A Simple Introduction By The Author - This chapter is a bit longer than the other two, and has little action; I think the story stands strong enough on its own to merit the break from adventure and excitement. This story is actually the second advent of a piece I wrote a long time ago and tossed out, dissatisfied. I enjoy the (enormous) changes I've made to it, and I hope that anyone who stumbles in here enjoys it. Reviews are always welcome (especially if they help me correct those pesky little spelling/grammatical errors that seem to slip through no matter how many times I re-read). Thank you for your cooperation.
Three
Ramza and Boco made slow progress across the Mandalia Plain toward Gariland; it had rained during the night, and between the damp and the thunder, they had gotten little sleep during the night. They were both exhausted, and no village they had passed through had potions to help the Squire handle his wound, not even the over-night potions most military squads kept in stock between battles. But he was not dead or dying, and he could still walk, so walk he did.
He had considered bypassing Gariland altogether; after all, if he could find just one village with a chemist, he would be able to get to Dorter on the supplies he had. However, the more and more he thought about it, the more it made sense for him to stop and stock his supplies. He had thought briefly about joining a caravan as a guard, but decided against this; even thieves and smugglers would turn him in for the reward the Church was offering.
If you can't be famous, Ramza thought to himself, be infamous.
Boco squawked feebly, and Ramza could tell by the way the bird was hanging his head that he was tired. Ramza ruffled his feathers a bit, earning him an irritated look, but the two of them continued down the small road, nothing to listen to but wind and their own footsteps. As they crested a hill, the came on a hunched figure, fists planted on his hips, staring at a wagon axel deep in mud. His tunic and breeches were splashed with mud, and it was evident to Ramza that there had been a fierce battle to get the wagon unstuck and that the gentleman had lost. The chocobo yoked to the front squawked and shuffled irritably, which made Ramza chuckle slightly. "You look like you've had a rough day," Ramza said, which made the man whirl around suddenly.
As the man examined him, Ramza realized how suspicious he must have looked; ratty old clothes, a sword at his waist, a wounded shoulder and an exhausted chocobo his only visible possessions otherwise. The man looked him up and down before he spoke. "Reckon you've had a worse day than I have," the man said finally. Ramza unbelted his sword belt and wedged it under his saddlebags on Boco.
"Think I can give you a hand with the wagon?" Ramza asked, rolling up his sleeves. The man looked him up and down again before he nodded. The squire took up a spot next to him, at the back of the wagon, and braced himself against the frame. The man did the same before counting to three; the two of them grunted and heaved, and finally even the yellow chocobo yoked to the front of the vehicle strained and pulled. Between the three of them, the wagon groaned and finally slid up and out of the muddy rut, easing forward a few feet before it stopped.
"Thank you, young man," the older gent said, "I might not have gotten that out by my lonesome."
"It was no problem," Ramza said, "a pleasure to help."
"Can I offer you anything? I am on my way to Pont Mar, a little village south of Gariland. If you're going to the city, that will take you all the way there."
"I could probably use the ride…" Ramza said, rubbing his chin, "but I don't want to impose on you."
"No imposition," the man said, "just a ride. You look like you've pushed that bird harder than it needs to go anyway." Ramza hesitated, but retrieved Boco and tied him up at the back of the wagon. The old man climbed back up to the driver's seat, and Ramza climbed into the bed of hay. "What's your name anyway, kid?"
"Drake Bobbins. Retired soldier," Ramza said sardonically, which earned a laugh from the man. As the cart started to roll, the old man spoke.
"My name's Carn Hugh. I owned a little farm east of Igros, but I have recently decided I did not like the man I was paying taxes to, so I am heading down to Pont Mar, where my two oldest boys have some farmland. It's a long story, how we got so spread out."
"Recently, as in the last few weeks? Or recently as in the last couple years?" This earned a laugh from the old man, who pounded his leg. Ramza obviously did not understand the joke.
"A little bit of the latter, a lot of the former. Marquis Ventram is a military man, but he is not a military man as old Balbanes was. He is a blind follower, and he only knows about rank, privilege and power. Wouldn't know the right thing to do if he read a library of books about it. Then again, Dycedarg was no Balbanes his own self. Started to get right crazy before he died," the old man said, opening up a kit bag to retrieve his pipe, "but wars do that to a lot of people."
They talked for a long time, about the old man's sons and their wives, about how he had decided to leave behind the land he had tended for ten years. They talked about the Lion War, and the refugees. After a while, they lapsed into silence, listening to the rumbling of the wheels and the rustling of the leaves on the trees.
"I was a sergeant," the old man said suddenly, "riding home with Balbanes himself, the Heaven Knight. He was like a statue," the old man said distantly, "carved out of stone. We used to joke about getting Pure hammers when he was too quiet. He would laugh a little at that. He had a sense of humor." The old man filled his pipe with tobacco, started tamping it as Ramza grew quiet. "I remember telling me once that his oldest boys were as clever as could be, born strategists. He had a third son, by another wife, who wasn't quite as bright as his brothers; he used to say the boy had a heart of gold. Not stupid by any means, but he wasn't clever or manipulative the way his older brothers were."
To Ramza's surprise, he puffed the pipe alight without ever retrieving an ember or a matchstick; he turned to regard the squire, smoke drifting from the corners of his mouth between breaths.
"Never sat well with me, the things the church said about that boy. When Dycedarg took the high seat of Beoulve, I knew exactly what old Balbanes had meant when he said 'clever'. He had the mind of a conqueror, not a leader. Not like Balbanes at all, that one. Mind like a wolf, and a heart to match. Crazy times, I tell you," the man said a bit whimsically, as Ramza became very still. His sword was still with Boco, but he was already thinking of what he might have to do to win a fight against the man. It seemed likely the man was a mage of some sort, but that did not mean he was not strong in hand-to-hand combat.
However, before he could think anymore about how a fight might go between himself and this man, the man continued his speech. "Something tells me the Church has its finger in another dirty scheme. I tell you, the Church may claim to save men's souls, but old Balbanes saved my life more times than I can count. I'll take his opinion on that third son," the farmer said, puffing away at his pipe, "as long as you don't mind."
"Seems like everyone's been able to guess who I am," Ramza said glumly, and the man laughed.
"Seems like you haven't noticed that most of the black's washed out of your hair," the old man said. "Not to mention you've been running around in your homelands, where most people can recognize a golden-haired Beoulve when they see one. You remind me of your father. I can see why he liked you. I'm willing to bet you'll tell me the truth if I ask you what happened to your brothers."
Ramza hesitated, but finally spoke. "Dycedarg poisoned father, and poisoned brother too, in a sense. I feel remorse for killing Dycedarg, but after what he had done to our family… I don't feel regret."
The man nodded, turned away. "I'm sorry," he said. "Balbanes deserved a better end."
"He died in bed, surrounded by his family," Ramza answered. "I can't imagine he would have wanted it any other way."
"No," the man said, "I can't imagine he would, either."
Delita struggled to stay silent as Princess Ovelia's 'advisors' bickered over her claim to the throne. After the death of Larg and the destruction of his armies, Orinas could no longer militarily support a claim to the throne; there was little to challenge the forces Delita had marshaled together with the help of the Church and the remains of the Nanten forces. But to keep their support, they all had to believe that he was malleable, that he would be a weak puppet who danced on their strings.
Delita had no choice but to play along… until he was sitting on the throne. Even then, he could not simply assert his authority. There was a long list of kings deposed a matter of weeks after coronation because they thought that title and trappings made the ruler. Delita was not so stupid. But he was not weak, either. And he certainly was not the Church's dog.
His gaze traveled down the table to Ovelia, who sat in an even deeper silence than Delita. They had fought again that morning; she had accused him of manipulating her, and he had accused her of being coy. Delita had the feeling that she would never trust him. During a lull in the conversation, Delita stood, drawing all eyes to him. "I'm afraid I need a constitutional," Delita said. "Perhaps we should adjourn this meeting until later, when the heat of the day isn't making us say things we don't mean." There were a few grumbles around the table, but he knew that the momentum of the argument was fading and that they wanted a break as much as he did. He ducked out of the tent, and waved away the two men who stood up as they saw him. "As you were," he said.
He strolled through the encampment, idly kicking at stones and listening to snatches of conversation. Most of the soldiers in the camp were worried about their wives, or the next battle, or who had taken their latest week's pay in a game of dice. It would have been nice to live so simply again. But here he had power, intrigue, and more money at his disposal than he had any will to spend. What did you get, Ramza?
He ducked into his personal tent, pulling the cape from his shoulders and unwinding the scarf from around his neck. He had been wearing that scarf as a part of his disguise when he defeated Zalbag Beoulve's troops southeast of Zeltennia. The look on his face had been priceless. Zalbag Beoulve could not believe that his brother's friend had defeated him so skillfully. He wore the scarf every day, to remind him of how the mighty could be toppled.
He turned toward the table to pour himself a glass of port, but found his glass already full, a few scraps of parchment sitting next to it. He dipped in his finger, scraped the bottom and sucked the port from his finger, trying to guess whether there was poison in the glass. Satisfied that he would never know if there was, he took a healthy swallow and started to sift through the notes.
"Olan is less concerned with you and more concerned with the church," Balmafula said from the shadows on the far side of the tent, where she smiled mirthlessly. "He's willing to leave you out of his papers if you're willing to give him some sort of protection."
"Any protection I'd give him would have to be under the table," Delita said quietly, knocking back the rest of his glass. "I'm not strong enough to start overtly defying the Church."
"You will be soon," Balmafula said, sauntering forward, her short brown dress given up in favor of a longer, darker number. "Especially with the divisions growing inside the Church."
"Do tell," Delita said, pouring himself another glass of port and one for his 'guest', "unless you came here to generate mystery and speculation." He took a sip, leaned over the map table, and narrowed his eyes. She leaned in close, her face only a foot or so from his, her features grim.
"Funeral's death has caused a schism between those who were loyal to the responsible parties, and those who had no time for Vormav and his little coterie. Leadership of the Church is in doubt; everyone wants a puppet in the high seat, and everyone wants to be pulling the strings. In a month or so, the Church may be so concerned with stabilizing itself that the puppet masters may not be able to keep you where they want you."
"Then maybe it's time to make my move," Delita said quietly, brushing his fingers against the shape of the Germonik Scriptures in his pocket. "Tell Olan I'll give him protection if he needs it, and immunity from my armies and enforcers. In exchange, he will-"
"He wants protection for Ramza Beoulve," Balmafula said, her voice falling to a whisper.
"Ramza Beoulve is dead," Delita said, before he could even consider his reasons for lying. "He died fighting against Kalian, Rowel, Balk and Vormav."
"Where?" Balmafula demanded, edging closer.
"Orbonne Monastery." All the intelligence he could gather suggested that Vormav and his cohorts disappeared there, and that Ramza followed them in. That Ramza had come out alive said that Vormav probably had not.
"Then…" Balmafula met Ramza only once, and had never really developed an opinion about the man, but Delita and Olan's feelings were clear about him. Delita hoped that his lies would make Ramza safer.
"They're dead. In that, Ramza succeeded. As for the rest of his army, those who weren't decimated have disappeared."
"We've heard reports that he's moved west, through southern Ivalice."
"Rumors. I had his body buried myself."
"Why not tell the Church?" Balmafula asked. "Why not take credit for his death?"
"Maybe I just haven't gotten around to it," Delita said wryly. She arched her brow, and the Holy Knight chuckled. "As long as the Church never finds him, he'll always be a thorn in their side, even if he never does anything to them again. If the Church were to learn of his death, he would disappear into their history as another evil doer punished."
"You never think of anyone but yourself, do you?" She asked angrily. "It's all about whom you want to punish or spite, or who you want to reward, or who you want something from. You're a selfish bastard."
"Considering the amount of trouble I went through to fake your death, I would think you'd know better," Delita growled quietly, "but since-" he didn't have time to finish his sentence before she leaned forward, grabbed a handful of his hair and kissed him, passionately and deeply. She pulled away, breathless, and turned toward the opening of the tent, picking up a cloak she had left lying across a chair.
"I wish I'd never met you," she said huskily, her hands shaking with some combination of overwhelming emotions.
"I think everyone feels that way, given a little time." She threw her cloak over her shoulders, drew the hood up, and stormed out; Delita could hear her demanding an escort from one of the Holy Knight's personal guards. Delita took a sip of port, flipping through the notes she had left behind, and for the thousandth time wondered if being king was really worth all that the last two years had cost him.
Ramza's sword spun and flashed, its edge finding Altima three times in the five strikes he launched. The celestial being reeled, drew back- and screamed as Agrias finally closed the range enough to score a hit with her Holy Explosion ability. Orlandu and Beowulf were almost close enough to hit, and Meliadoul was seeing Alma to a safe corner. Ramza turned his eyes up to the archangel and drew back his sword for another blow. He turned his eyes up to the being, met its gaze, and for a moment almost pitied the thing.
Almost.
Ramza leapt, not bothering to attempt a feint but simply driving his blade into the chest of the thing. He felt it swipe at him, felt the archangel tear his flesh open and draw his blood. But he drove the sword through its chest to the hilt, heard it screem in agony, felt it shudder as he twisted the blade. Altima wrenched away from him, tearing the sword from his hands as he crashed to the ground.
"I will… kill you!" The archangel screamed in impotent rage, spittle and blood flying from its lips. Ramza pushed himself to his feet, preparing to make a grab for his sword, when the thing's eyes flashed and turned upon him.
"More… power," it said breathlessly, its eyes becoming bright with unholy light, the veins and arteries in its arms and face beginning to pulse and turn white. Ramza backed away, his eyes fixed on the thing, consumed with the inability to do anything. For a moment, the squire was consumed by the certainty that he was about to die; then light, bright and hellish and fierce, swallowed him.
Ramza fell for what felt like centuries. He could see the others falling as well, Alma and Agrias and Orlandu, all of them. He fell, and as the darkness was swallowing them, he felt a pulse. As though his heart had risen up into his brain, his head pounded and his temples began to ache, and the Aries Holy Stone he kept in his tunic, underneath his armor, began to warm and then to grow hot. Behind his eyes, he felt-
The world opened, and he fell through into everywhere and nowhere.
Ramza remembered falling into the yawning grace of salvation and thought he was waking up on the slopes of a hill near Orbonne Monastery again, listening to the waves of the nearby lake ebb and flow. The sound of those waves lingered longest; even as he realized he was in a pile of hay, staring up at the sky. The stars were beginning to twinkle, and the sun was sinking below the horizon.
"We're almost to the city," Carn said, We'll probably get there in half an hour or so."
"How long have I been sleeping?" Ramza asked.
"A couple of hours." Carn answered. "You probably needed it." Ramza glanced down at his shoulder, tugged his tunic away to look at the wound. It was pink and tender, but a potion from the last village had healed it nicely. He sat up and saw the city of Gariland approaching. "There's a chest, back there," the old man said, "it's got some of my old clothes in there- there's a green tunic and a floppy green hat that should fit you, and a pair of brown pants that belonged to my son." Ramza began to shrug himself out of his blood shirt and torn, dirtied pants he was wearing.
"Is there a good place to put my sword?" Ramza asked, and the old man glanced back at him.
"Put it on. Sometimes farm families have swords; just look awkward with it. You know? Act like when you first started wearing one." Ramza chuckled and fastened the scabbard to his back.
As they reached the gate, the sun was below the horizon and the road was lit by lamp and torchlight from the gate and the wall. Guards were posted on either side of the gate, wearing armor, swords, and shields. When the wagon pulled up to them, Ramza felt his heart seize up for a brief moment before the tension passed. This happened before every battle, but Ramza hoped that this time, things would end peacefully.
"State your origin and purpose," one of the guards said, examining both Carn and Hugh.
"From a farm east of Igros," the old man said, "headed south toward Pont Mar. Just staying the night."
"Where'd you get the sword, kid?" one of the guards said, grinning. "Steal it off a merchant's guard?"
"I didn't steal anything!" Ramza said, trying to sound indignant. "We paid a merchant for it, with our own money." The guards chuckled, and the first guard waved them through.
"Well, kid, you look like you've got a princess to save and a kingdom to defend, so we won't keep you. Don't draw your sword, kid," the guard said, "unless you want to see us again."
Ramza refrained from telling him that he'd already saved the princess and that there was nothing more he could do for the kingdom, but he simply frowned and replied, "I won't." The wagon rumbled into motion again, and the two of them entered Gariland unhindered.
"Good show," Carn said quietly as they left the guards behind. "Maybe you should find a theatre and take up acting."
"If you'd grown up with my brother, you'd have learned about acting and deception, too…" Ramza said, a bit distantly. "He was the best."
"I imagine that's true," Carn said, nibbling at the stem of his pipe. "I imagine that's true."