A/N: Hi, everyone, we're back again! First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who has been keeping up with this fic for the last 3 years and apologize for the late updates since life does tend to get in the way sometimes :) To avoid confusion, I want to make it clear that all interludes are flashbacks that occur within the main story and are written by Falchion1984 whom I want to thank for helping to make this fic possible. Enjoy and please review!

Interlude 4, Part 2: To Endure is To Heal

All who knew Ramza Beoulve – not the scion of the once mighty House Beoulve, nor the most infamous heretic of the last century, nor even the reluctant warrior who'd hazard his own life to save others despite how he loathed killing – and knew him truly, would agree that the man was perseverant...

…and, many of those would allege that it was to the point of lunacy.

Ramza did not entirely disagree, for he'd embarked on many a seemingly mad errand in his quest to save Ivalice from the depredations of demonkind. He had left behind a life of luxury and prestige because he hadn't cared for the family patriarch's belief in the acceptability of betraying a solemn oath and sanctioning the killing of an innocent girl. He had taken into his company people who'd once been his enemies, as well as strangers who themselves were hunted and invited further pursuers amongst an already congested procession.

And yet, he regretted none of that.

Granted, many of the lives he'd taken during his journey he wished he could give back, but he would never wish to take back his decision to help Mustadio to rescue his father from the Baert Trading Company's hired blades, to save Agrias from pursuit by the Gryphon Knights, to help Rafa free her brother from Barrington's clutches, to help Beowulf find a way to turn Reis back into a human and then rescue her from Bremondt, to derail the Battle of Fort Besselat and, with it, a massacre of horrific proportions, or to oppose the Lucavi and their catspaws amongst the Knights Templar.

This, and much more, he had done to safeguard the people of Ivalice, though they neither knew it nor would they thank him if they did.

But, that was alright, for Ramza cared nothing for their thanks.

He had done it because, as corrupt and cruel as the people of Ivalice could be, they were still the people he'd pledged his life to. As a boy, he had vowed that he would grow up to be a knight and, when his term at the Academy had drawn near, and the threshold of manhood with it, he had reaffirmed that pledge.

Though harsh reality had tempered his dream, and himself with it, he had nonetheless sworn, then and now, that his blade would defend the helpless and his might would uphold the weak so long as the shadow of death found him to be elusive quarry.

Even as they'd whispered aspersions against him for crimes he did not commit, the pain and suffering the Ivalician people had gone through during the war, he'd felt. And, their joy at the brighter future that seemed to be near at hand, he'd shared.

Even knowing what Delita had done to bring it about, Ramza had to admit that life in Ivalice was taking a turn for the better. Though his old friend's motives and intentions had been so askew, so tainted by bitter anger, warped pride, vainglorious ambitions, and old grudges that should have been left to heal rather than fester, the Duke of Lionel had nonetheless found himself thinking that his fondest wish, that Rachel might grow up in a better world than her parents had, might indeed come to pass.

That Ramza Beoulve had to die, seemingly, and be remembered with such infamy and scorn seemed a small price to pay by comparison. And, though many had paid a far higher price than he, far higher than even a good king was within his rights to ask, the apparent end to generations of misrule might, given time, balance the scales.

And then, when he'd arrived in Lesalia, and saw that the now empty shanty towns were still standing and that the city gates hadn't been rebuilt, a sudden thunderhead had stolen over the rising sun of this brighter future. It had darkened further when Delita had not only failed to greet them, but had suddenly made himself so scarce that even his own bodyguards were hard-pressed to sniff him out. What this had portended, Ramza had not been able to foresee, but he'd been certain of one thing.

Something, somewhere, was going terribly wrong.

Discreet questions had been asked, but all in vain as most knew less than he. But then, he'd chanced upon Delita's attempt to hurl himself from the balcony.

He could still remember the shock of it. There had been Delita, once coldly stoic and unflappable, who'd schemed his way to the throne and left a trail of blood in his wake, all with the cold indifference of a wandering star's distant glow. And yet, there he was, driven near to madness by a morass of guilt and regrets that had been, belatedly, unleashed by a conscience that had, at long last, decided to strike back.

Ramza had managed, barely, to keep knowledge of this episode from escaping his trusted circle. He'd also managed, barely, to talk Agrias out of dragging Delita back to the balcony and hurling him off in retribution for coercing her sister in all but blood into marrying him and then nearly making her a widow.

After that, the Duke of Lionel had tried to determine just what might arrest Delita's slide into madness, all while pointedly keeping his search a secret from Alma.

After all, given that she was gambling that she could find an acceptable husband, close enough in looks to the late Izlude Tingel, and quickly enough that he'd not realize the child she bore was another man's handiwork, the Duchess of Lionel surely had enough on her mind as it was.

So, after the first ball, and already nursing a headache from both Alma's reticence to choose a suitor and how his lecturing her had caused her to pass out from the strain, promptly earning him a stern lecture from Agrias, Ramza had decided to track down Delita and see if there was any other way he could ruin his evening.

That evening had very nearly proven his last when, hearing a commotion from a basement that had hitherto escaped his notice, he'd followed the sound and very nearly gotten his head cut off.

Though Delita was still the finer warrior between the two of them, his derangement had driven all technique from his mind and had him flailing every which way in a fit of demented rage.

All Ramza had to do was tire him out, disarm him, and jolt him back to reality, which led to another picture of just how far Delita had believed himself to have fallen. The lives he had taken, through action and inaction alike, how he'd matched and then exceeded the hubris of the warring dukes and the corrupt church, and how he'd exploited the adulation, and the need, of the people who'd believed in him, all to settle a grudge with a man long dead and to avenge a sister who would've been horrified at what he'd done in her name.

And, to top it all off, his madness had painted the face of that long dead and yet hated man over that of the man who, once upon a time, had been his brother in all but blood, driving him to seek, and very nearly take, the life of one who, even now, had come to him out of concern for a friend.

Most people would've called it justice to have killed Delita.

Most people likely would've considered it a mercy, given the man's state of despairing derangement.

But, as has been said time and again, Ramza was not "most people".

Delita was no saint – quite the opposite, in fact – but, Ramza's travels since leaving House Beoulve behind had been more than enough to impress upon him how the decades of corruption and misrule had scarred Ivalice. And, though Delita had chosen to do much that was deplorable in order to change that, and his debt to the dead was a sizable one, it did not change the fact that much good might yet be done for the people who, though still bruised and bleeding, were keen to reclaim their futures.

As Delita was the king, and the sole remaining power broker in Ivalice after all his contemporaries had been slain, his mind and will were needed, intact, to bring those bright futures to fruition.

The legend of the fairy-tale prince sprung from the pages to set aright a floundering kingdom was, in no small part, a contrivance. But, the people, if not out of ignorance than out desperate need, still believed in that tale. And, more to the point, they believed that the man who was the hero of that tale might yet guide them from the long era of gloomy twilights and bleak nights into a brighter dawn.

For all the lives Delita had callously taken to seize the crown, the Ivalician people nonetheless needed him.

For all the wrongs Delita had done to win his kingship, his kingship has to succeed.

After all, what was the alternative?

And, bizarre though it might've sounded to anyone else, and in spite of everything Delita had done, and done to him, Ramza still considered Delita to be a friend.

As Delita himself had said, though their methods might've differed, their goals hadn't. And, though one could certainly argue that he'd done so for his own purposes, Delita had never directly tried to harm Ramza and had even aided him a few times, not the smallest of which being giving him and Alma a new home and new identities so they might have a chance to live normal lives.

Whatever Delita had done to attain the throne of Ivalice, and whatever motives he'd had to help Ramza, the Duke of Lionel knew that there was strong evidence that Delita's soul was not nearly as twisted and perverted as he'd believed. In fact, his breakdown was proof.

After all, if Delita was as far gone as he'd thought, then he would not have been driven to the brink when his conscience struck back at him.

In that case, there would not have been a conscience to strike back.

Still, though Ramza had listened to Delita's admissions of guilt like a priest in a confessional – which, given both men's stormy history with the church, was yet another irony heaped onto a towering pile – Ramza knew better than to think that such a deep wound of the spirit could be mended so easily.

So, Ramza had lingered at Delita's shoulder as the two had exited the war council chamber, trying – unsuccessfully, he suspected – to keep a straight face as Delita explained to a gobsmacked manservant what had happened in the much dreaded, and now much demolished, warren.

The scene which played out when the two men had emerged was especially striking to the Duke of Lionel, and he hoped that it was not lost on the still fragile Delita.

Once the pair had emerged from the well-hidden door, they'd spied a group of Chimera Knights and several castle servants, all bearing frantic expressions and wheezing as thought they'd spent hours running hither and yon in a desperate search.

Searching, Ramza suspected, for their elusive king.

Spotting their monarch, several gasped in amazement and unadulterated relief before very nearly collapsing to one knee in grateful supplication.

All of them, Ramza noticed, looked relieved. So incredibly relieved, as though terrible burden upon their shoulders had suddenly eased. One of them was even trying, unsuccessfully, to keep his eyes averted so that none would notice how his eyes had misted.

Not many prior lords and monarchs could claim that they could elicit such a reaction simply by reemerging after a troubling absence, nor could many claim to command such devotion from those who served them.

The demise of Queen Ruvelia, and Dukes Larg and Goltana had, reportedly, been celebrated in out-of-the-way corners and spoken in voices hushed and yet ringing with condemnation. Duke Barrington would likely have suffered similar posthumous vilification had those who'd dealt with him directly not been slaughtered during the Horror of Riovanes. And, though Cardinal Draclau and Marquis Elmdor had been loved by those they governed, Ramza found it difficult to envision that either would have so moved this small audience simply by reappearing after a brief, but strange and jarring absence.

A contrivance the legend of Delita might've been, but Ramza hoped that seeing people who believed in it, and who needed the hero of that saga to fulfill his vow to Ivalice, would help to bear up Delita's battered mind and wounded spirit.

Perhaps the sight had, indeed, made an impact, for Delita quickly donned a smile that likely had many an eligible lady lamenting that he was already married.

"Rise, my friends," he directed, the casual yet sincere sounding familiarity causing several to blink in surprise before they complied. "You needn't fret, not now nor over how I've…acted over the past few days. It was a passing malaise, nothing more."

He turned that smile upon Ramza and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"It took a reminder of how much I owe the people for their faith in me to break free of that despondence," he continued, his smile turning a bit cheeky. "Well, that and some…mild property destruction."

One of the manservants, apparently misliking the implications, vaulted to his feet and, after taking a moment to find the hidden door, raced down the stairs. Moments later, he emerged, his face pale and his lower jaw straining to reach the floor.

"Your Majesty," he'd begun, unable to keep his befuddlement out of his tone, "just…what happened down there?"

"We were engaged in the traditional method by which two men satisfy their urge for fraternal bonding," Delita said.

"And, just what is "traditional method"?" the manservant had asked, sounding very nearly afraid of the answer.

"Hitting each other," Delita had smoothly replied

No doubt asking himself just what they'd been hitting each other with, and why he wasn't paid more for dealing with such nonsense, the manservant had promptly arranged for the damage to be assessed, though Delita quickly informed him that repairs to the warren could wait.

"Right now, we have more immediate concerns to attend to," he'd declared, then spent a moment glancing about the gathered faces for one in particular. Spotting him, Delita nodded gamely.

"Biggs, front and center," he'd directed, and a young, cleanshaven man in the garb of a scribe very nearly sprinted to his king's side.

"Take a note, if you please," Delita ordered, breaking several of his predecessor's precedents with both the courteous wording and actually waiting for the young scribe to have his parchment and pen at the ready before proceeding. "The following items are to be added to the agenda of the next council meeting. Firstly, we are to determine the timetable and manpower needed for the demolition of the shanty towns outside the city. Secondly, while that task is underway, the rubble is to be set aside for use as firewood by the poor. Thirdly, we are to determine the expenses, logistics, and timetable for the rebuilding of Lesalia's city gates. And, fourthly and lastly, I will address the people of our capital, as well as any others who can attend, after these things are done. So, make an additional notation that Wedge's opinion on my speech will be needed."

Again, that cheeky smile.

"I daresay if he isn't consulted, people in Sal Ghidos will be well aware of it from the clamor he'll raise," he'd added, lowing his voice to a mockery of a conspiratorial whisper.

Apparently, this reputation of the woman who, Ramza suspected, was Delita's principal speechwriter was not exaggerated, for those present reacted with either hearty laughter or theatrical shows of dread.

After seeing that their monarch, though bruised and bleeding, seemed very nearly the man who'd handily won their devotion, the group of knights and servants eventually returned to their posts. Delita then beckoned Ramza to follow and, as they wended their way through the opulent corridors, Ramza saw still more signs of how much the castle's inhabitants had missed their king, and how glad they were to have him back.

Some gasped and then sagged with relief at the sight of him.

Others stammered out their replies to his polite greetings and inquires as to how they and their families fared.

And, a few dropped what they were doing (literally) as he approached.

Discreetly glancing over his shoulder as they passed, the Duke of Lionel could see that many of these people, apparently quite moved by the king's emergence from his malaise, were brushing away at tears or whispering words of gratitude not directed towards any mortal ears.

Again, Ramza hoped this was not lost on Delita who, thought far from whole, had a thousand thousand reasons in every soul he passed to find in him the will to honor their unspoken wishes that Ivalice be set on a better course.

After several minutes, the pair were alone in his private office, a functional, if still decadent chamber where the king would confer with visitors and advisers on matters best not discussed in his larger, and more readily accessible, public office.

"So, what brought on those additions to the next council meeting?" Ramza asked once the, compared to its fellows, utilitarian door was firmly closed.

"For quite some time," Delita began as he seated himself at his desk. "I'd believed that leaving the shanty towns standing, and the gates as they were, would serve as a reminder of what we've overcome amidst the tragedies of the wars and as a warning not to let it happen again. I see now, that all I was really doing was stroking my own ego while keeping everyone else's wounds fresh and weeping. Well, it won't erase those memories of the war, but maybe it will help everyone to move on with their lives."

Though Ramza decided against saying so aloud, he approved of the notion.

Aside from offering some closure, both to those castaways who'd huddled in those miserable shacks, and the natives of Lesalia who'd seen their fair city become a warren of crime and misery when the teeming masses allowed hunger and angry to drive them to violence, the act of mending these final lingering wounds of the War of the Lions was also a tangible sign that Delita had changed.

But a few days ago, Ramza suspected, Delita would've been keen to make sure the shanty towns and the ruined gates stayed as they were. The grim reminders of those terrible days, and how they might happen again if he were not obeyed, would've done as much to stifle any opposition to his agenda as did his innate charm and those reformative actions which had Ramza genuinely believing that Rachel would inherit a better world than had her parents.

That Delita would, voluntarily, relinquish such leverage by which he could've kept his supporters compliant and his opposition muzzled bespoke that, at long last, he was thinking less like the Machiavellian schemer who'd won his throne through treachery and murder.

Now, perhaps, he was taking his first pivotal steps towards becoming the monarch the people of Ivalice believed he would be, and which they needed.

Not long after, Delita had passed the word for Olan and Balmafula to join them. Olan was impassive, though Delita had hardly been shy during his despairing derangement about the Chancellor's many reasons for hating his new liege. Balmafula, by contrast, offered no such pretenses. Her eyes had narrowed into daggers and her delicate brows knotted fiercely at the sight of the king.

""Fraternal bonding"?" Olan asked, apparently having heard about the near-demolition of the war council chamber.

"Quite so," Delita replied with a chuckle. "I insinuated that our esteemed Duke of Lionel punched like my late younger sister and, in trying to prove me wrong, he went a tad overboard."

Gladdened to hear Delita talk about Teta as something besides a banner to be raised to justify his sordid acts during the war, it took Ramza a moment to realize he'd just been insulted. After a doubletake and a petulant "Hey!", which did little to dissuade Delita's good natured ribbing, Ramza lapsed into a seething silence.

"Well, I'm sure that when time comes to raise the five hundred thousand gil needed to rebuild the war council chamber, that taxpayers everywhere will share your amusement," Olan remarked with irreverent displeasure at what was, undoubtedly, a sizable headache that would soon cross his desk.

However, a moment later, the king's mirth evaporated and Delita had eyed Olan with an expression of uncharacteristic earnestness which stilled the chancellor's tongue and had him regarding his liege in a silence rife with wary anticipation. Without further preamble, Delita produced a sheaf of parchment from within a drawer of his desk.

"Chancellor Olan," he began, clear solemnity in his tone, "as you may recall, we had discussed a…personal matter not long before the Duke and Duchess of Lionel arrived with their entourage. As I had anticipated, and as I had promised, I have conferred with High Confessor Ryker regarding the documents which the church had turned over to the late Duke Goltana just prior to the Battle of Fort Besselat, implicating your late father in a treasonous conspiracy. Evidently, while taking stock of his predecessor's affairs and dealings, the High Confessor noticed some…troubling peculiarities which merited further investigation. One of these was regarding the provenance of those documents, and High Confessor Ryker has come to the conclusion that they were forgeries. Those parchments you hold are copies of his official statement, bearing his signature and signet. Their contents will be made public knowledge when the High Confessor issues a statement here in a matter of hours."

Olan's customarily stoic features, which had been coolly defiant when facing down Delita and fully expecting the latter man to slip the knife at any moment, had slowly given way to astonishment as the words, and their meaning, sank in.

It had taken but a few days to tarnish the reputation of the famed Thunder God Cid, but, before night touched the castle's spires, the harm would be rectified. And, though Orlandu's "death" made his return from parts unknown impossible, those who spoke of Orlandu would, in mere hours, speak not of his supposed treason but of his vindication, and how he had been a true hero until the very end.

Olan was clearly flabbergasted. Likely, he had not expected either this generosity – and, with it, a partial forfeiture of the leverage Delita had used to keep Olan in his service – nor the oddly contrite tone with which it had been given. Stunned, and yet visible in the throes of heartfelt relief, Olan could only murmur his appreciation.

Not giving either of his visitors the chance to recover from this shock, Delita then produced a locket. Judging by one of his earlier confessions, not to mention how Balmafula's eyes had widened in teror, Ramza had surmised that it must've been the same locket which Delita had used to seal Balmafula's voice.

Then, with a casual flick of the wrist, he'd thrown it into the fireplace, where it melted like wax.

Balmafula's eyes had widened in horror and rage, and she'd begun to curse spectacularly enough to have every deceased highborn lady in the province turning in their graves, as well as to put several living ones into their graves from sheer shock. And yet, after three straight minutes of vulgarity, it dawned on her that the locket which supposedly sealed her voice was gone, and yet her voice was not.

Delita had not destroyed her voice, as he'd previously threatened if she revealed that he was no hound heeling at the church's skirts. Instead, he'd given it back, as well as removed the means by which to prevent Balmafula from either disobeying or exposing him.

In answer to their befuddlement, Delita would only say "I finally got some sense knocked into me. And, I've got the bruises to prove it," gesturing at his still purpled features.

On the heels of this, he produced two sheets of parchment, passing them to both of his astonished visitors.

"Though your service has been brief, and hardly voluntary, both of you have fulfilled your duties admirably," Delita admitted feelingly. "That which I have directed you to do has been done, that which I bade you to keep secret has been kept, and I doubt I should find any who will fulfill their duties as deftly as you two have. Yet, if you so wish it, I shall try nonetheless. Olan, I have had drawn up for you a formal resignation from the Chancellorship. And, for you, Balmafula, I have had drawn up a form for your deactivation as an informant for the crown. Obviously, we'll need to reach an understanding on what must never be disclosed outside these walls, but, if you wish to depart and see to your own affairs, then you need but sign."

For a long moment, Olan and Balamfula simply stared at the parchments, as though wondering if their eyes might've been cheated by some spell. And, indeed, it likely felt like only some subtle magecraft could explain this sudden change of heart on the part of a man who'd seemed in times past to have the waters of the arctic sea in his veins.

Delita had blackmailed Olan into serving him, first by practically snatching him from the executioner's block and then by dangling before him the promise of exonerating his falsely maligned father. Thus, Delita had doubly exploited Olan's sense of honor and chivalry to keep him firmly leashed, lending his keen wits and political acumen to the reign of the peasant king who'd won his throne by meticulously stabbing others in the back.

For Balmafula, he had been far less subtle. Having sniffed out her intentions to kill him if he strayed from then-High Confessor Marcel's course, Delita had first undermined her loyalty to her masters by manipulating her budding respect and admiration for him. Then, seizing upon the empathy they'd felt for one another, even as he'd confessed to manipulating everyone, including the church, to fulfill his ends, he had used his newfound knowledge of her ancient coven to craft a magic which would silence her, forever, if she uttered a word against him.

That had been the Delita they'd known, whom they had served even as they'd resented him, whom they begrudgingly admired for his cunning even as the quietly reviled him for his bloody deeds, and whom they'd both expected to serve under the day they'd died while Delita held a loaded crossbow to both of their heads.

And yet, to their stupefaction, that same man had just lowered the crossbow and let slip the leashes.

With one signature, both would be free to leave Delita's service and to never look back.

The temptation was clearly there, as Delita had practically thrown wide the bars of the cells that had kept them manacled to his reign. No less evident was their surprise at this sudden turn, though Ramza sensed that his own presence likely offered a hint or two as to what had brought it about.

Then, after a long moment, Olan handed the parchment back, unsigned.

"Your offer is most generous, Your Majesty," he affirmed. "But, I wish to retain my office for at least a while longer. There is much yet to be done for this country…and, candidly, I'd sleep better at night knowing there was someone here to keep you honest."

Delita did not dispute the point.

Balmafula likewise refused and, although she did not say why specifically, her slender fingers tugging Olan's hand into her own offered a hint or two.

After a hesitant nod, Delita passed a sealed envelope to the pair.

"I had originally intended for this to be your final assignment," he said. "Regardless, I've no doubt that it is in good hands. Enlist aid as you deem necessary, but you will observe, and abide by, the requirements that this matter be kept in confidence to the best of your ability. For now, simply put, you are to seek out confirmation about whether or not "the package" exists. If so, you will act in accordance to these orders."

Delita pointedly did not say just what "the package" might be, not just what they were supposed to do if, indeed, its existence be confirmed. And, when Ramza tried to slip around to where he could read over Olan and Balmafula's shoulders, Delita promptly snatched him by the forearm and yanked him back.

Though this act did enflame Ramza's curiosity regarding just what this "package" might be, it was promptly blown out of his head when the king informed him that, whereas he'd wanted to relieve Olan and Balmafula of their posts, he'd wanted Ramza to take on one of his own.

Grandmaster of the Order of the Chimera.

Noticing Ramza's astonishment, and that he seemed less-than-enamored by the idea, Delita had been quick to argue his case.

"Right now, there are only two kinds of people in Ivalice," he'd said. "Those who are so entranced by my "legend" that they'd walk backwards while standing on their hands if I but asked, and those who are too intimidated by me to offer even token resistance to my decrees. But, you? You are something else entirely. And, not just because you are neither dazzled nor cowed, but because you don't spend the blood of your troops like so much gil, nor are you above seeking parley when it might avert needless bloodshed. It is my fondest hope that we'll all grow old and pass on without another battle horn sounding, nor another war host needing to be mustered, but I've learned, the hard way, that plans can unravel simply by the whims of the fate. If ever conflict should come again to our soil, Ivalice needs a commander who will see her sons and daughters return alive from the battlefield."

Here, Delita had paused and, heaving a sad sigh, added "And, I need someone who won't hesitate to tell me when I'm acting wrongly."

Though Ramza's political acumen hovered somewhere above that of a badger and below that of a schoolboy, he could see what his old friend was driving at. It was true that, although Delita had assembled a veritable army of dedicated and talented people to aid him in rebuilding Ivalice, all of them owed their positions, their salaries, and, indeed, their very lives, to Delita.

How many of them would even think to question the king, who'd practically brought spring to a land of eternal winter, if he once again strayed towards his darker inclinations?

Though Delita had assembled such a group, at least in part, because he knew they'd serve him well but never question him, thus allowing him to pursue his agenda unhindered, his recent brush with madness had shown him just how hazardous that course might prove.

And so, with no real checks and balances remaining to deter his whims, and yet aware that such could not stand, he'd decided to invent one by placing in charge of his army someone he trusted to question his judgment when it needed to be questioned.

Ramza would be in an ideal position to pressure Delita into changing course when the ship of state strayed too near the shoals. In fact, in extreme circumstances, he might even be in a position to turn the army against Delita and wrest the helm of Ivalice, should the king truly turn to evil.

Delita wanted someone he could trust to stop him if he once more strayed into darkness, and perhaps to depose or even kill him if he failed to right his course.

The logic was clear, as was the depth of trust behind it, but Ramza had no small amount of misgivings.

Yes, it was true that Ramza had intervened when Delita was poised on the brink of self-destruction. And, it was true that he had repeatedly prevailed over superior foes and unfailingly gotten his friends through alive. But, that was a score and one of men and women, as well as a chocobo, a construct, and a renegade demon.

Even in peacetime, a knightly order meant to safeguard the entire realm could number anywhere from many hundreds to several thousand.

Even after Delita had pointed out that he'd be able to split the labor between himself, Agrias, Beowulf, his old Academy classmates, and, ultimately, a proper general's staff, that weight of responsibility seemed no lighter. Especially not when the question of the governance of Lionel had come up. Delita had suggested that many of the day-to-day affairs could be handled by a staff while Ramza acted as an absentee governor. But, of course, that was assuming anyone would agree to work in Lionel Castle, which, despite no longer being regarded as haunted, was still quite off-putting to those who'd loved Cardinal Draclau, those who despised all things Pharist, and those who might find it hard to concentrate with several dozen children underfoot. Alternatively, Delita suggested that Alma and her future husband could be groomed for the role.

Ramza wasn't sure which suggestion he disliked more.

Though turning the foreboding mass of stone that was Lionel Castle into a place he'd be willing to raise Rachel hadn't left much room for an "unofficial" education in governing a province, Ramza didn't doubt for a moment that it was an exhausting occupation. It was also the last thing he'd want to dump in Alma's lap, what with all she'd already had weighing upon her slender shoulders. Yet, at the same time, he had been more than a bit leery about letting still more strangers into his home, given the secrets within that needed to stay hidden. And, though he'd taken every precaution, adults might prove less obedient than grateful youngsters when told not to go anywhere near the out of the way, and heavily ensorcelled, rooms in the castle's upper levels.

The wards that caused anyone who approached the hiding place of the Zodiac Stones to be beset by overwhelming fear was more than enough to discourage children who likely knew little of magic, but suppose the staff of whomever governed Lionel recognized the spellwork, and began to wonder what it had been intended to hide?

Something had to be done, something had to be said, to make sure that nothing, not even mere happenstance, allowed the Auracite to find its way into mortal hands.

But, given Delita's fragile state, even mentioning anything related to the Zodiac Stones would not be wise.

It also hadn't helped that, when Ramza implored Olan and Balmafula to object, they'd promptly said that they thought it was a splendid idea.

"Let me get this straight," Ramza had said, not bothering to hide his frustration. "You, King Delita Hyral the First, want me, your "cousin" to become the Grandmaster of the Order of the Chimera, essentially making me the head of your army. You want me issuing orders to hundreds, maybe thousands, of men and women-at-arms, almost all of which will be older, more experienced, and have seniority over me. And, from what you tell me, my biggest qualification is that I punched you in the face?"

Balamfula feigned a swoon upon hearing this while Olan, by the look of things, was keeping his face blank with only the mightiest of efforts.

"That's right," Delita had replied, a curious mingling of smugness and contrition lacing his words. "Oh, but you need not take my word for it. Haven't you heard the tales being whispered about the museum, which is crammed with artifacts you discovered? What about the tavern gossip about all those missions you undertook? Exposing Count Minimas's corruption? Routing the Braana pirate clan off the Favoham coast? Rescuing Lord Pappal? Helping expose the abuses at the Riovanes Military Institute? Finding the evidence needed to dissolve the poaching syndicate? Exposing the Larcam Mercantile's opium smuggling operation? What about rescuing our own Chancellor from bandits? How about bringing to justice those Hokuten deserters who'd turned to brigandry? And, I could go on. But, the point is that news of your exploits – those we can disclose, at least – is getting around. My legend is not the only one that's been making the rounds. People are beginning to whisper about a young warrior, a boy in face but a man in spirit, who appears seemingly from nowhere when the defenseless are in peril, who skillfully leads a band of companions in his derring-do, takes only that which was offered in payment, which was usually very little, and then departs as silently as he came. I daresay, you lacking gray hairs will matter very little when the Chimera Knights, many of whom are likely people you've helped, learn that you are not only real but that you now command them. Even if it isn't the same as having Lord Balbanes or Count Orlandu back, it will still be a boon to have one who is a proven warrior and leader, and a legend in his own right, in command."

Ramza had wanted, desperately, to dredge up some counterargument, some excuse, anything to slip out from under the crushing weight of responsibility Delita seemed poised to dump into his lap…and yet, the words would not come. Was It because he was too overwrought to summon them? Perhaps. Was it because, despite Delita's claims to the contrary, Ramza could, indeed, by dazzled by the king's gift for semantics? Maybe. Was it because, like some remnant of childhood wishes that lingered on the fringe of the mind in hopes they might yet be fulfilled, the chance to helm a knighthood as his father would have had been stirred to life? Quite possibly.

And, indeed, a small part of him found that old dream returning with startling clarity. Though Balbanes Beoulve had been a true knight, not just a man of valor but also one of unwavering righteousness, he had died very nearly alone in that distinction. As he had wasted away in his sickbed – believed by most to be afflicted by malady when, in truth, he'd been poisoned by a son who'd decided his lust for power was more precious than kin – it had, in hindsight, seemed to Ramza that chivalry had died with him, as few were the knights who wouldn't menace, harm, rob, or do worse to the smallfolk of their enemies, and fewer still were the knights who, when faced with a situation where duty or honor could prevail, but not both, would choose to uphold the latter. Other contagions, such as contempt for those of lower birth, sadism towards the vanquished, an ever-increasing amenability towards bribes, seeking personal victories and enacting petty revenges at the expense of fellows and missions alike, and still more had also festered beneath the gleaming surface of mail and shield.

Though Ramza had, following the tragedy at Fort Zeakden, believed it best that he withdraw from the realm of knights, which had no place for one who hewed to the values and principals of a bygone era, the notion of commanding a knightly order did strike a nerve.

After all, the Order of the Chimera would likely last longer than either he or Delita would.

What if he could take a hand to make sure that what it became was akin to what his father would have wanted, had he lived? What if knights of Ivalice could once again stand as men and women of honor and virtue. What if an Ivalcian knightly order could once again stand as a force meant to safeguard the realm justly?

What if the contagion that had driven him from the Hokuten might be expunged from the Chimera?

The allure was there, but so too was the knowledge that, should war come to Ivalice's door again, than a few minutes of delay, a moment's drift in his concentration, or even a whisker of weakness would mean that one, or more, or several, or even many of the lives in his charge could be lost.

The burden of losing a brother or sister-in-arms was one he'd, thankfully, outmaneuvered in the war, but he knew better than to think such luck would not eventually desert him.

Still wanting an egress from this situation, though not with the same intensity as before, he turned pleadingly to Olan. But, the Chancellor promptly raised one palm to silence the Duke of Lionel.

"I agree with Delita," Olan said simply; he then blinked and shook his head. "I can't believe I just said that. But, in all seriousness, someone like you would make a great difference for Ivalice. More than that, I believe your legend needs to be told. Not just of how many lives you've saved during your "mercenary work", but also of what you truly did against those who sparked this war."

Though Olan had kept his words oblique – likely in case any might be listening in, but curiously unconcerned by Balmafula's presence – it was clear enough what he intended.

Olan wanted to expose the Church of Glabados's involvement in orchestrating the War of the Lions.

Ramza wanted to object, to warn that, for all his apparent weakness, High Confessor Ryker would surely retaliate if hemmed to tightly into a corner. But, he knew it would be futile.

If Olan was anything like his adoptive father, Orlandu, then death alone had the power to dissuade him.

And, though it just might come to that, Ramza could only hope that he wasn't the only one with the devil's own luck.

With that, Olan and Balmafula bowed and left the room, their hands still intertwined, quite oblivious to Ramza grumbling "Traitors".

Ramza lost no time reiterating his objections, though these were once more rebuffed by Delita. Ultimately, Ramza could only beg leave to think it over. He supposed, however, that he could console himself with the knowledge that, whomever did end up commanding the Chimera Knights, would not have the Lucavi and their mortal minions to deal with.

"That's behind us now, though," Ramza had remarked to himself later on. "That threat to the realm is ended. Now for the next one!"

And, indeed, at least one still lingered. For, although he'd remained at Delita's shoulder for some time, watching for any sign that the king might lapse back into his deranged depression, it was not lost on Ramza that Delita had pointedly avoided mentioning what he would do regarding Ovelia.

Indeed, he'd been visibly straining to keep his eyes away from the small portrait of her which sat on his desk.

Ultimately, Ramza had posed the question.

By way of reply, Delita had heaved a sigh of bleak melancholy, worse than when he'd tottered on the brink of madness, and pointedly set the portrait face down.

"That ship has sunk," he'd said, with a palpable undertone of sad finality.

He went on to bandy about a few thoughts on Ovelia's future, since her outlook would become quite bleak if Delita were to divorce her. She might spend some time in Lionel or Riovanes, since she'd shown a fondness for children and an eagerness to help those in need. She might also travel the realm to oversee the ongoing reconstruction, as she'd surely be eager to get to know this land for whose sake she had endured so many years of loneliness. All these suggestions sounded very much like he either didn't want to be reminded of how he'd lost her love or that he didn't trust himself not to harm her should the temptation emerge again.

Either way, Delita was clearly convinced that he'd damaged his marriage beyond saving.

And, whether for love of his brother in all but blood, or love of the country whose future was still far from secure, or because Ramza could never abide letting the anguish of others go unassuaged, he knew what he had to do.

Though Delita had been coaxed back from the brink, he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, "alright". Though he'd busied himself, though he'd committed himself to making sure that the faith which the Ivalician people had placed in him was vindicated, that commitment, and his sanity, remained fragile.

It wouldn't take many blows to drive him back to the edge, nor much more after that to see him topple over the brink.

But, if a reconciliation between him and Ovelia could be achieved, then that might change everything.

Still, Ramza knew that the direct approach would not avail him.

He and Ovelia had known each other for mere days following her rescue from Dycedarg's attempted assassination and, since his friendship with Delita was likely no secret to her, she might look upon his intervention...unfavorably.

But, what if someone else, someone who cared for Ovelia and whom she trusted, was willing to help Ramza?

Unfortunately, since Ovelia had been sequestered in monasteries practically since birth, that list was a very short one, even before it had been drastically culled by the massacre at Orbonne.

Though Ovelia had been practically family to her, Ramza could rule out Agrias right away. She had never liked or trusted Delita, and would likely want to cut his head off if she caught so much as a whiff of how she'd very nearly been made a widow by the king's derangement.

Asking Alma was chancy, for she already suspected that something was wrong and, if she sniffed out that Delita had twice attempted to kill himself and nearly took Ramza with him, then he shuddered to imagine the consequences for her health.

But, as far as the Duke of Lionel knew, his sister – who was pregnant out of wedlock, privately grieving for the man who'd almost been her husband, and trying to find a suitor who could be tricked into thinking he'd sired her child – was quite literally his only option.

Once Delita had decided that he needed to rest, Ramza pointedly put Ovelia's portrait back in place. He then said to Delita, who was by then slumbering in a well-padded leather chair by the fire – and likely not for the first time, judging by how the chair would soon need to be reupholstered and the fireplace had clearly seen rigorous use of late – that he wasn't giving up, and that it was important that Delita didn't either.

Not bothering to see if his words had roused the sleeping king, Ramza had left the room and sought out Alma. After warding off several – admittedly, deserved – salvos of harsh words regarding how he'd lambasted her after the ball, he'd managed, with more than a bit of pleading, to convince her to help him. Making a few strategic omissions, he'd relayed that he'd come to share Alma's belief that something was wrong between Delita and Ovelia, and that they might need help to rectify the situation.

Alma had agreed and, not long before she was due to be dressed for the second ball, she had summoned her brother.

According to her, she had written to Ovelia, using an ancient pictographic language they'd studied as part of their education in Orbonne, and which they'd sometimes used to pass notes back and forth between and during classes. Though some of the reported history of the civilization which had created the language could seem fantastical – of how they had built immense monuments of sandstone that rose from a square base in massive triangular sides to converge at an apex, located some hundreds of feet above the ground, and how they'd carved likenesses of desert lions with the faces of men, which were more than two hundred feet from forepaws to tail – he could almost sense the antiquity of their unique script.

Alma told him that the figures she'd drawn spelled out the message "You should see him, he's paid a heavy price for his lies."

Ramza had to take her word for it; as fascinating as the pictographic language was, he couldn't make heads or tails of it.

But, Ovelia's reply had been far from encouraging.

""He made us all pay"," the Duchess of Lionel had read solemnly.

"And?" Ramza asked, though his words were soft and subdued.

"And, nothing. She didn't write anything else."

Heaving a deep sigh, Ramza collapsed into a chair and tried vainly to massage away what he suspected would soon turn into a pounding headache. Though he'd known better than to expect one plea to mend a troubled marriage, he had hoped for more than what sounded like an oblique rebuff. And, though Ramza remained as committed to protecting Ivalice's future as he was when he'd first discovered the Lucavi's schemes, this latest setback had him wondering just how much he could shoulder.

After all, Delita was keen to make him the Grandmaster of the Order of the Chimera. And yet, Delita's mental state was still fragile after his brush with madness and death. At the same time, Alma needed a husband, and quickly enough to disguise the true paternity of her child. The office of the governor of Lionel still needed to be filled. The Zodaic Stones, which were still hidden in Lionel, had to be kept out of the hands of those susceptible to demonic influence. The still missing Pisces Stone needed to be found, before the resident Lucavi demon found a host with which to wreak havoc. And, on top of all that, he still had the wellbeing of Agrias, Rachel, Alma, and his unborn niece or nephew to think of.

Had Hashmalum risen from the dead, kicked down the door, and demanded a rematch, it might have almost been an improvement.