The sky rumbled and the dark clouds writhed as the storm grew above. Ramza stood at the crest of a hill overlooking Bariaus Valley, partially under the cover of a great weeping willow. He could smell the lightning in the air, and he knew that the storm would be a mean one. Already, the others were double-staking each of the tents and weighing down the canvas flaps with heavy rocks and chests. He closed the book he'd been scribbling in, a leatherbound diary that detailed Ramza's journey from his first battle until that very morning.
There was something on the Squire's mind that he couldn't put his finger on. There was an itch, and Ramza couldn't think for the life of him how to scratch it. The thought of reaching his destination instilled in him a peculiar dread he had never before experienced."A week or so and we'll be at Orbonne Monastery," Ramza said to no one in particular. "Then maybe this will all be over."
"Maybe," Meliadoul said from behind him, with a chill in her voice that reminded Ramza of a winter morning. "Or maybe it will simply continue as we fight against the next conspirator, and the next after that. Or will it end when you have to fight Delita? Will that be too much for you?" Meliadoul said, folding her arms across her chest. Ramza turned to her, smiling sadly.
"One thing at a time." Ramza said softly, and Meliadoul said, tugging her cloak closed as she walked to Ramza's side. "We'll probably want to cook dinner inside one of the larger tents, and move the wagons to higher ground. The last thing we want is for them to get stuck in the mud, in the morning. You know, I read somewhere that storms are nature's way of trying to restore natural harmony. That there's a large inbalance in the air, in the sky and that storms are fighting to restore that balance.
"My nurse always told me that storms were arguments between God and his angels," Meliadoul said with a chuckle. "usually over something people had done wrong."
"I think my nurse said it was usually my fault," Ramza said with a rueful smile, "and my brothers usually agreed."
"Why did you go against your brothers?" Meliadoul asked quizzically, making Ramza blink. "They were the last of your family, and you turned against them and all the tradition of your name. What made you do it?"
"What made you turn against your father?" Ramza asked frankly. "A week from now, we may be fighting him to the death."
"He… stands for everything I fight against. He took the things I loved and respected and twisted them to his own purposes." Meliadoul said, her angry voice betraying an undercurrent of pain.
"I don't know how to put it in words," Ramza said. "I'm just doing what I think is right."
"A lot of people try to do what they think is right," Meliadoul said, "but even when their families support them, it's hard to disobey society. How did you do it?" Meliadoul asked.
"I don't know… I just did it." the squire said, shrugging.
"You're a great man," Meliadoul said distantly, and when she turned to him she had a strange look in her eyes.
"I wish you wouldn't call me that." the Squire said darkly. "Delita is a great man. Great men do terrible things and start terrible wars for… ideals and theories. I'm just a good man, for whatever that's worth." Ramza sighed irritably, and ducked under the drooping branches of the willow. "Come on, we'd better get to camp before they start cookfires outside."
"Or build them in one of the tents without any ventilation, again," Meliadoul said distantly.
That night's meal was raucous and loud; the laughter and yelling nearly drowned out the howling wind outside. Ramza smiled occasionally, scribbling in his diary by the light of a candle that sat in a growing puddle of wax on the makeshift table. Mustadio was doing impressions and Orlandu was taking turnss puffing at a long clay pipe and telling stories about his adventures during the Fifty Years War. A few of the soldiers were singing and clapping each other on the back and trying to make the most of an altogether bleak night. Beowulf glanced at Ramza's journal, glanced up at his face, and without any ado extinguished the candle that Ramza had been writing by. Ramza glanced up at the Magical Swordsman, his face contorted in irritation.
"The men are under a lot of stress," Beowulf said lightly. "The last thing they need is their commander looking incredibly serious and worried."
"I don't look worried," Ramza said, closing the book, "I look focused. And I am focused; there's a lot to do before we assault Orbonne Monastery."
"These men are being so loud and merry not because they're carefree and lighthearted, but because we all might be blamed for the death of High Priest Funeral and we're all a little nervous about what comes next."
"So tell me, Beowulf," Ramza said patiently, "would you feel more confident about a leader who was drinking and laughing or a leader who was planning the next step and thinking about how to win the next battle?"
"Are you asking me honestly?" Beowulf replied. He answered the squire by placing a bottle of wine and an empty glass in front of Ramza.
"Fair enough," Ramza said. "Pour me a glass while I get a coal or something. I need to finish up this last page."
"Good man," Beowulf said with a laugh, pouring for Ramza. Ramza stood and walked to the fire, shaking his head.
"No, I've actually had that scar since I was a kid," Mustadio said of the pale slash that ran up along his right bicep. "A thief came after me in Goug, wanted all the money I had. I didn't happen to have any, but he gave me a few good slashes and took my wallet before he'd believe me."
"Honestly, don't they have any law enforcement at all in that city?" Agrias fumed.
"It's like that in all big cities," Mustadio said. "Guards can't keep everyone safe all of the time. Any time there're people with no money, they'll do whatever they have to for food or shelter. Some people can fight off desperation, keep to what they know is right. Some people can't. It's easy to talk about principles when you've got a full stomach and a warm fire," Mustadio said, wryly.
"I'm not a noble. I'm just from a family of knights," Agrias said defensively.
"People on bottom have a hard time telling the difference. All they see are people who don't have to wake up before dawn and go to bed after nightfall just to keep their family and their tiny house." Mustadio shrugged. "It's like Wiegraf. He had a lot of principles, but fine clothes and a steady place to live is hard to turn down. Power, above all things, is a great temptation."
"What about Ramza?" Agrias said. "Ramza turned away from nobility to do the right thing."
"That's because Ramza's a great man," Mustadio said with a shrug. "Then again, you're not so bad yourself. You could have given into the Church, given up on the princess. I respect that you kept to your beliefs." Mustadio knocked back the brandy he was drinking with a grin.
"You know, I really disliked you when we first met." Agrias said wryly.
"I know you did," Mustadio said with a chuckle. "and I forgive you."
She arched a brow. "I beg your pardon? Forgive me?"
After a couple glasses of wine, Ramza excused himself from the table (where they had begun to chant a limerick about him) and stepped out into the rain. The wind howled and it took almost no time for him to be soaked, but the warm weather made it tolerable, even nice. Ramza saw the willow at the top of the hill, its branches swept almost horizontal by the fierce wind, and something drew him toward it, even as the wind cut through is clothes and plastered his wet blonde hair to his head. He walked up to the top of the hill and closed his eyes, holding his head up high.
"A lie," whispered a hoarse voice behind him that he immediately recognized. He turned sharply, but saw no one there, saw nothing at all but rain and the distant flashes of lightning.
"It was a lie you told Meliadoul. You know what turned you against your brothers," said the disembodied voice of Dycedarg, speaking from nowhere, "even if you refuse to admit it even to yourself." Ramza dizzily turned around and around, trying to find the source of the voice.
"You remember that day at Fort Zeakden," Dycedarg hissed. "You remember Teta and Algus and Zalbag. But most of all you remember Miluda."
Ramza walked all the way around the tree, whispering. "I killed you, Dycedarg. You killed Zalbag and I killed you."
"No, Ramza," Dycedarg giggled, "You killed Zalbag. And as sad as it made you, you didn't apologize, did you? Because he and I killed Teta. And before that, at the Fovoham Plains we sent you against Miluda. We sent you after the first woman you ever slew, Ramza. What was that like?" Dycedarg said sickeningly. Ramza turned around angrily.
"You killed innocent people for your scheming and plotting!" Ramza yelled. His voice hardly carried at all, as noisy as the storm was. Was he going mad? Was he becoming insane?
"At least there was purpose to my killing. When you think about Miluda, lying in a puddle of her own blood with your sword in her heart, is it a comfort to think of that act as 'duty' or 'honor'?" Dycedarg said sweetly, and Ramza was almost sure that the voice was coming from his own head.
"You gave your own brother to the Undead," Ramza cried, "used us as pawns until you couldn't use us anymore. And then you turned on us, on your sister!"
"Now we're coming to it," Dycedarg said, and a cruel laugh filled Ramza's ears. "Don't back away, Ramza. Confront it. Learn yourself before your opponents do!"
"You always resented me," Ramza yelled into the howling wind, "made me feel small and insignificant. I felt guilty for fighting against you at first, Dycedarg, but I don't regret it anymore! You represent everything that father despised, and everything I despise!"
"Then do something about it!" Dycedarg screamed, and this time he was behind Ramza, really behind Ramza. Ramza turned and without looking shouted, "Bolt Four!"
Lightning arced and flashed, and suddenly Ramza was on his back, dazed and numb all over. He could see the willow split and burning, the rain unable to extinguish it before the wood was consumed by the unnatural and unimaginable heat of the magical spell. Dycedarg hadn't been there after all. Was Ramza going mad?
"Seven days until you join me in the City of the Dead," Dycedarg said. "Seven days until you leave this plane. Clear your conscience, brother," Dycedarg said with a laugh. "Confess!"
"My god!" Meliadoul said, kneeling beside him. Mustadio and Orlandu was there, too. Agrias joined, and soon, it seemed the whole squad was there. "What were you thinking? That lightning could have killed you! Standing next to a tree in the middle of storm like this, what did you expect?"
"I just wanted some fresh air," Ramza muttered, as they hoisted him up and carried him to his tent. Three times he was restored by cure spells, until he was perfectly fine and then they continued just to be sure.
They lay him down on his cot, and he groaned pitifully, his head still dazed. "Meliadoul," he said, as the rest of the group started to leave, "stay here a moment." The group looked at each other in surprise, but Meliadoul threw back her hood and sat next to him on a wooden chest.
"I didn't tell you the truth, earlier. The reason I turned against my brothers… there were a lot of reasons. I killed a woman," Ramza said, "a member of the Death Corps. Miluda Folles, Wiegraf's sister. I killed her myself, and I don't remember why anymore. I know that there shouldn't be a difference between killing a man or killing a woman, but there is. I can hardly remember what Teta looked like, but I'll remember Miluda's glazed eyes until the day I die. I don't even remember why I killed her," the squire said, shaking. Meliadoul's eyes narrowed in concern and she leaned in, whispering that he was delirious.
"Then there was Teta. Zalbag gave the order to have Teta murdered, an innocent girl. Dycedarg sent Zalbag into battle even though she wasn't safe yet, and she died so his plans would succeed. She was like a sister, Meliadoul," Ramza whispered, "like a sister. She was just an innocent girl, and every time I think of her I remember that thousands of innocent people have died in this war and they'll never be remembered by history because they were 'commoners'. But that's not the only reason either. The reason is…" He swallowed, and she leaned in close.
"The reason is, I was terrified of my brothers. I was the worst of them, and I knew it. I was the son of another mother, and they resented me for it. And when that Fort exploded and Delita and Teta died- I thought Delita had died- I swore I would never be afraid of anyone again, that I would never follow my brothers because I was afraid of them." Ramza felt his eyes moisten, and he swallowed. "I'm not a great man, Meliadoul. I'm just an ordinary man who is tired of being weak."
"Shhhh," Meliadoul said, moistening a towel in a bowl of water, "every great man has a reason for being great. I-"
"I don't want to be great," he said angrily, "and I'm not."
"Ramza?" Beowulf said, entering. He drew back a little at a withering stare from Meliadoul. "I brought your book and pen. And I brought a candle, in case you want to do some writing."
"Thank you, Beowulf," Ramza said, as the Temple Knight put the book on his chest and lit the candle on a plate next to his bed. Beowulf left hurriedly, as Ramza flipped to the last page he had been writing and glanced over the scrawl. As Meliadoul stood, Ramza stopped her, saying, "Wait… would you like to sit and talk a while?"
Meliadoul hesitated, and for a moment Ramza thought he could see a little of the old suspicion in her eyes, the face she'd worn when first they'd met upon the battlefield. But she sat again, and the corners of her mouth twitched up into a smile.
"For a little while," she said.