Chapter 13: The World That Stayed the Same
"Ramza..." he whispered out his name. A speck of noise that would be consumed as nothing if there was but a single other sound.
"I'm here, Delita." Ramza's sabatons scrapped against the floor and drew closer. His hand reached beneath the sheets.
Warm, rough and calloused like always. But stronger now. Concern or ignorance the grip he gave was ironclad. Not enough to be painful, but he could tell, while Delita wasted away in bed, Ramza had grown stronger of arm. No doubt fleeter of foot and swifter of mind as well!
Even these conditions showed the divide of common and noble. Even noble bastard.
"That's enough hand holding," a scratchy woman's voice intruded. Ramza's hands were pried away after a short shuffle of robes. "You've done enough these months, boy; let us care for him now."
What...?
"Very well," said Ramza and his footsteps moved away. "Get better soon, Delita."
He left, just like that.
Before Delita could say another word, new hands took to his body. They felt old and leathery, the vague memory of grandmother's blinking through his mind. Her fingers darted around his skin, slightly colder than his own. The pain welled up wherever she touched, and he sputtered out when his joints were invaded.
"Feels like your nerves are still working. But we won't know for certain 'til you get back on your feet. Even the worst burn spots appear naught permanent. The Gods favored you like no other, boy."
The Gods! What had they done save torture him!? However long he remained was a day too many! "Months...?"
"Two, since your arrival. It's 27 Gemini now."
It was 22 Aries when they laid siege the Fort! By the Gods, he'd laid infirm a sixth of the year! Two months gone without proper burial for Tietra. Two months festering in Eagrosse while Ramza grew fitter. Two months justice went unabated and traitors ran free!
"Rest now, drink. We'll get you settled and ready rehabilitation tomorrow."
"Now." He struggled up, even as his muscles barely allowing him. "Now!" he shouted as well he could. A child's plea falling on uncaring ears. "Now." His body gave way back in soft mattress. "Now..." Wasteful tears soaked his mask...
"Yes," she harped, "yes, we'll let you crawl on your elbows and knees around these halls. Let you blind yourself. You are certainly the most accomplished physician in the room. What would I know, I only served all fifty years in the war."
There was no such person at the Beoulve Manse... "Whom...?"
"Ward Priestess Cwengyth." A completely unfamiliar name. "Your nurse is Casey; you should remember your friend, Ramza."
Had he convinced his villainous brothers to get a new white mage for him? What about Gylda? Or Deitrich?
"How...?"
"Long?" She hummed at the thought. "We'll see, with the Gods favor you'll be walking in two weeks' time."
"Slow."
"Slow?" she squawked at him. "Boy, there is no name in any book that will say they've gone as many days as you without food. Starving armies in the Fifty Years' War surrendered after seven days, let alone two months. That you're even alive is a miracle of the Gods and the watchful eye of your friend."
Foul then, he was here by friend's brother's orders.
"He's been here every lunch after morning training. Every dinner after magick training. First light, last light. I've seen lovers less concerned with their other's well-being, ser."
To think his last words towards him were a threat.
"He broke from Alfredo's training to see you."
Another name unfamiliar to him. Had the Corpse Brigade's assassination attempt dealt such significant casualties to the Northern Sky?
If only they'd succeeded.
"We'll start with readying your eyes by filtered moonlight at sundown. You've naught been a prisoner in lightless halls for a year, but two months is enough time for your vision to be unaccustomed to lights. We'll ease your body back, as one would do before physical activity."
There was naught he could do to reject. "Yes."
"Casey shall be within a yell's range." She paused. "Or closer, yes." She withdrew from his bedside. "If you feel any changes, speak at once."
He repeated himself, and her footsteps, muffled by cloth left soon after.
Casey, or he presumed as she had not spoken yet, remained nearby. Settling some wooden scratches that would belong to a chair.
There was nothing he would speak of, more so in his current condition of one word at a time. Save all his strength for Ramza, recovery, revenge.
Time passed. A hundred heartbeats, two, three and more 'til his counting gave way in annoyance. Turned towards the steps of battle. Squire arts, archery forms. Tactics and stratagems to peel noble hide.
He asked for water, drank it when offered. Kept it down.
If any hint of his akademy training remained he awoke at light's dawn. Had it been a day yet? Half? This helpless restlessness... Was this what Lord Barbaneth felt on his own deathbed? Body wracked by unfeeling disease. Naught but mind's excessive pace to keep from descending to madness?
But he could speak more than a word. Even as life faded from him, he struck terror into Ordallia's armies with mind alone.
Where only a hint of that nobility present in his eldest spawn. All the honor their lord father held dear dying with Tietra.
If only—if only Lord Barbaneth had survived! There would be no Corpse Brigade, no painful reparations from Ordallia. He would not tolerate such vile acts that Dycedarg and Zalbaag did without thought and consequence.
There was no use dreaming of such world. Nor praying there was answer in Beoulve ever again. Try as Ramza might, he was not his lord father.
No, if he wanted a world without victims like Tietra, he'd need to make it with his own hands. Strangle nobles who strangled commons. No more!
His hands clenched—meager, pathetic, all the power he held could not even slightly harm his palms. He would get power. He would recover and break Dycedarg and Zalbaag!
He would savor and seethe and bare false smile towards them while hiding dagger behind back. Nay, bolt. Let them feel the same kiss of death they'd ordered Tietra felled with.
He would have his vengeance.
Thoughts of such sustained him. At midday she broke for lunch. But Ramza did not come.
Her return explained why. The Alfredo instructor kept him behind for breaking early.
He wondered why Ramza was undergoing training again. They had matched sword with Wiegraf Folles.
But it was for him. Ramza would not act as Northern knight while any chance remained unknown when he would awaken.
What then of Fulke, Stone, Gylda, Maragrete, Deitirch and Pelinne? Where they set about as knights? Or did the traitor's fate await them?
Questions he would have answered to soon.
Evening meal came, as Casey left and returned. Water for him again.
Metal struck stone.
Ramza arrived.
Breath thrice heavier than before, he said. "I'm so glad you're awake."
"Ramza..."
"My apologies, I should have braved the flames and reached you, and Tietra. This never should have happened."
It should not have. But this ugly world was what he had to deal with now. "Tell." He could not even choke out an "all" to end that.
But his friend understood, and only a moment's hesitation passed before he said, "Very well."
He started at the beginning, as most story's did. With Gylda, Fulke and everyone dragging him kicking and screaming to Gariland. His encounter with the High Confessor! His separation. His anointment as a Knights Templar.
Delita near choked on his throat at the news. They were at Mullonde of all places?
His new training under the Templarate officer Alfredo, in tandem with the Grand Master's children. Breaking old-found ways to learn the deeper depths of sword arts.
Their deployment to Gariland to safeguard church against Corpse Brigade.
Finding him. Laid bare in bed. Against superior's orders he dragged him back.
Two months of piety and after. Every day did he come by and imbue Delita's unconscious body with all the white magicks and chakras he could. Sword in morning; spell in afternoon. Finding him had redoubled his efforts. His voice twinged with devotion, the same once reserved for his lord father and brothers.
But they'd seen how swiftly admiration could turn to disgust. Delita did not trust the church any more than any man who claimed nobility. He would tell Ramza of this.
Ramza went into details, then. Of the mighty dame Meliadoul, her energetic brother Isilud. Their stern but righteous father, the grand master Folmarv. Cletienne who taught spells of power to Ramza. Alfredo who did not bow to Beoulve name on the field as their akademy instructors once did. The equal-speech of a man called Loffrey. Even the brusqueness of Barich.
A cold shiver ran through Delita's spine at the warmth of Ramza's words. Friends and master replaced in two months' time. The latter by any good mind, but to leave their akademy-mates like this did not sit well. The Templars should have offered pardons for them as well. Not let their fates run undecided on chance the Northern Sky sought Beoulve more.
He would have words, once words were his.
The pace lowered, becoming more of little things. How Ramza had learned curaga, bolta and other middle-line black magicks. Protect, shell and regen from white's discipline and fancy words of an orator to never repeat his mistake in Gariland, or Ziekden Fortress. He spread himself to every corner of competency he could while waiting on Delita's recovery.
When his hands were fit to swing sword again, Delita would be hard-pressed to match him. Even if he put all his heart into training, there was no surpassing a Beoulve devoted to skill. Things he, or any other at the akademy, found difficult came as natural as breathing to Ramza. Gylda had focused so intently on her white magicks and Ramza now measured her equal. Fulke had spent every waking moment as a knight, and Ramza surpassed him and learned the monk's arts on the side.
The world was unfair and painful.
But Delita would need every unfair advantage possible if he—they were to ruin the elder Beoulves.
"Revenge." The longest word yet from his lips.
Ramza clasped in his hands around his. "Justice, Delita. We'll see justice done. We'll drag their ill-mannered truth to light and set right the House."
Ever softhearted he was. This was a righteous killing. Not besmirching Beoulve pride!
But such could wait for real words, outside one's head.
"Rest well, Delita," said Ramza. He broke his grip, stood up. "I will see you in the morning."
Hopefully, by then, he could see again.
Ramza left. Exchanging words with Casey before his metal steps faded away. The nurse came by, exchanging water and keeping his comfort.
Time came for his blinding mask to be removed. To darkness, with a hint of shape nearby. No light broke in whatever room he had, windows shut or none at all he could not tell.
Slowly did some sense of focus come into being. There was no detail, nor sharpness in what he saw. Black on black, but the hints of movement were there. Her, first, then the bed and his own struggles. A slight twitch of a light beyond closed door—so soft to be a trick.
Form turned to outline, turned to awareness. Her hands, once undefined blobs, became fist and fingers. Two, she held out, and he spoke as such. Four, five one and three, they did run.
"Good, good," she encouraged him. "This is new for me as well, so we're both learning, hm?"
Far from encouraging, that!
Little choice did he have, and continued her works. Color never reached him, but the shape of the room, length of the bed, and the table with tray nearby became visible. As did the division between robe and maiden's skin.
That was it. After another hundred heartbeats there was no improvement. Even as she spoke plans for tomorrow, he scare paid attention. He would get his eyesight back, his legs, and swordarm. He would learn all the Templars could tech and tear apart those who wronged him.
The world that stayed the same, would change by his hand.