabric at her chest dove down and cut away bravely. Her brown hair was shiny and free flowing. On her left hand she wore her diamond ring, and on her right her golden band.

"Of course I'm beautiful," she said, and she chuckled. "It's second nature, don't you know?"

Orson laughed and followed her inside as she pirouetted toward the chair nearest the fireplace and fell back onto it.

"You seem to be offering a lot of what you have for barter," Orson said, staring unabashedly at her chest. Monica rolled her eyes, but her rich pink lips smiled broadly back at him. That little bit of clever wordplay was patently hers, and she loved it when he lightened up enough to tear a page from her book.

"You've already haggled me down to nothing before," she said, and she winked, apparently accepting his gambit.

"Yes, but now the rest of Magvel will be getting quite a discount on your wares."

"My goods have already sold out, darling."

"Ah, but—if you were to have, er, restocked, then—"

"Oh, stoppit, Orson," Monica said, and she laughed again as Orson fell back into the chair opposite hers. He gazed at the empty fireplace and back at her, and in her glowing red-orange dress she could have passed for the fire if she squatted below the mantle. "This is a special day. Nine years ago we were wed…"

"Of course," Orson said, and he didn't like where his mind was going, but nonetheless he said, "but even so…if you were to be so bold when we leave to dine, what would the people think? What if some of the rowdier men were to notice you, and start looking?"

"Orson," Monica said, now more seriously. "Don't worry. Those sorts of things don't bother me, even if they don't happen very often."

"Darling, Monica, you're a beautiful woman, why wouldn't people look at you?"

She smirked. "Maybe I usually just hide it well."

"But if they—"

"Darling!" Monica said, standing up, grabbing Orson's hand, and she tugged, nearly yanking him out of his chair. "No 'buts'! You'll not use that word! Come on now, let us go and have a romantic evening dining out."

Orson stood. He hated himself for even entertaining the possibility that another man might be looking at her, or that it would bother him. He hated thinking that way, and yet every so often he couldn't help but think that way. Monica turned and smiled at him, and he shook it off.

"Yes, my darling. Let's go. We shall have a beautiful meal." He took her in his arms and kissed her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Oh—I almost forgot," he added, drawing back and rustling through a pocket in his under-vest. He withdrew a small box covered in purple velvet and handed it to her. "Open it."

Monica thanked him with a smile and some coy winks from her lively eyes, and opened the box. She gasped.

"Oh, Orson, it's beautiful!"

She removed the ring from its place in the box and looked at it in awe. The band was a rich gold, and set in the center were two gems intertwined in one another; one was a beautiful pale aquamarine, the other a radiant emerald.

"Happy anniversary, Monica," Orson said. "Let this ring stand as one of the many lasting monuments to our love."

"Oh…darling…thank you!" Monica said, and she slipped the ring on her right hand, opposite the hand on which sat her wedding band. She looked up at Orson and threw her arms around him. Orson stroked the right side of her head, his head nestled in her hair on her left. She giggled. "If only you remembered my birthday with such passion…"

Orson laughed a laugh full of breath and pleasure. "Monica," he cooed in her ear, so close he was almost nibbling, "let us dine at the Gold Fork Inne to-night. I want this to be a special night. We can finally rekindle everything that has slipped away from us, and I can repay you for every night I came home late from my service, for every week I was ever away on assignment. We will have a great time."

"I'd like nothing more," she said, and kissed him on the neck, and that was all Orson needed to know that it was going to be a great night. Monica coughed; Orson paid no attention.

After Orson had changed into his proper dress clothes (in which he still felt uncomfortable), the two set off down the city road hand-in-hand. Twilight had already fallen and it was beginning to rain lightly when they reached the eatery, up the road in the center of Renais Castle Town. Two tall lanterns stood at the top of metal poles flanking the doorway like will-o-wisps having exchanged their shades of blue and ghastly fire for a warmer yellow glow. The large oaken door of the inn was open enough to let the sounds and lights escape from within.

The inside of the inn was warm and inviting. Patrons filled almost every table in the room, most either couples or gourmands, and if it was bustling, it was because only in the capitals of Renais and Frelia could one find a place dedicated solely to eating lavishly. On each table sat a lit white candle, and brass chandeliers with oil lamps perched upon them swung around on the ceiling and shone a romantic yellow light over the room. The tables consumed almost every last inch of the room save for the back wall, where a set of stairs led upwards to the two floors of sleeping quarters. Against one of the walls was a large fireplace and high above the mantle there was a large, ornamental sword and spoon crossed over a silver shield watching down over everything. Every inch of the floor was clean and kept well, the rich aroma of food wafted in from the kitchens, and the noise was noticeable but not distracting; It was the first time Orson had ever went to a place quite that nice simply to eat. That was why it was perfect.

At the door, a waiter in a black coat ushered Orson and his wife in, leading them to a oaken table covered by a white cloth, nestled in the corner of the building near an oil painting. A few minutes later, a clean-shaven man came to the table and recited the evening's featured meals. Although chagrined by the relatively small selection of dishes, Orson ordered a dish of Frelian fish, and his wife ordered a bowl of Renais-onion soup with melted cheese. When their server had left for the kitchens, Orson sat back in his chair and sighed. Across the table, Monica sat quietly, smiling.

For several weeks before, Orson had noticed something strange about his wife, and as he sat across from her quietly, the worries came surging back. Monica had been quiet recently. For nine years, Orson could remember returning home to see his wife around the kitchen working, or by the fireplace reading. For a few weeks, Orson had returned to find her listlessly nestled under their bedsheets, either asleep or resting. They had not played chess for at least a week, and Monica always explained that she stayed at home and read when he went to serve his kingdom. She had not been herself, Orson knew, but she was still an angel. Always an angel. He loved walking into their bedchambers and seeing her asleep in their bed, nestled comfortably under the covers, her hair strewn across the pillow. She looked like an angel.

Orson sat at his table and his viscera plummeted. He recalled a verse from a mourning hymn from the first scriptures of Saint Latona, "Oh how horrible 'tis for an angel to fall from on high/ For one with wings great to lose their height through the skies their home". Orson looked over at Monica, who smiled on cue. The verse was meant in a different context, written in a different age in history, but the ramifications made Orson shudder. He didn't want to think about it. His father always said to not think about the bad things, that it wasn't good for a man's health. Orson never really took his father seriously.

For a few minutes he sat silently, looking off into space, towards the far end of the room where the brass and silver ornamental torches hung brightly on the walls and couples sat, talking, their faces so close they may have been joined at the mouth, never to be parted. It was rather poetic, Orson thought, and for the first time he found that he hated poetry, hated it so much he could have torn out every ambiguous line, every tragic lamentation from every page of every book of poetry ever written.

The waiter arrived with their food. Monica's eyes lit, seeing her meal and his, and they both joked how they would much rather have the other's dish.

"How is your meal, darling?" Monica said after they had eaten for a few minutes.

"Delicious," Orson said, his mouth still tingling from the tang of his fish.

"My soup is very good also. When was the last time we came to eat here, Orson? It has been a while since I had anything cooked this well."

"Your anniversary," Orson said in quick step. "Three years ago we dined here. I remember you loved the food here. I only regret that we were not able to return here sooner."

"Not coming here often only sweetens the excitement of coming. You know, anticipation and all that."

"Plus it saves us money," Orson said, and they both laughed. They both knew the king paid Orson far too generously.

"I need something to drink," he said, pointing at his palate, grinning. He called for a waiter.

"Can't you just get water?" Monica said, leaning back in her chair, lips pursed, her face dull like something far away had clashed with something else far away had clashed with something nearby. Perceptions changed, perspectives changed, and all the things she took for granted like having dinner on a relaxing evening were gauntlets of mettle.

"Monica, it's a special occasion…"

"What did you promise yourself, Orson? What did you promise me? You know what happens, you were the one yourself who said—"

"A bottle for our meal. One toast to our happiness and the bottle to our health and that will be the end of it."

Monica sighed. It wasn't any use arguing. She was resigned to everything that was going to happen. The moment she was born it was decided, the moment she was born she saw everything she couldn't decide and portended the future from her own perceptions alone. Everything was inevitable. It was funny. Unfunny funny. She should have seen this day coming a long, long, time ago, but she didn't.

After some time had passed a waiter arrived at their table, took an order for their oldest bottle of Silver Pegasus wine and Orson paid the waiter a king's cousin's ransom for it. He uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses, one for himself and one for her.

"Monica. Monica. Monica!"

Monica's head jerked up with a start. Orson's hand was on her shoulder, and he looked into her eyes. She looked tired. She looked defeated.

"Darling, our wine is here. Shall—"

"I don't have the strength to argue with you, Orson," she said and her shoulders slumped slowly into her seat. She coughed.

"Monica, I'm sorry, I-"

"I know. Orson, I know. I know you are." She coughed again and breathed in deeply. Orson felt his hands begin to shake and he did not know why.

"Are you well, Monica?" Orson asked in all seriousness. "You look ill. Your face is gaunt."

Monica sat up in her chair and straightened her dress and her bosom and shook out her hair. "I'm fine, Orson. I've been through worse before." She smirked. "I think you know what I mean."

Orson chuckled. He would have rather she saved her wittiness for when they were alone, but he couldn't resist her.

"Oh, Monica," Orson said. He smiled and finished the last few bits of his fish. "Can you imagine we've been together so long?"

"I can't even imagine—for my sake."

Orson laughed gently. "Darling, everything I love about you has been there forever. From the day I married you I understood. Your liveliness, your courage, your angelic smile—"

"Oh, stoppit," Monica said, turning her head, embarrassed, smiling.

"Monica, you've—you've made me feel alive! All these years we've spent together…I wouldn't change anything about you."

"Sto-op," Monica said. She laughed quietly. "Besides, there are a few things I'd change about you." The waiter passed by and Orson off-handedly requested another bottle of wine, then turned to listen again. "And that's one of them," Monica said, cringing. Then she smiled a little to tell Orson that maybe she was joking.

She turned away and coughed. She looked around the inside of the eatery. Everyone's voices seem to blend into one indistinguishable mass, a whirlpool of people talking, people yelling, and waiters taking orders and wondering when their money would come in so they could leave. It was busy. Orson's voice was saying something from somewhere far away. The lights from the brass and silver torches were flickering and suddenly everything seemed like nothing more than lights and colors, nothing more than paint spattered on a canvas that talked whenever you painted on it, as though it had the right to pass commentary. It was funny, Monica thought, that Orson was drinking the wine, but she was the one feeling dizzy like she wanted to curl up and fall asleep forever. She wondered if Orson thought it odd that she was laughing when she hit the floor.

---

Orson had carried his unconscious wife from the inside of the suddenly silent inn into the streets, through the rain which had begun to pour, and the wind that clawed at his face as he ran, as fast as he could with his wife's delicate body over his shoulder. He followed the cobbled road, and there was no one around, and everyone's door was closed, and the infirmary, which Orson knew was just down the road, seemed so far away. It was hard for Orson to see anything in front of him. He walked forward, a hand pressed against Monica's cheek, tapping against it as he sometimes did to wake her. He listened to the sound of her breaths. Shallow. He wanted to run faster but the wind and the rain that fell down in bedsheets wouldn't let him. Orson could feel his heart in his chest but he couldn't feel hers on against his shoulder. He could not even gather his thoughts through the blur, and his feet carried him by instinct to the place he needed to be. He saw lights everywhere, to the left, to the right, and down the road where there was one big, great, yellow-white light that made a tinny noise, louder even from a distance than his breaths were. He tasted wine and salt and fear in his mouth. Behind him there was the deep ringing of a bell that sounded like a bad omen mixed with bad dreams and drums and pieces of everything he had ever feared in his life lodging themselves in his skull.

Orson stumbled and almost fell. The hard rain and the wind knocked him down, perhaps unaware he was having trouble keeping his balance anyway, having trouble seeing anything clearly. He shivered. His breath was so cold and so hard it hurt. The rain was nice before. When it rained, he liked to sit with Monica at their windowsill and watch and listen and sometimes kiss her because the rain made him feel sentimental, and sometimes the sky threw lightning, and sometimes when the thunder struck, Monica would pretend she wasn't scared, but when a loud one came she would jump and he would catch her in his arms, and sometimes the thunder was so loud Orson was afraid for her sake, and she had to convince him that everything was going to be all right.

Everything was going to be all right.

Orson recognized the building to his right as the infirmary ran by a sect of the local parish under the guidance of Saint Latona. He barreled through the door with his freeshoulder and stumbled into the room. He wanted to scream at every brown-robed priest and every patient his life story—her life story—but all he could say was "Help". Then his knees buckled and he collapsed before he could praise the Saint.

---

Six Months Prior to Game's Beginning…

---

"My lord king."

Sir Orson, paladin and duteous servant of Renais, bowed before his lord. King Fado beckoned him to rise long before he came to his feet.

"Orson," King Fado said. His face was solid and concerned, but, as Orson had accustomed himself to, King Fado always seemed to have a look on his face that intimated close concern for the wellbeing of everyone on Magvel. "Are you well?"

"Of course, my lord. I am in good health and good health."

"And what of Monica?"

"She is becoming better every day. The monks and clerics of the order say that she has almost completely recovered from her relapse a moon ago. They say she needs time to recover, but that she will be fine in due course."

"That is relieving to hear," King Fado said, sounding legitimately concerned, as though he were Monica's father and Orson's as well. "Please, feel free to live in the shelter of the castle for as long as you need. These walls will always be your home."

"M-my lord, I—" Orson felt his eyes water and for a moment could not speak. "I thank you. You are…far too kind, I—I thank you beyond words, my lord."

"Have you spoken with her this morn?"

"No, my lord, she was still asleep when I visited her earlier."

"If she is awake, tend to her," Fado said without flinching, and he wondered if they both were helpless. "There is nothing particularly important to worry about now. All our other duties are being taken care of. It is most important that you see to her well-being. She needs your serenity, Orson."

"Thank you, my lord," Orson said, and he smiled, and as he did, the king noticed how many wrinkles and signs of weathering fell upon the paladin's face. Six months had made him old.

Orson turned and left the room. The king had smelled the pungent aroma of wine on his breath and on his clothing, but said nothing. Instead, the king of Renais sat back in his throne and wondered how the Saint could allow good people to fall so young.

---

When Orson returned to Monica's temporary bedchambers in the castle, he found her already awake, being tended to by a priest, and served by a maid carrying a tray of food. When Orson came in, she raised her head and smiled.

"Monica! You're awake, I see. How are you this morning? Have you broken your fast yet?"

"Firstly, I am awake," she said, pointing to herself, "and secondly, I haven't broken my fast quite yet." She pointed to the maid with the tray of food and laughed. "Observant as always, Orson."

Orson bowed and smiled. "Thank you kindly, madame," said he to his wife.

The maid left her tray on Monica's lap and excused herself; the priest, with whom Orson had become closely acquainted, turned to Orson.

"She has been well," the elderly priest said. He was an acquaintance of both Orson and Monica. The holy man wore a traditional brown robe worn by priests of antiquity, and a pendant in silver of the wings of Latona's angel hanging around his neck. "She has not had a fit of convulsions for nearly a week, and her strength is steadily returning."

"Ah—yes, of course," Orson said. He didn't mention that the night before, he had found her awake, covered in cold sweat, convulsing and screaming silently for his help. He didn't mention that he had held her still in her arms while she shivered until she fell asleep again. He didn't mention it to either of them. Maybe if he didn't mention it, it wouldn't be true. "Thank you kindly, Father. Thank you."

The priest praised Latona and left the room. Orson sat at the edge of Monica's bed and reached out to take her hand in his.

"I am glad you are feeling better, Monica," Orson said. He smiled. There was a chessboard set down on the table near Monica's bed. "Would you like to play?"

"Of course," she said. She coughed. "I'll beat you again, of course," she said, and she smiled. It wasn't a very big smile. She turned to her nightstand and reached her arm out to touch the pieces but she couldn't reach far enough and her hand fell, dangling off the edge of the bed. Monica looked up at Orson and there was a look of sadness from another world on her face and in her eyes. She mouthed the words "I'm sorry," and tried to smile.

"I...Monica, I have not drank a drop...not a single drop since you took ill. See, you will soon recover as I have!" Orson cringed. It was a lie. He had not drank as much for a long, long time, but he couldn't tell his wife, not now, not here, as painful as it felt to lie to her, to her innocent face, her small, gentle eyes. He hoped she wouldn't notice the scent of wine.

"I see," Monica said, and smiled. "Orson, hold me."

Orson said nothing and embraced her. He leaned against his wife's shoulder and cried into her nightgown while she stroked his hair.

That evening, Orson strode on his horse through the city. He was cautiously optimistic; Monica had smiled at him when he left her room. The priests of Renais were healers and miracle workers. Soon they would discover what was wrong with Monica and heal what was ailing her. Orson promised her he would leave only long enough to fulfill his duties, and then return to her bedside.

King Fado had sent him to a small village near the castle town called Ire to meet with the town council leader. He had delegated and bantered in a friendly way, then left for the castle city shortly before sunset. He left with a promise to give their starved, overcrowded city a grant of money and a promise of a better harvest next year. He left happy, content with his good deeds, eager to greet his wife.

Into town he strode, his horse beginning to neigh and whine. Orson reached the castle gates by the eleventh hour of night, dismounted his steed, and strode through.

Somewhere behind him, a bell rang loudly and reverberated through his ears; Orson turned around to see its source. Unsuccessful, he turned back.

Ring. Orson walked through the castle's halls. He still heard the bell. It didn't sound anything like the bells of the largest church in the city, nor like the bells atop the castle's lookout tower.

Ring. Orson's heart pounded in his chest. The castle was eerie at night, when the only light was cast by the rays of the moon and the small torches that thrust red specks against the walls. Orson felt afraid. He tried not to think about anything, tried to remove the fear from his mind, as though it were something he could control, as though it were something he could run through on his sword.

Ring. That was it, of course. Orson turned the corner and headed to the stair at the end of the hall, the one that snaked upwards in a sharp spiral and would eventually lead to Monica's room. Orson's silver sword was dull and dark at his belt.

Ring. He wanted to draw his sword. He loved her so much that whenever they walked he wanted to draw his sword, to bury the point of the blade in anyone who would want to bring harm to her. He reached the stairs at the end of the hall and walked onwards, upwards, through the darkness.

Ring. He wanted to smell her. He wanted to smell her perfume and her fresh clothes. He wanted to see her, see her face, see her creamy peach-colored skin and the life in her hips and her legs. He wanted to look into her eyes like he used to do. He reached the top of the stair and walked down the hall. Faster, faster now. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to touch her warm, smooth skin again. He wanted to touch her face and hold her and feel her hold him in return. He wanted to taste her. He wanted to taste her lips, her tongue, her everything. He wanted to taste strawberries and blueberries and cherries and peaches—everything she loved.

Ring. He wanted to hear her. He wanted to hear her, but all he could hear was the sound of the bell. He felt afraid, and dashed towards Monica's room. His hands trembled as he thrust the door open and burst inside.

"Monica? Monica?"

There was a large group of people in the room, and all of them were quiet. Orson entered the room and the people obscured his view of Monica's bed. The priest, Orson and Monica's long-standing acquaintance, turned to Orson. His eyes were full of tears.

"Orson," he said.

"No. No, it can't. She's not—"

Ring, went the bell. Orson heard the bell, but he still didn't know what it meant. He didn't want to know what it meant. Maybe it didn't mean anything and he was just hearing things. The sound faded away and Orson's sight began to dim. His body focused only on feeling, trying to sense the warmth of Monica's presence, trying to sense the care she felt for him radiating through the room.

The priest standing at the doorway, bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

Orson's whole body shook. He pushed ahead and the people moved aside.

His wife lay still in her bed. She wasn't convulsing, she wasn't coughing, she wasn't frowning or sweating or shivering with cold. Her eyes were closed as though sleeping, her arms tucked under the covers, her lips straight and expressionless, her bed now a shallow grave, her hair strewn helter-skelter across her pillows as if blown back on her entry to heaven.

Orson mouthed her name. He couldn't find his voice. Orson knelt at her bedside and pressed his head against her chest and remember all the times he had lain next to her, listening to her breathe. He couldn't hear anything any more. The room was silent. He cried silently.

"You said to me, on that night, so long ago, that you would be happy dying in my arms," Orson whispered in her ear, so quietly that he might not have even said it at all. "I suppose I missed my chance…I never knew it was coming." Orson knew the story about the crystal angel who fell to the world of broken glass and faded away in shards. Orson felt like he was tiptoeing on the broken glass. He was the broken glass.

"I love you," he whispered, and he kissed Monica's cheek. Some time later he rose to his feet and looked at Monica's still body. His mind raced with thoughts of kisses and broad smiles and food and laughter and chess pieces and horses and the sound of her footsteps coming to bed at night. He wanted to explode with tears like floodwater. He wouldn't have cared if the whole world drowned.

"Orson." Fernsly put a hand on the knight's shoulder. Orson turned calmly to the priest.

"Father. Please see to it that—see to it that she is treated with respect."

"I myself will ensure that," King Fado said from his place near the back of the room, his face mournful. Behind him, the young prince of Renais had his arm wrapped around his sister, consoling her as she cried. "She will have a funeral befitting that of an angel."

"She was such a lively woman," the priest said. "So full of kindness and spirit. So very alive."

"I have one last thing to ask," Orson said. "What—what were her last words?"

The priest didn't look Orson in the eye. "She…she was calling your name. She was calling for you quietly."

"I see."

"Sir Orson, wait," the priest said, putting his hand out toward the knight, who had turned to leave the room. "If there is anything I can do to ease your suf—"

"There is nothing," Orson said blankly. "Forgive me." Orson left the room and refused to listen to any more. It didn't matter what any priest said: God was a sham.

---

Monica's funeral was indeed angelic, and some would argue it bordered on royal in regards to the amount of piety and grandiosity shown in the mourning ceremony. Many people around Renais, and especially those working and living in the castle, knew and respected Orson, and knew he adored his wife. Many of the mourners remembered the day long ago when another respected man, the King of Renais, was made a widower.

Monica was set to rest in the most hallowed of the burial grounds near Castle Renais. In her coffin was spread herbs, flowers, salts, crystals, and silver chains and silver pendants bearing the image of the wings of Latona's archangel. So said the bishops and sages of the royal court, these things would keep her body and, most importantly, her soul, fresh and beautiful for eternity.

In the aftermath of her passing, Orson searched through her dresser, the dresser he had been so accustomed to seeing when it was at their house, and then in inside the castle, once it had been moved. He breathed in her scent, her heavenly aroma that still hung over her clothing. And from that drawer he took two things and placed them in his pocket: The wedding band he had given her on the day of their wedding, and her diamond ring. He thought about placing them in her grave, but chose instead to keep them as mementos of her life, of her vigor and earthly spirit. The band reminded him of their wedding day, the ring of their anniversary.

Orson continued to serve as a knight of Renais. Even in the absence of his wife, he remained calm and serene, as he knew she would have wanted him to. Renais, now, was all he had left. And as the one thing he had left, he would serve with whatever vigor and motivation he could muster. He longer heard any bells, but now, within his dreams (and sometimes without) he heard the voice of his wife, calling to him, saying his name, saying 'darling' so sweetly as she always did in life. Nights were the hardest times. His house was empty without Monica, and their bed was cold, and most nights he sobbed himself to sleep, in a place where he knew no one was watching. Sometimes he thought he saw her silhouette in the window. Sometimes he would have sworn his life and blood that he heard her voice whispering in his ear when he was alone, making his spine tingle with excitement. Sometimes he felt a sudden rush of wind course through his body and he could have sworn she were beside him again. Sometimes he hoped he wasn't going mad. Whenever he tried to think, a little bit of him inside his head worried that his thoughts were never as clear as they might have been before, that all the military triumphs blended into one indistinct series of loud noises, that all the evening meals and games of chess and laughter and warm nights and Monica nude all seemed to mash together like stars and burn, burn, burn. He found it harder and harder to walk and his nights were more frequently spent stumbling around, disoriented, falling down or collapsing in a heap of broken glass. He stayed up at night for hours at a time, foregoing sleep, listening at the doorway for Monica or maybe someone else coming around to say how sorry they were for him.

There was a hole in his heart that only Monica could fill, and as the days grew on, more and more he felt that perhaps he could not go on without seeing her speak, dance, and be with him once more. Sometimes it felt like the world was out to get him, and sometimes it felt like the world was too powerless to do anything at all.

---

One Week Prior To Game's Beginning

---

The quiet glade of Renais was Orson's solace. The glade was the tired old knight's sanctuary, a quiet copse near where Orson and Monica had been wed, but mercifully far away. Orson sat on a large tree stump, on a place where one of the forest's largest oaks had been cut down and haul away to make wood for fires or houses or maybe simply because some lumberjack needed the money, saw the wood, looked at his axe, and knew what needed doing. Orson sighed.

It had been half a year since Monica had died. It was foolish, Orson knew, but a naive part of him, the little part of him that wanted to talk the world into piece, childishly believed in eternity. Eternity lied. Eternity was a dirty liar, a thief who stole the sun's pale fire and used it to light its hateful face. Nothing lasts forever, not even love, and Orson knew this. Eternity lied. Eternity was good at lying.

The quiet glade with the crystal-colored bubbling brook and the quiet trees with the tall, rich-colored trunks was nestled away from the castle. Closer to Grado, where there were rumors of strange goings-on. Closer to Rausten, where the studies of the divine danced and pranced. Closer to nothing, the place where nobody bothered him and where he did not have to even gaze at his sword.

"What do you want me to do?" Orson whispered aloud. "I don't know what you wanted me to do."

Orson reached for his flask and drank everything inside in one swig. He hiccuped. Everywhere he looked, he thought he saw fleeting glimpses of her. He looked up, over to a patch of trees, and he thought he saw an ethereal white figure dart behind the trunk of one tree. It looked like Monica in her flowing nightgown. It looked like an angel dancing. Orson thought about his mother and hung his head, eyes closed. Orson remembered vividly the day his mother had died of illness, remembered sitting at her bedside as a young man and hearing her gasp and struggle for her last breaths, so labored that it almost seemed merciful for her to die. Orson remembered crying for months on end, swearing that he never again wanted to watch a loved one die. Orson laughed. Wasn't it quaint, he thought, shaking his head, that sometimes the saddest times are the most humorous?

"What did I do wrong?" Orson breathed quietly, shaking his head. It felt hard to breathe. "I'm sorry. Please...I need you to tell me what I did wrong. I don't know what to do...I need you to forgive me, Monica. I never told you...exactly how I felt."

Orson stood up slowly and brushed himself off. He thought about Monica, and reached for the ring and the band he kept in his pocket. Fiddling through his doublet, his fingers grasped what he instinctively knew to be the wedding band, but where was the ring? Where was the anniversary ring? His heart jumped. Frantically, he glanced about the grove, falling to his knees, searching through the grass and the leaves and the moist dirt for where he may have dropped it, stood up, gazed at the ground in the distance, and then he felt a hard hand clamp down on his shoulders. He felt cold.

"Looking for this?"

Orson turned around slowly to see who had spoken. In the glade now stood two men, though only a moment before he was completely alone. The man who stood with him was dressed as a bishop, yet he was unlike any holy man he had seen before. His ruddy hair the color of a beast's blood crawled down the back of his head; his eyes were inset into his skull, ringed by unsettling circles of gray; he stood hunched over, his head encamped upon his neck, around which hung several familiar-looking silver chains. He looked as though he had stepped from the pits of Hell.

The strange bishop held out his fist and Orson stretched his palm beneath it. Into the knight's hand fell Monica's ring, covered in blood.

"What…what is this?" Orson exclaimed. He stepped backwards and almost lost his footing against a gnarled root snaking from the ground.

"That is a beautiful ring," the bishop said, sneering and rubbing his hands together. His voice was heavy, raspy, and serpentine. "I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Riev, and I have been promised the title of Blood Beryl by his majesty Emperor Vigarde of Grado."

"What?" Orson shook his head. "That ring…t-that ring…where did you get that ring? How did you get that ring? That ring does not belong to you. I had it! I thought—"

"You didn't bring it."

"What are you talking about? What in hell do you mea—"

"You're soon going to realize," the strange, hunched man interrupted, "that I'm the closest thing to God you're ever going to meet. Latona…works for me."

"Grado," Orson said, ignoring the strange fellow's apparent declaration of near-godhead. "Since when has Grado called people like you into their service?"

"Ha ha…I suppose that was a slight to me, but I'll forget that. Let's say that a few things have changed in the glorious Empire. You'll find out what soon enough. There's a reason I'm here."

"It does not matter. Leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you," Orson straightened himself and wished the bizarre little man would disappear.

"Ha ha…patience, Sir Orson of Renais. Acting in haste, you would miss a wonderful opportunity."

Now Orson was getting angry. "How do you know my name?"

"Why would it matter? If you were stranded in a desert, would you care to ask where water comes from? Now then…let us assume there is someone dear to you who has died…"

"What?" Orson said, startled. How dare he!

"Oh, I'm right, of course. I don't suppose you've heard of Prince Lyon and his 'extraordinary talent?'"

"I don't—"

"Bringing the dead back to life!" Riev said, leaning closer. The more he spoke, the more Orson loathed his raspy, malicious voice. But the demonic-looking man seemed to at least believe in what he was saying. Orson's hand rested on his silver sword.

Orson raised an eyebrow. "That is…impossible," he said, pausing. "To bring the dead to life? Who…who would commit such an unspeakable sin…"

"And yet, wouldn't it be glorious? To see a loved one again, to live in their embrace, to replace something lost…that is something that speaks to the human desire. You know this, do you not? Above all others, you know this."

"That is not possible!" Orson yelled, and he took a step closer to the man, who calmly stepped back to match Orson's advance. "Get out of this place or I'll cut you in twain. You've no right to speak of...to speak of my..." Orson stepped back. He felt the life and the anger draining from his body. What was he getting so angry for, Orson wondered. His arms felt weak and his hands trembled on the hilt of his blade.

"You are a general of Renais. Still, it couldn't be pleasant living without the person who sustained you for so many years, could it? Surely there must be someone you wish could live on this earth again?"

"God damn you," Orson said. He felt wrinkles like faults in the earth popping onto his face and tracing their way permanently onto his visage. He felt bags filled with sand and mortar and other peoples' dreams hanging under his eyes like dead weights. He felt too empty, too numb to feel angry; Orson was rarely angry anyway. The hate was so incomprehensible and so dull it felt like mourning. "God damn you."

"No god has that kind of power over me," Riev said, and shrugged. Orson didn't know how anyone could sneer so unerringly. "But the prince has the power to raise the dead. That is something that cannot be denied."

"Then what do you want with me? Why do you bother me?"

"Your cooperation. With your help, Renais will be ours."

Orson raised an eyebrow. "Yours? What do you mean?"

"The Empire will trample Renais underfoot and we will plunge it into chaos with your help. We will attack quickly and without warning, and probably without much bloodshed...only if you do as I ask of you."

"W-what? The Grado Empire? Attack Renais? What is this madness?! Are you asking me to betray my country? Is that why you are proposing to me, here, now, in this place, in my homeland?" Orson could barely believe what he had heard. He found it interesting. Only his curiosity kept him from bisecting the strange little man.

Riev sneered. "I would not dare ask such a thing. But you seem to have mentioned it yourself."

"Bastard. Leave," Orson said, and turned away before he changed his mind. "I would never betray my sovereign liege."

"Then I suppose she was never important to you at all."

"Shut up."

"That you would choose your country—the losing country, a piece of wretched soil—over the rebirth of your dearest wife?"

"Silence!"

"And you would never, ever see her again—"

"Enough!" Orson roared, and he whirled around. He felt as though he were about to explode. His insides were on fire. His mouth and his nostrils felt so hot he thought he could breathe fire and burn the man. The little man in the bishop's robes was standing there, sneering, calmly, talking of trampling Renais underfoot, talking about the Grado Empire attacking? But this man, this strange man who came from nowhere, was telling him who he was, what he wanted, what he thought of his wife! Orson felt dizzy and angry, angry at the man, but angrier still at something else, something further away, something he could not identify.

But the odd man was right. Somehow, for some reason, he understood.

"Who are you to tell me who I am?" Orson said, walking up to the hunched man, who this time stood his ground, still smiling. "You know nothing about me! Desecrate her memory or my life again with your words and I swear I'll—"

"Listen to your heart, Orson." Riev said, almost mockingly. "Would you pass up a chance to see her again? Would you be so foolhardy as to miss your one chance?"

"You're asking me to start a war! You're mad! Why have you come to me? If you indeed plan to attack Renais, then I will be sure to let the king know, and he would try you for this blasphemy!"

"Mad?" Riev chuckled. "Hm. Well then, if you are morally opposed to it, I suppose it is as well. There's nothing you can do to stop this. I was only under the belief that you would want to benefit from Prince Lyon's talent." Riev turned away. "Goodbye."

"Wait!" Orson yelled. "How—how am I to know you are even telling the truth?"

"You don't," said Riev, sneering. He could have asked Orson for every piece of gold he had ever owned in his life and Orson would have given them to him. "But surely you've heard the rumors? Of a strange and terrible power beyond human ken? Don't you believe in the supernatural, in the powers of mages and priests?"

Orson paused. There had indeed been rumors recently of strange happenings in Grado. Still, to betray Renais, the kingdom that gave him everything…a job, honor, even his wife…it seemed unthinkable. Because Orson had never thought of it. He looked at the man calling himself Riev. The power to bring the dead back to life?

"If you're lying to me," Orson said through gritted teeth, "I swear by the Saint I will cut you down."

"I told you I wasn't lying, general."

Orson felt his heart pounding in his chest again. He had promised her he would never leave her alone, and now, if the strange man were telling the truth, he would be able to see her again. Orson could almost hear her voice again, smell her familiar scent again, feel her skin against his, feel her halo tickling his scalp. The sun shined dimly through the canopy overhead, down to the forest floor where it filtered out in splitting rays. Several birds with bright-colored plumage flew hastily overhead. Maybe this was a good omen. He hoped he wasn't dreaming or insane or muddled by drink.

My angel. Could this be…could I have you again? I need you, Monica. I need you still!

Orson looked over at Riev, and Riev knew he had won when he saw the look of hope flutter onto Orson's face.

"Prove to me. Prove to me you can truly bring back the dead to life. Prove to me you are not wasting my time!"

"The prince had revived the founder of Grado's church, Archbishop Canon, as a test of ability. I asked him, on a whim, if he ever had any affairs of the flesh, and he spoke about several of his indiscretions as a young man," Riev said, barely stifling dry, rasping laughs. "Tell me, is that something that could have been gleaned by reading a biography of a holy man? Anyone foolish enough to know of such facts would be dead before they could begin to speak."

Orson smiled. Maybe it was true. Maybe the dead could live again. Suddenly, the Kingdom of Renais didn't seem so important anymore. He would be happy living on an island, living in a forest, living in a place so far from humanity that the rocks on the shore of Frelia reached out to him with spindly spikes like fingers, as long as he had her. Monica was everything. Monica was forever. He could feel it. he could feel the fire burning in him again. He felt a surge of electricity surge through his veins, sparking his soul. Orson's entire body tingled. What did it mean, anyway? Kings, countries, lords and vassals and knights and swords and the touch of steel? A million thoughts raced through Orson's mind. It all seemed so trivial. The king was just one man, but Monica was everything. All he needed to do was help the Grado Empire. All he needed to do was break away.

He would be free. Orson raved in his head as his mouth curled into a thick, magnificent sneer. The king would have done the same thing, Orson knew. He knew how it felt to lost a wife. Orson felt strong. He would finally be free, free of the damn servitude, free of the armor and greaves and swords and shields that Monica wished would go away, and he would be free, free from being stern and standing upright and speaking formally and doing everything properly, shackled by his seriousness, shackled by a false devotion. He would finally be able to enjoy himself, just like Monica wanted him to. And she would be there with him. Orson shuddered. He at once desired more than he had ever wanted in his life and for once he knew he could get it. It felt good. His body was burning. He felt alive.

"All this time I was following an idea. A word. It was a simple word. Country. I am sick of living and fighting and awaiting my death in servitude to a word. There are so many things more important."

"Then?" Riev said.

"I will do it."

---

"My King." Orson said, bowing before Fado. Beside him stood Prince Ephraim, dressed in his battle clothing. Orson could not look the king or even the young prince in the eye. Several days had passed. His body throbbed with excitement burrowed deep under his skin, his wrinkled, weathered skin, the skin of the calmest and most stoic of all knights, the "most serious man in the history of humankind". He was going to see her again. Not even the bitter, brittle knives clawing at his soul could stop his beating heart from smiling. The devilish little priest with the hunched neck had already shown him a man from Grado, once dead, brought back to life. That was the only proof Orson needed that he was telling the truth.

"Ephraim, Orson," King Fado said from his seat. "I have an important mission to which I must have you attend."

"Yes, Father."

"Yes, my lord."

Fado sighed and sat back. A look of genuine concern lashed across his face. He was stern but calm. "I am concerned about what is going on in Grado. None of the messengers we sent have returned, not even a messenger on pegasus. There have been rumors of a revolution, an uprising, a mobilization of imperial forces, and even rumors of a natural disaster, and of course those persistent rumors of a great evil rising. Either way, I cannot sit here, forcing my own ignorance, when a fellow ruler may be in need of our aid."

"What would you have us do, my lord?" Orson said, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Orson, I want you to travel with Ephraim to the Imperial capital and attempt to gain audience with Emperor Vigarde. Should anything seem amiss, return immediately—try to gain as much information as possible."

"My lord, if I may…" Orson said, rubbing his shoulder and his arm vigorously. "I would suggest we set out southward and head into the city of Renvall. To simply march into the capital in a time of potential rebellion or strife could be fatal. If we were to stay in Renvall, we could ascertain the truth while talking with the city council, and not rush blindly into peril."

"That is a sound idea, as always, Orson." Fado said. "I will provide you with a small group of soldiers to aid you."

"My lord, we should travel with as few soldiers as possible in order to avoid detection…"

"Very well then." Fado said, nodding. "Forde! Kyle!"

From the back of the throne room, two knights stepped forth and answered their king's call.

"You two shall accompany Orson and Ephraim to Renvall. Stay there in the local castle and ascertain as much as possible about Grado's condition. You will depart first thing tomorrow morning. Is that clear?"

"Yes, my lord," the lot said, and turned away to leave.

"Orson, hold." Fado said, and Orson stopped in his tracks. His heart skipped a beat. He tugged at the collar of his doublet and wondered if the king could even fathom what was happening. He tried to find somewhere inside him hidden venom for the king and his son, something to hold against them, something to justify his betrayal. Surely there had to be something, even if Orson couldn't think of anything at all. He felt loyal and wished that he did not. He felt sick to his stomach; he waited for a moment until the gnawing urge to retch faded.

"Please, keep yourself safe, Orson," the king said at last.

"Thank you, my lord," Orson said, and he bowed, crossing his chest with his right arm. A little part of Orson felt guilty, horribly guilty as he walked away. He wanted to remove the blade from his coat and stab the doubts away.

---

During the Events of the Game…

---

Orson was successful. He led Prince Ephraim into an unfavorable situation in Renvall, and though he played the farce long enough to allow the Prince to live, he served his purpose well. As a reward for his services to the new Grado Empire, Emperor Vigarde and the strange young man by his side had granted him his greatest desire.

Orson still remembered the first moment he saw his wife again. Her body, he noted, was indeed preserved with the bishop's many preparations; she was just as he had left her.

And then, he was in the throne chamber of Castle Grado when the Emperor himself delivered his prize to him. Monica walked into his room on the crook of the Emperor's arm—what dead, empty eyes the Emperor had, the new king of Renais thought—and Orson's heart nearly stopped in rapture. Her body language was lacking the liveliness he remembered from long ago, but it was her.

"M-Monica…" he said. His voice cracked and he began to cry. It was a miracle. The dead and departed were not supposed to return to life. The dead were sent to Latona for safekeeping in the afterlife, so it was told from the clergy to wise men. There she was, his wife, his Monica, dressed in simple clothing like that she wore in life. It was a miracle. Orson felt powerful. This was what he wanted. This was what he wanted, and he had made it so himself.

"Darling…darling..." Monica said.

"This is just reward for your services to the throne," Vigarde said matter-of-factly, and he left in a hurried pace, as though he had better things to do.

"Oh, Monica!" Orson said, throwing his arms around her, cascading her with kisses, kissing her so violently he accidentally bit her, though she did not notice. She put her arms around him loosely, but he squeezed her tight, his tears streaming down his face, spilling onto her bare neck. With every drop on Monica's skin, she grunted, as if it were paining her. "Monica, you've returned…you've finally returned to me! We will spend eternity in each other's arms! I knew...I knew we would never be apart for long."

Orson raved, his eyes glowing with a mad kind of happiness. He rubbed his cheek against hers. Her skin felt cold and clammy but it was her, oh heavenly Latona yes, it was her. It was her.

"Darling…darling…"

"Yes, yes, darling!" Orson said, letting go of her and looking into her eyes. They were dark and empty, but they were beautiful to Orson. Her skin was dry and graying and looked as though it would flake away with the touch of a hand, but it looked soft and creamy to Orson. Her voice was different, weaker, emptier, without quality, but when Orson heard her he heard only Monica. It was her. It was her, it was her, it was her. This was his fate, Orson thought, caressing her tenderly. He had been obedient, he had listened, he had done everything he had been told to do, he had foregone sleep to make sure he had been a good boy, and it had paid in the end, a reward greater than any gold. He embraced her again and held her tight to his chest. He felt his heart beating and thought he could feel hers too. "Together, you and I will be happy, and I will be in a powerful position, and we…we will again be happy, like we once were. Do you remember? We were happy together, once, and so in love. Do you remember, my darling? Oh no, no, I? I would never forget you, darling. Never, ever, ever."

"Darling…darling…dar…ling…"

Orson kissed her on the lips. She tasted like salt and ash and raw skin, but Orson didn't notice and wouldn't have cared. He thought he tasted peaches.

---

It was quiet in the throne chamber of Castle Renais, where the new king of Renais, Orson, sat. It was his throne. It was his throne now, with the stone walls now draped with the imperial colors of Grado. For his services he had been rewarded the throne of his former homeland. King Fado had sat here once. Fado had once sat here and told him, to his surprise, that he could have a day off his duties to celebrate his wife's anniversary. Fado once sat on the very throne Orson now sat, smiling, caring, speaking as though every knight and noble in his service was his son or his daughter. Fado had once sat in this chair and told him that Castle Renais would always be his home.

His home. Orson felt nauseated for a second thinking about what that meant. No, it was all right. It was supposed to be difficult to think about, betraying his lord, his country, changing his colors, turning away and blinding himself to his birth country's peril in its finest hour. It wasn't supposed to be easy. But it was over now. The old king was nothing but a memory. Only a memory. Gone. Fake. Monica was real. That was all that mattered.

Monica was real. It didn't matter that he was the king; the few lesser generals of Grado stationed at the castle ran the building now by proxy, and nothing important happened within the walls of Castle Renais anymore anyway. Orson didn't care. It was quiet, and he was always alone with her, like their wedding night all over again, until the end of time. Orson spent few waking moments sitting on his throne. Most of his time was spent in his private quarters, where his dear wife always sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for him. Sometimes he read to her. Sometimes he played music for her on a small violin, then laughed when it sounded bad. No, he was a poor musician, but Monica loved to listen to him try, so it was all right. Sometimes he danced with her, and he laughed playfully whenever she tripped over her own feet. Sometimes he slow danced with her. Sometimes he made love to her. He was surprised she was so quiet, so submissive, and he mistook the groans of pain from his tears touching her skin for hushed moans of pleasure.

He told her stories whenever he remembered one.

"Darling," he said to her, "do you remember…"

"Why?" Monica said, exasperated. A year had passed since their wedding. "Why isn't it working? Why can't I conceive? It hasn't worked before, and it isn't going to work this time either!"

"I don't know why," Orson said, almost as upset as she was. They were both covered in sweat, and Orson felt like water was freezing a shell around him. He sat up in his bed and looked at her naked back. "I don't know."

"Did I do something wrong? Is this punishment for—for something?"

"Monica—"

"Does this mean I'll never be able to have a child? Will we never be able to raise a family together? Is this all I have to give?" Her head was hung, her legs draped over the edge of the bed, her arms limp and defeated.

"Monica…"

Orson's wife turned around to look at him, and she was crying. Her face was rose pink and her eyes begged him the more he looked into them.

"Orson, why? Why? Why is this happening to us? Why?"

Orson shook his head. He felt tears of his own quietly falling. "I don't know."

"I'm sorry," Monica said, and Orson didn't know what to say to make her feel better.

"I know it's a bad memory, but it's all right now," Orson said, stroking his wife's hair. She muttered 'darling, darling' and her head lolled on Orson's shoulder. "Oh, and do you remember, some three years after our marriage when I fell ill—"

"Orson, be well…"

Monica knelt at her husband's bedside with a cloth soaked in ice water. She lay the cloth on Orson's warm forehead.

"Mo—nica," Orson said. He opened his eyes and turned to look at her. His face was gaunt and pale from illness, and though he was buried under waves of blankets, he shivered. "Thank you."

"Is there anything I can do for you, darling?" Monica leaned in closer and kissed Orson's cheek. She nibbled on his ear.

Orson smiled and laughed weakly. "Can you sing…something for me?"

Monica blushed. Orson knew she had a great singing voice, even if she didn't think so. She leaned in and put her lips near his ear and began to sing softly.

"Darling, darling, darling…"

"Oh, Monica, darling, darling, yes. Yes! You must remember, don't you? These memories mean so much to me. My beautiful." He kissed her forehead, once and again and again. Orson sat beside his wife, holding her hands. The back room was dark and quiet, the fireplace unlit and the tables and bookcases barren. There was nothing but the sound of stillness, and the stories seemed to tell themselves. "And—and the time…"

"Monica!" Orson said when he saw his wife standing still in the kitchen. He was afraid. "W-What are you doing?"

"I don't know," Monica said. She shook her head. Orson stood in the doorframe. His wife held a broken bottle in one hand, limp at her side. Her apron was stained a rich burgundy and Orson panicked before realizing it was only wine. Broken pieces of the wine bottle were scattered on the ground.

"Monica, what—"

"I told you, I don't—" and her voice was cut off by streams of tears and sobs. "I just wanted to destroy it," she said, looking down at the broken bottle. "I just wanted it gone."

The bottom of the bottle in her hand clanged against the floor. She looked at Orson with sad eyes, and Orson wondered how he had fallen into the same traps his father did, and why he wanted to fall into them again. He held her.

"I know these are difficult memories for you," Orson said, finishing his story, kissing her on the lips, not noticing the taste of ash, "but this is everything. This is part of who we are. And see, I have not touched the bottle for weeks! Only for you, my love."

He lay beside his wife, holding onto her tightly.

Time passed quickly, maybe days, maybe hours. It was only time, and time mattered nothing to Orson, because he was in the company of his wife. And it was an important day, Orson realized one day. It was his dear Monica's birthday again! Orson bade his time before giving Monica his gift. He made a point to remember her birthday every year, and their anniversary was to come soon, so Orson already began thinking about what to give her. A present for every occasion. Two presents, or perhaps three! Maybe new jewelry. It was unusual to see his Monica's fingers empty, but he didn't think much of it.

Occasionally, Orson sat on his throne, on the dead king's throne, tiredly, slumped down in his seat, possessed by his thoughts. Time passed, and at some point on some day, Riev appeared. He projected himself out of nothing in the center of the room from a pillar of energy, and cackled as he walked towards the throne.

"What is it?" Orson said grimly. The man disgusted him. Orson sat on the throne only because he had to.

"You've a duty to perform," Riev said, smiling. "Just exterminate a few familiar pests who have broken into the castle. Simple, easy. Nothing you cannot handle."

"What? I—"

"Don't have any doubts or reservations about this," Riev said, and his face seemed to glow with amusement. "There's no going back, Orson of Renais. You've already committed the gravest sin of all: you betrayed the trust of your country and the kindness of your sovereign liege. Be assured, if there is a Hell, you're going to be living in the deepest circle. But I think you believe it's worth it."

"No…I'm not going…of course I'm not going t—" Orson sputtered, and the man disappeared in a cloud of rasping laughter. "But yes, it's all—it had to be done. Of course it did."

A few familiar pests…

A few familiar pests? The prince and his retainers? No. No, he couldn't. Could he?

I must. I must stop them.

They were trying to steal his happiness from him. Steal his Monica away from him. They were coming to punish him for what he did, for betraying their nation, for betraying their colors, for turning against their coat-of-arms that symbolized the glory of their nation. They were going to make an example of him and Monica, watch them swing from the noose like rag dolls, like fleshy puppets. No. They did not understand that their kingdom meant nothing. Nothing. Worthless. Land and honor and power were nothing compared to Monica's love for him. The ideas of king and country seemed so alien to Orson. The prince and his merry band of exiles were returning to take back the castle for themselves, to raise their banner and restore their foolish pride. They were coming to take Monica away. They had to be punished for believing they could steal his happiness away.

I must. I must do this. I must do this!

Orson slipped into his chambers and told Monica he would return in a moment, after he exterminated the pests. He kissed her on the cheek. Monica opened her mouth and the sound of a bell ringing came out. Orson thought it was odd and beautiful and harmonious. It was perfect. It was patently her. He glanced back at her longingly and left the room.

---

It was difficult for the returning prince and his allies to watch. To watch a former friend bleed to death, struck by wounds they had themselves inflicted. To watch the empty, cold burning in his eyes and his solid smile slowly fade away. Prince Ephraim and Seth left for the back room, wondering how such a proud man could fall from grace so absolutely.

Orson sat crumpled over in the throne that was never truly his, his arms limp, his sword fallen to the ground, a trail of blood streaming from his forehead. It hurt to breathe. He felt an empty-air weight pressing down on his chest and he felt his heart screaming and laughing. His eyes followed the prince and his retainer as they walked towards the back room and disappeared. Orson had tried not to meet the prince's gaze when they fought, but it was impossible. The prince and his new retainer forced their gazes on him, and more than anger, their eyes were overfilling with regret. They were selfish. They had nothing to regret, Orson was thinking. He did.

Monica. They were going to take Monica away from him again. They were leaving for the back room in order to take Monica's life away from him again. They were going to suck out every last bit of life that had been breathed into her. He felt angry for a moment.

Orson could do nothing. He was wounded, weakened, numb, on the edge of death. In his delusion, he reached into the air and touched every part of Monica's beautiful body. He could feel her cool, rough hand, that hand that was hers, the hand that had always been warm and smooth like the every inch of her skin, the hand he wanted to hold forever, the hand with the fingers he had almost plucked from her beautiful reanimated body as mementos, one by one, to suckle on when she was absent.

He was no longer afraid. He was happy. They were going to be together again.

We will be together now, won't we? My darling Monica, my angel, forever enshrined in Heaven's halls, and I will…I will be…I—

I will be—!

Orson shuddered. His mind screamed with clarity. He remembered what the little old man had said about Hell. Orson felt his eternal soul convulse. He felt sick. In the span of one second he realized his fate, and it had taken him until the very end to figure it out. His body was burning.

He didn't want this to be the last time. He didn't want this to be the last time he ever saw his beloved Monica—but he knew that it was. He had arranged it himself. He wanted to laugh, wanted to cry at the irony, but he was too weak, so he sat there, watching the world fall into the sea, waiting to die.

Orson didn't say her name, or anything, with his last breath. It would have hurt too much.