A Shadow of Doubt

This scene takes place after Delita spares the wounded Orlan.

The vast hall in the upper level of the castle was perfectly silent and flooded with a luxurious stream of bright afternoon light. There was only one figure in it, a young woman richly clad in a flowing white and red gown. Her long, wavy brown hair was smoothed away from her brow and braided into a thick rope woven through with a white ribbon, that dangled down almost to the back of her knees. A thin circlet of gold spanned her white forehead, a mark of her royalty. The large, dark eyes beneath the golden crown were troubled, the small mouth thinned into a single, strained line. She was gazing outside the broken-glass window, but the look in her eyes was blank, as if she was absorbed in thought. One of her hands was lying on the windowpane, the fingers pressed tightly against the golden glass.

She was standing thus, motionless and as still as a statue, when the great oak door at the end of the hall opened quietly. The figure standing in the doorway was of a young knight, clad in the official golden armor of his order. He was distinguished by a heavy red cape that covered his shoulders and dangled to the soles of his leather boots, a mark of his high rank. Except for his clothes there was nothing distinguished about his appearance. His brown hair, smoothed back from his temples, was a dark brown color. His rather thin face was tanned from exposure to the hard weather conditions besetting soldiers at war, and there were pale remnants of scars on one side of his jaw, probably from a battle injury. His features were straight and sharp, but a hard, thinly-pressed mouth and a general air of inflexibility about him prevented him from looking either pleasing or likable. His lined face and the severe, grave expression made him seem older than the young queen standing by the window, although there was barely a year's difference between them. His brown eyes, the only handsome feature in his face, were finely-shaped and shaded, and very deep in color. But again, their attraction was dimmed by the dark, grim look in them, a look that seemed typical of this young knight.

He paused in the doorway, examining the young queen, whose slender form was bathed by the bright flow of the afternoon light. His eyes trailed from the pale, beautiful profile and the slender white neck to the slim figure and the richly elaborate dress threaded with a dark crimson embroidery. The red color reminded him of the blood and of death that he experienced almost daily on the battlefield, and a harsh smile tightened his mouth as he contrasted it to the pure ivory silk and velvet on the young queen. She seemed the personification of impure blood and chastity mingled together, reflecting the tangled net of his feelings for her. She was a girl that needed protection, a girl that he wanted to remain chaste and pure and untouched; and she was also a figure that he would exploit, use, and emotionally rape to his personal advantage.

Although he struggled still, he already knew what the outcome will be. Her emotions were not a problem; he had already manipulated her sufficiently to know that his plan will prevail; he already knew that she loved him. It was he, himself, who was the problem. He had steeled himself, readying for the final step; but his softer feelings flowed up every time he tried to take that step. That side of him that wanted to keep her pure and chaste, a beloved girl that he would protect and would not use. He would need some time to shatter this weakness. It represented ideals, feelings, innocence, love. Everything that he had lost, and was losing daily with every additional experience of his daily life. And when it was all destroyed, he would take that final step, and then nothing will remain of her but a fragment, the memory of the feelings that he once had for her.

He noticed that she had turned around, and he was not surprised to see her strained expression. He knew that she was grieved and troubled about the way that he sent her away when Orlan broke into her room and begged for her protection. But she obeyed when he ordered her to leave. Perhaps she still possessed a shred of belief in his love for her, believing that his manner, that so clearly denoted the change in him, was but a passing phase. She would fool herself to the final moment, and then he would use her delusion to his own ends. She was lonely, and had no one to trust but him. And she trusted him so much that if he came to her even now and knelt at her feet, telling her that he loved her, she would crumble into his arms at once, with the same soft expression that he had seen on her that day when he promised to protect her.

The young knight clenched his teeth, his jaw setting in a hard, firm line. No, he did not want to recall that day, because the feelings that it raised threatened to break his resolve and bring back the soft flow of emotions. The emotions that made him weak, the emotions he resolved to keep in check, lock up and ultimately destroy, because otherwise he knew that he would never maintain the resolve to achieve his ambitions. He would not let mere feelings weaken him. The woman he had just left behind had done just this; coming to kill him, but letting her love for him stop her hand. She capitulated before him like a child, and all because of that weakness that they all called love. No; his sister was destroyed by them, and with her they destroyed his capacity to love and to trust people. And ever since that day he knew that he would use others' love and trust to achieve his own ends, the same way that his sister was used by the politicians of his cruel, corrupt country.

The young queen met his gaze. His expression must have betrayed some of his thoughts because he noticed her eyelids fluttering a little as she watched him, a nervous reaction of fear that she sometimes displayed when he was in his dark moods. He watched her ivory-pale face, the chiseled royal beauty of her rank, and felt his desire for her again; but this was a purely physical reaction, and created nothing of the threat that sincere feelings did.

The young queen finally broke the silence. "Delita," she said. "What... what did you do to him?"

Her voice was strained, and he could tell that she was trying to keep it in check, to maintain her strength before his moody gaze. It was one of the traits that he valued in her. She always attempted to uphold her own will despite her meager strength, and although she struggled weakly she at least made the effort. Not like the blond woman that he had left behind, whom he crushed so very easily with a few words. No; this girl had a true will of her own. Her strength was insubstantial, but her attempt to struggle against the odds was always determined. And yet, it was never a strong enough attempt to turn her into a threat. He briefly wondered if it will ever reach the point in which she will become dangerous, and dismissed the thought at once. He was the one in control, and her efforts to oppose him always came to nothing. Maybe because she always deluded herself into believing in him, stretching the belief a little more every time he tested it again.

It's because she was raised as a priestess, he reflected sardonically. She was raised upon beliefs, taught to keep her faith firm against all odds. The church's teaching proved useful to me indeed. And now they sent that woman to kill me, but their efforts came to nothing. I am stronger than them by now.

He became aware that he was staring at her without having answered her question. She was growing clearly nervous under his gaze, and leant against the golden glass with one arm. He broke the silence with a harsh reply, under which she flinched visibly. "I served him as he deserved."

"You didn't... you didn't kill him?" she faltered.

"Does it matter to you that much?" he asked coolly. "You know that you can trust my decisions."

She made no reply, and he scanned her face. Some change in expression in it made him pause. He could detect a passing glimmer in the dark eyes, a passing shadow of doubt that he could identify as anger. Her expression remained pleading, but the spark was still visible.

And the young knight knew all at once that he must crush this emotion at its root. He valued her will to struggle, yet this was precisely what he must suppress. She had to learn to obey him, and not question his actions. She must learn to trust his decisions implicitly, once and for all.

He advanced quickly, catching the young woman's hand with a tight grip. She stared at him, but did not object to this action. Then he spoke in a low, hard voice.

"Listen to me, Ovelia. I made you a queen like I had promised. I never failed you until now, did I?"

The young queen did not withdraw her hand from his, but he could tell that the thin wall of ice had remained between them, and his anger flared all at once. Her halting reply served to heighten the rising fury. "Yes, Delita, you did make me a queen. But..."

She paused, and seemed to try and fall back, but she was kept in check by the hard grip he maintained on her hand. "Delita, you... you use everyone. And sometimes I wonder..."

Delita's eyes narrowed, searching her face; but she had lowered her lashes, and he couldn't glimpse the expression in her eyes. The heavy lashes seemed to make shadows on her narrow, white face. Her voice was curiously soft and flat as she completed the sentence in halting accents. "I sometimes wonder what your purpose was in making me a queen."

Delita's mouth thinned into a single, hard line. The burning anger remained in him but he repressed it with an effort. He released her hand and fell back a step. "I will explain it to you, then," he replied, his voice a biting lash.

She seemed to flinch and looked up with an agitated expression. He could perceive that she was afraid of him now, apprehensive that she had said too much, and he knew that he could use her fear, manipulate it to clarify her position. He therefore continued with the same lashing tone.

"I made you a queen, Ovelia, because of what you stand for. And it's what you STAND for that matters. This is what you are: a symbol. And for the peace this symbol brings I did much."

Her mouth moved, her eyes fixed on him with a torn look. He let her digest the import of his words, and continued. "And now, listen to me, Ovelia. I have made you a queen; so you better begin to act like one." He smiled narrowly, and could see that she winced under his smile. "I have given you the power that this symbol entails, so you better start using it. Like the queen that I made you."

She interrupted him, her voice breathless and quick. "Delita! I— I understand— I didn't mean to say—" She paused, and he could see her body shuddering with emotions, her hands gripping each other and twisting together. "I— didn't mean to say that I don't trust you, I just—"

So weak, he reflected, to succumb to her emotions so easily. Perhaps I over-estimated the strength of her will after all. It is the real weakness in her, in everyone I know; succumbing to these emotions. And yet, I myself am still struggling with that poisonous weakness. But I will overcome it. I WILL.

Her voice broke upon his meditation. "Delita, you must understand. I sometimes feel so useless, and lonely. I sometimes hate this life of mine so much that I— I would rather die than live this way. And sometimes I feel that you've— I don't want to be a symbol to you, Delita. I want—"

She didn't complete her stammering sentence and he examined her white face. He could perceive that emotion again in her eyes. The desperate attempt to believe, to transform him from the heartless, glittering man in gold and red into the savior knight that comforted her once. He recalled that same look in her eyes that sun-flooded morning, when she sat in the ruined church, rocking on her knees in silent anguish. And when he spoke words of comfort to her she flew into his arms, and he felt those forbidden emotion stirring in him, the emotions that he had to crush with an iron will because he was afraid of the weakness that they engendered.

Delita's jaw set grimly, and he tried to suppress the memories. His mind was his own greatest betrayer. If he only used her once and for all and crushed her emotions completely and irretrievably while gaining his ambition, then he would never have to tackle those softer feelings ever again, because she would no longer try to elicit them from him. He knew that he must act upon his plan as soon as possible, because he was afraid of that weakness in him, that responded to her white despair.

She advanced towards him. Something rose into her dark eyes, a welling fervor; and then he understood that she perceived his inner struggle. He faced her rigidly as she raised her hand to his cheek, and he felt her slim fingers caressing it softly. Her voice floated up to him with a trembling ripple. "I am—"

Her fingers traveled along his jaw, tracing the pale battle scars. "I am so— lonely, Delita."

Delita raised his hand slowly. His fingers clasped around her hand tightly, and he could feel her fingers fluttering in his hard grip. His heart was racing wildly, but his mind had turned as cold as steel.

He slowly dropped his hand. The young queen's hand, gripped inside his own, was forced down. Then he turned around, sweeping the pale image of her shocked face away from his mind.

"For God's sake, Ovelia," he said over his shoulder. "Have some dignity."

Then he walked out of the room, traversing the shadowy corridor. His fingers were clenched tightly inside their gloves, but at that moment he knew with a cold, triumphant certainty that the barrier had been destroyed. He will finally be able to go through with his plan.

This very night, he will come to her and use her as he wanted. With icy conviction, he knew that she will break down and succumb to his pretended show of feelings. She will believe that they are sweeping away all the walls that he had risen between them for many long months since that single day of complete trust.

So she will submit to her desires; trying to recover her true protector, her dream-knight, and acting upon the belief that once she did so, she will never be lonely again.

And then, all the cards will remain in his own hand, to use them as he wished.

© Written by Hadas Rose
Final Fantasy Tactics is © Square, 1998.

Note
This piece is named it after Yoko Kanno's dark cello piece from the Vision of Escaflowne, usually associated with Folken.

Delita in my stories is always about angst! Angst! And more angst!

And have I said that Matsuno is my favorite JRPG writer? Because he's always been my favorite JRPG writer. And I recently discovered that he was kinda hot when he was young, when he made all those games that I loved. And is apparently a temperamental genius of sorts. Well now.