How did it come to this?

The young man could feel the warmth spilling out from his belly; surely his own innards trying to escape the confines of his body. It was freezing, but still the young man felt warm all over. He could taste iron in his mouth, and he surely knew that he was dying. With futile effort he tried to keep his own insides from spilling on to the dirty ground, but with every effort he grew weaker. His arm went limp and he gave up. He frowned; the sense of pain having long left him in this state.

This isn't right. I should not die like this.

It had begun with that whelp's death. Yes, with his dying breath Argath Thadalfus would blame the disgusting commoner; and his disgusting whelp of a sister. It was all in the greater good. What good would it do any of them and the good of Ivalice to let one of the Corpse Brigade's elite escape to terrorize another day? Argath had fired that arrow for the good of the nation; as any noble would have. The death of a commoner weighed against the prosperity of a nation gives one an obvious answer. But of course, commoners cannot be trusted to know right from wrong, and even nobles that bear the minds of a commoner such as the cursed Beoulve. Zalbaag was one befitting of such a heritage!

"Disgusting… commoner… filth…" Argath sputted out, crimson flowing from the corner of his mouth. Ramza Beoulve and Delita Heiral. They had met as friends but had ended up the truest of enemies. Argath had little faith in the commoner, but he had such high hopes for Ramza. That they could be the greatest of friends, allies, and be one of Ivalice's elite in the future. But now Argath lays here, in a pool of his own blood, while Ramza surely points his sword at the family that had made him what he was. Argath was unsure if he should use his last moments to cry, to laugh, or simply glare to the sky, giving the Gods the disdain they so obviously deserved from him.

Before the wench had fallen dead Delita was ready to hate him for what he was. Above him.

Argath was proud how he had handled himself. Though he had no pleasure in killing the whelp, he held no remorse for it. And it showed as such when he looked towards the eyes of the commoner that were now full of hatred. Delita had clenched his sword tight, and was ready to press.

"Is it to be a fight, then? I'm only too happy to oblige!" Argath had called, allowing himself a smile.

As Ramza stood there in shock at his friend's sibling now being nothing more than a corpse, Argath had raised a hand, and whistled in to the howling winds of the cold Fort Ziekden. "Come! I'll I will show you that common blood makes naught but a common man!" He had yelled so triumphantly. It was a fitting sentence; fitting and something he was proud to utter as his troops entered the fray to eliminate the traitorous Beoulve and his disgusting commoner scum of a friend.

And so the battle began. While Ramza's collection of brigands and bandits handled Argath's own collection of men the Beoulve and Delita had focused entirely on eliminating their former friend. A fitting battle for the end-game Argath had supposed. Despite his noble upbringing, and despite his lacking in knighthood, Argath was not a simple swordsman. He handled Ramza and Delita at the same time on equal footing, and with Ramza's continued confusion at his own heritage and family and Delita's burning hatred making him sloppy, Argath found the battle easy.

"Does it grieve you, Delita, to see the depths of your own weakness laid

bare? No mere commoner can leave his mark on history! You've not the power! Be

glad you know enough to lament it. 'Tis all you can do, and more than you

deserve!" Argath had taunted, crossing swords with the commoner. Sparks flew and Delita's arm went flying back as Argath could almost laugh at just how angry he was. The mark of a commoner, slaves to their own emotions.

"Is our forked tongue done flitting? What I'd hear from your lips are

not words!" The commoner had sneered in return, and swung his sword with an enraged roar. It met Argath's and the force was enough to push the noble back. Unfettered, Argath gave the commoner a sneer, spitting on the cold, snow covered ground below.

"Laughter, then? Be not so hasty, Delita! You'll hear that soon enough,

when you are on your way to your dear sister's side!" He had said, his voice as full of contempt and disgust as he could muster at his enemy. But Argath could quickly see that he had made a mistake. Something in Delita had ignited then, and the man came at him with a new fury. Argath raised his sword quickly, ready to parry the incoming blow – but he stopped as he felt something deep, hot, and burning sink in to his back. He looked down to see the end of a sword jutting from his chest, and he knew the cause.

Beoulve. Ramza had decided the worst moment to regain his sense.

As blood spilled in to the snow below Delita ran Argath through with his own sword. It sunk in to his belly and left his back; as Argath immediately became a human pin cushion. Argath gasped; one of his lungs immediately collapsing as he fought to breath, to talk. "N-no… not at the hands of… milkshop rabble…" he muttered, the noble falling to his knees. Delita above him spat on Argath's face, taking out his sword roughly and disemboweling Argath in the process as he left to be with his sister. Ramza stood there for the longest of moments, and Argath wasn't sure what he could see in the handsome young man's eyes. Pity? Sorrow? Whatever it was, it was gone as soon as the boy left, leaving his sword sticking out of Argath's chest; the hilt buried in to his shoulders.

Argath held on to consciousness as long as he could. Long enough to see Delita high above the top of the fort cradle his dead sister's body. As the Fort began to suddenly go up in flames; Argath saw Delita and his whelp of a sibling be overcome with flame. It was a good sight; and a sight that Argath felt was it to be his final vision as he closed his eyes. He wondered how fate would treat Ramza from here on. And he wished nothing but ill will on he and the House of Beoulve. Argath drifted off to the sweet dreams of death with the thought that while he may be a mere footnote in history after this, the man named Delita Heiral died with even less; without a mention in history and not even a sister to watch him to his end.