I feel like I should give die-hard fans a heads-up that the Bahamut scenes are going to play out very differently than they did in the game. Please don't be too disappointed—I'm trying to go for a more realistic approach. (I hope it works…)
XXXIV.
Lamont felt utterly lost. He had told Vayne with stern resolve that he was going with him to fight the Resistance, and when the emperor refused, he simply explained that he was more than capable of stowing away, but would much rather go along with permission. Grudgingly, Vayne allowed it. Now, though, Monty felt fully the extent of regret, for he could do nothing more than watch his brother in silent agony. While Vayne organized the fleets with expert skill, the boy stood off to the side behind him, leaning lightly against Gabranth's armored side, mind spinning wearily, eyes fighting to stay dry. He felt sick to his stomach and on the brink of tears, but he could not bear to be completely useless, and so far his façade of bravery had held well.
Two days earlier, Vayne had asked him, seemingly out of nowhere, if he wanted to be emperor. He had honestly replied with a flat no, which appeared to greatly relieve Vayne, but at the same time confused him. Next, he asked if he had any interest in politics, and again, Monty said no. He then asked what he did want to be, and Monty, somewhat frustrated, said, "I don't know. Why all the questions?"
Vayne had wavered for a moment, taken slightly aback. "…I'm…writing my will."
"…What?"
"You'll still have to be my successor until I have children, but—well, I just wasn't sure what to do with you after that. Now I know. No politics, right?"
"Um, right."
"…Okay, then."
He turned to leave, and Monty quickly asked, "What do you want to be?"
Vayne paused again, with a look of what could only be fear in his eyes, and then, suddenly, the shadows seemed to pass and he once again returned to his usual self. "…A good brother."
Less recently, he had passed by the library and caught sight of Monty sitting on the floor against one of the many shelves with his face in a book. This was certainly not unusual, for he had been an avid reader since the onset of his fourth year, but this time his face was literally in the book—pressed into its pages with no sign of coming up for air. Vayne had hesitantly approached, and, seeing that he remained still unnoticed, stopped at a reasonable distance and asked, "…Osmosis?" To this, Lamont had lowered the book and explained that he was merely smelling it—it reminded him of their father. Rather than argue, Vayne sat down beside him, took another book off the shelf, and joined in the smelling.
But the boy received no such solidarity now—Vayne did not even allow him any visible sympathy. From the deck of the Bahamut, the air brigade's newest and grandest vessel, the deserts of Dalmasca flew by with such speed that the sand below seemed stationary, and Vayne appeared hardly touched by the task toward which they journeyed, gazing listlessly at the sparse spattering of cacti that occasionally passed under the ship. Monty studied him hopefully, eager for any display of remorse or misgiving, but he knew none would come. The Resistance had pushed too hard too quickly, and now they would face the emperor's true power: four aerial fleets, fitted to fight for days, to take up chase all the way to Bhujerba if it came to that.
The Bahamut served as a testament to human technology and as a warning to human civility. It was a death machine, though elegant in accommodations and sophisticated in design, and the very sight of it could easily send whatever force intended to challenge it into retreat. It boasted all the usual advantages of modern Archadian technology, but it towered above the competition in size and speed, designed specifically to facilitate the effective management of satellite kingdoms by swiftly delivering military might wherever need for it arose. An entire fleet was easily accommodated on its multiple stories of docking stations and armored repair hangars, and equipment to fix the most daunting of damaged ships—as well as the cargo holds required to store such things—rendered a single fleet independent of its home base in Archades for more than a year. It would keep the Archadian ships fighting at peak performance until the Resistance fell, and if they dared to flee, it would pursue them alongside the host of fleets until the conflict ended once and for all.
On the main bridge, soldiers and standby pilots calmly went about their business, all confident in the ship's supremacy and overjoyed to take part in its maiden voyage. Lamont had assisted Cid in a fair amount of the construction, incorporating the new nethicite-powered engine technology with the old man's upgraded light-weight steel design, but the pride of these victories paled now, and he found himself staring vacantly out the great window before him for hours on end, his mind blanked and his heart sore. The shining oasis of Rabanastre appeared on the yellow horizon, the sun beaming with strength that to an Archadian suggested midday, though it would sink behind the distant sand dunes in but two hours' time. Monty swallowed thickly.
Gabranth had remained a silent comfort throughout the day, resting his hand on Monty's shoulder protectively, and occasionally smoothing the boy's hair down as his father and brother so often did, but nothing could spare Lamont the terror of seeing Vayne in bare reality. Even now, his big brother conversed casually with the air station's pilots, readying the accompanying fleets so that they might flex their strength upon approaching the city in an effort to further intimidate the enemy. Monty admired the Resistance fighters, but also thought them indelibly stupid, and looked back with scorn on the idealism he himself had possessed when he came to Rabanastre last month. No doubt Vayne felt similarly, but Lamont caught something more sinister in the dark depths of his eyes—something shadowy, serpent-like.
Indeed, Vayne mirrored much of his brother's sentiment: he hoped to inspire in his own troops the blind courage with which Ondore's fought, and he certainly believed the Resistance brainless beyond any excuse of patriotism, and—cynical as he had been when he assumed the office of consul—he now felt certain that he had given the people of Dalmasca far more credit than they deserved. More than two full years of occupation had taught them nothing, and if he could not subdue them with mere threat of violence, he would revisit upon them the horror to which they had succumbed in the first place. Gramis would forever hold the title of conquerer, but Vayne would surpass him yet—he would finish his father's work and keep his hold on all of Ivalice, reforging the Galtean Alliance by the only means possible. Dalmasca would bow, Rozarria rushing to its aid, and once the initiation of conflict occurred over Archadian territory, he would at last overthrow the final bastion of independence in the world—Rozarria would fall, and Bhujerba with it, and whatever Gran Kiltias earned election on Bur-Omisace would have no choice but to recognize him as ruler of the new dynasty. Vayne set his jaw to keep from smiling in front of his men, his eyes trained outward on the nearing city, his justification ensured by his father's sword. What better blade than he to strike down the enemies of the Empire?
As Rabanastre drew into clearer view, a large number of mismatched airships became visible at its opposite side, readying themselves quickly, struggling to overtake the city in an effort to meet the Archadians above the empty sands beyond it. They sought to stage their battle away from civilians, but the Bahamut and its companions would easily reach the city before the Resistance—and there they would await provocation, safe in the knowledge that Marquis Ondore had no other politically viable option.
Stirred by the sight of the Resistance fleet and by the stony aura of impassivity that descended upon his brother, Monty stepped forward, leaving Gabranth's side and nearing Vayne's. He kept his distance, and knew that Vayne noticed this, but he felt no more the closeness that they had shared before he came to understand the world, and nowhere within him could he find the strength to feign it for either of their sakes.
"…More than we predicted," he noted quietly.
"Not by much," Vayne replied, "and we've come more than over-prepared."
Lamont nodded, eyes trained out the window before them. Vayne glanced down at him, so small amid the Judges and soldiers, but so serious for a child, and at length he took in an awkward breath and continued:
"I wouldn't think any less of you if you decided not to watch."
"We're in this together," Monty replied, looking up with a glint of hope.
"You know very well we're not," said Vayne.
"That's not what I meant," said Monty.
Stillness settled between them once more, and Vayne struggled to gain some form of understanding: "I know you and Halim were good friends at one point, but we have our people to consider. If he stands down, I'll see that he's treated honorably."
"And the princess?" Monty asked.
"If she chooses to involve herself, she will have to face the consequences—surely, she has long been aware of that."
Monty's jaw tightened, but he hid his tension well. "I don't think they're working together."
"I hope you're right," Vayne replied coolly. "With her as Consul, we may yet form a working relationship with Dalmasca."
The boy seemed momentarily disgruntled, suspecting that Vayne mocked him, which in part he did. He shook his head, but said nothing, which did little to assuage Vayne's trepidation; Lamont always managed his anger in subversive and productive ways. His expression flattened to a strong veneer of composure that told the emperor he would not be discouraged, striking in him the fear that the little rascal may yet have something planned.
Out the expansive window before them, the Resistance fleet grew clearer in detail, the forms of airships designed in the styles of Dalmasca, Bhujerba, and Nabradia most prominent, though several Landisian vessels mingled here and there, as did a few of Archadian origin—Lamont wondered if they operated under command of defectors, or if they were merely stolen. A good half of the ships displayed signs of wear, though the grand Bhujerban vessel at the back of the formation—doubtless, Ondore's flagship—shone in the desert sun with near blinding freshness. The Archadian fleet drew to a halt above Rabanastre, settling there at Vayne's command, and the Resistance fighters slowed their pace, seeing that they would not engage their enemy beyond the walls of the city. They lingered over the empty Estersands, tentatively rearranging their formation, bracing themselves with fierce bravado.
After a moment of heavy silence, a trio of Resistance crafts ventured forward, buzzing about in the air above Rabanastre, but daring not near the Archadians. They returned to their places, and a pair of larger ships edged forward, canons raised. These mirrored the dawdling of the first three, darting about at random, tempting the enemy force with little promise of an attack. Vayne ordered all vessels to hold their positions, the assorted liaisons stationed at the Bahamut's bridge relaying this order to their individual fleets' respective flagships.
"They're trying to draw us away from the city," he said calmly, visibly reassuring the various soldiers that sat anxiously at their posts.
Monty balled his fists momentarily before forcing himself to release them. He knew they needed a reliable host of witnesses to pull this off effectively, but the thought of the innocent civilians that most certainly cowered in the city below prodded at his sensibilities. If Ashelia meant to show herself, she had little more time in which to do it.
More ships set out to lure the Imperial forces away from Rabanastre's airspace—agile fighter ships zipped to and fro, sturdier battle vessels bared their guns menacingly—but Archadia stood firm, undaunted, for once the epitome of restraint. The subtle creak of Gabranth's armor behind him soothed Monty's nerves. At long last, one of Ondore's more heavily armed crafts approached a ship of similar size and purpose among the Archadian fleet, their metal shimmering in the rays of the sun as they faced each other, closer and closer. A single blast of laserfire erupted from one of the portside magicite canons affixed to the Resistance vessel, and with a satisfactory command from Vayne, three of the Imperial fleets took off, surrounding the now withdrawing Resistance right and left, prodding and shooting their way clear around the recoiling fleet to force them into Rabanastre's airspace.
"Ready the canons," Vayne ordered, spurring the Bahamut's crew to action.
Monty looked to Vayne quickly, the deafening blast of magicite discharge forcing an air of exigency into his otherwise tranquil voice. "Vayne, they're retreating."
"We didn't come here just to scare them," Vayne deadpanned.
"Then arrest them."
"We've been arresting them for the past two years. The people of Dalmasca have been in need of an example for quite some time now." He sounded like their father. "Wouldn't you rather I use criminals than civilians?"
Monty stared at him with childish horror, but a soldier spoke before he could:
"Canons ready, sir."
Nearly choking on his words, Monty grabbed Vayne's sleeve desperately. "Brother, please!"
Vayne nodded to the soldier. "Fire."
The Resistance pilots conducted themselves with admirable skill, aiming and dodging with near effortless dexterity, but Monty knew the power of the Bahamut's canons—they drew their power from manufactured nethicite, not the paltry magicite known to the rest of Ivalice. The thrum of the energy charge thundered through the airstation as the canons whirred with power, and after a fleeting instant of silence, four great beams of violet light ripped through the air, converging at the center into a thick pillar of blinding luminosity that tore through the dry desert air and any Resistance vessels that cluttered it.
One command ship dropped from the sky, a hole blown in its smoking flank, but it managed to sail clear of Rabanastre during its descent, landing in a puff of sand just beyond one of the major roads leading out of the city. However, two of the larger battleships also fell, both crashing against the invisible shield of energy that protected the city—the magicite-powered paling. In addition to all of this, a series of smaller vessels also spun out of control, dropping into plumes of smoke against the force field below. The paling managed to deflect them successfully, but its design could not withstand too many strikes—it was meant to prevent the passage of unauthorized vessels, not to ward off barrages of debris. The shock of the powerful blow caught much of the Resistance force off guard, allowing the Empire the tactical upper hand for a moment that resulted in many more casualties, but the marquis had trained his fleet well, and they swiftly regained control and fought all the harder. A haze of residual Mist clouded the hulking Bahamut, though it would take no more than ten minutes before the main canons would again await activation.
Thankfully, Vayne now ordered the crew of the Bahamut to hold back to only defensive fire, stating that he would rather not obliterate the Resistance too quickly before the eyes of Dalmasca's royal city—they needed the appearance of sensible force if they hoped to gain lasting control over their new citizens. This did little to ease Lamont's nerves, though, and his eyes kept trained keenly on the quickly intensifying skirmish out the bridge window, pondering the true depth of his failure and the devastating effects it would wreak across Ivalice. He had hoped to salvage some of his country's reputation, but now he saw it just as the rest of the world had since the very year of his birth: callous, insatiable, and pretentious beyond all understanding. A lump formed in his throat that he couldn't swallow, though he hadn't the slightest idea what he could possibly do to diffuse the situation.
And suddenly a glimmer of light caught his eye. A small aircraft of Archadian design nimbly wove a path through the battle, haphazardly attempting to clear the fray in search of a safe area to hover—the Strahl. Feeling a twist of hope in his heart, Monty slowly released his brother's sleeve and stated honestly, "…I think I'm going to be sick."
Vayne looked over his shoulder to Gabranth. "Get him out of here."
The two left the bridge in silence, heading slowly down the winding steel halls—Monty pale and dazed, and Gabranth barely able to disguise his concern. Before long, Monty began to stagger, and Gabranth forced him into a secluded alcove—dim and littered with empty crates.
"Sit before you fall."
He did, and almost immediately his throat hitched and his chest began to heave. He tried to speak but couldn't, and the Judge pulled him forward so that he held his head between his knees.
"Shhh…deep breaths…"
"…I can't…" Monty wheezed.
Gabranth rubbed his back, easing his inhalations into a reliable rhythm. "It'll pass. Just focus on slowing down."
He closed his eyes, wrenched his hair in his fists, rocked slightly in search of stability. He knew he was hyperventilating, but he didn't know why. He wondered if this was what it was like to rule a country. Gabranth continued to massage his shoulders until they unlocked, and then gently pushed him back against the wall, letting him slouch a little as he caught his breath—an unseemly habit he had never gotten away with in his younger years.
"Better?" he asked.
Monty still couldn't speak, but gasped out a sore attempt and regarded Gabranth with wide, weary eyes. He had absent-mindedly reached into his pocket and pulled out the small chunk of nethicite Penelo had given him, and now he clasped it longingly in both hands, bleakly recalling what she had said of Vayne so long ago:
"He frightens me."
Still kneeling beside him, Gabranth brushed some of Monty's hair out of his face and smoothed it down. "Can you hear me?"
He nodded with a gulp. "…You sound…far away…"
"Can you see straight?"
"…Not really. Better than before. I don't know…You won't tell Vayne, will you?"
"Of course not."
Shuddering footsteps sounded in the winding metal halls—soldiers rushing to their posts as the conflict outside plummeted into chaos—and the echoes seemed to haunt Monty, setting a tremble in his hands reminiscent of a war-hardened soldier fighting to control an adrenaline rush. The boy had gone pale, and the contrast darkened his eyes, intensified his anguish.
"Come on," Gabranth continued gently. "You need to rest."
"No…"
"Monty—"
His gaze rigidly focused forward, distant and hollow. "He'll wipe out the Resistance and use Halim to take Bhujerba."
"Don't worry yourself with all that nonsense," Gabranth insisted.
"Rozarria will have to attack. They won't just wait to be conquered."
"Your brother can handle it."
"Dalmasca will be gone. Penelo's home—it'll all be gone."
"Monty, stop it!" He took the boy's face in his hands and forced him to meet his eyes—Monty had always thought it strange how he could do that through the steel. "This doesn't concern you, alright? You're not one of them. You never were."
Monty stared at him helplessly, still taking in uneven breaths, still clutching Penelo's nethicite. Slowly, Gabranth released him.
"…I—I'm sorry."
"I'm as much a Solidor as Vayne is," Monty told him firmly. "I don't like it either, but it was never for us to decide."
"I know."
He carefully got to his feet, steadying himself against the wall, and slipped the nethicite back into his pocket. "The Strahl is out there somewhere."
The determination in his voice put Gabranth on edge. "Don't do anything stupid, Monty."
A small, terrified laugh answered him, and the young lord seemed to regain some spunk. Nevertheless, Gabranth could scarcely force himself to muster the confidence he usually placed in Lamont, instead finding himself shocked by how young he looked, and how small—and indeed for a moment the boy wholly felt both, if only because he perceived Gabranth looking on him as such. He regained his composure quickly, however, returning to the misplaced maturity he handled so aptly, and—squaring his shoulders with wretched cuteness—he bitterly spoke:
"What more would you expect of me? We have to contact the princess; she can deal with Halim."
"And I suppose you will deal with Vayne?"
"Can you think of anyone better suited?" Both hesitated a moment in shock; neither had ever heard nor expected such cynical sarcasm from Lamont.
"You overestimate your own importance, My Lord."
For once, he took comfort in the heavy helm that burdened all Judges, for surely Monty would otherwise catch the doubt in his eyes immediately. The boy's countenance firmed, his expression grim and resolute, and Gabranth knew that he would not easily win this argument, though at heart he wondered if indeed he wanted to. Since returning from the lighthouse, he had known with all certainty that an end must come to this conflict soon if any hope should remain for Ivalice. Trust dwindled in the royal city, all eagerly awaiting Vayne's final strike against the world's remaining sovereign lands, and ire continually mounted in the countries enslaved by this war, endangering Monty on all sides. He had felt more deeply with each passing day that he had in one way or another shamed himself and made mockery of Lord Lamont's trust—indeed he only remained head of the boy's cortege because Cid never made it back to report his betrayal to Vayne.
Yet even while he told himself that he could not allow Monty to put his life on the line for the sake of a war that Archadia would almost surely win, so too he knew that he could not abandon him to a world in which he would forever be known as a villain. As hard as he tried to look on the boy with strict authority, he could manage nothing more than a painful flood of empathy. He would give his life to protect Monty, but under his watch he had faced traumas that would devastate any other—he had lost his father to his brother, sacrificed his patriotism out of compassion for the occupied, and now, it seemed, he had suffered his first mental breakdown at the tender age of ten. The resilience of children had always astonished Gabranth, but still, his conscience battered him.
"Importance is worth nothing if it's not put good to use," Monty insisted. "We have to initiate negotiations before the Rozarrians interfere."
"You know very well that Vayne will have wiped out the Resistance long before then," Gabranth replied sternly.
"Then we have to work that much faster."
He shook his head, trying to hide the sigh of frustration in his tone. "Your brother isn't well. If you threaten his authority, there's no telling how he will react."
"Vayne thinks he can rule the world with strength and fear," Monty argued. "Or at least the voices in his head tell him he can. You know he won't be able to enforce his rule on so much land for more than a decade. The Resistance will regroup and all of Ivalice will turn on Archadia. If we don't stop this, they'll have no reason to show us even the slightest mercy when our time is up."
"Monty…"
"Didn't you swear your allegiance to Archadia? Isn't it your job to protect your country?"
"My job is to protect you, Lamont." The words sounded cold, wounded.
Monty fought to cast off the adorable innocence that all too frequently inhibited the severity of his determination, but he feared he could not fully ignore the warnings of one who had watched over him vigilantly from his infancy. In his more formative years, he would never have challenged any order delivered by his most loyal guardian; he had grown nearly unable to resist heeding the voice he had taken comfort in since his earliest days—impossibly gentle, even when marred by the damning ring of Judiciary steel. But although hearing words of doubt from the man who had raised him caused him to second-guess his own motives, he did not allow the reservation to linger in his mind for too long. Gabranth cared nothing for Archadia—Monty knew this—he cared only for Monty, and his safety trumped all else.
"Is that what you think you're doing?" the boy asked accusingly. "Sure, you can protect me now, but this isn't going to end. How long do you think it will be before he realizes he can't have me alive?" A fleeting pause, and then: "Are you going to protect me the same way Drace did?"
"Leave her out of this."
Drawing in a bracing breath, Monty unleashed his last resort: "Please, Noah…"