Marked by Blood

Some moments flash very quickly in front of one's eyes, she thought to herself. When you are going to die, you realize that nothing matters but the wish to live. And still, when you find yourself unable to move despite this wish, petrified by something, you are compelled to examine your emotions. Were they love? Or simply fear? And this, she thought, is what happened to me; frozen between fear and something else, unable to move and save myself, when I knew that he was going to kill me.

Balmafula rubbed her hands across her temples. The maddening moonlight stared at her through the high window of the castle, disturbing her thoughts. She passed her fingers across her breast, where a fresh stain saturated the clean chemise, a circle of blood eternally attesting to her weakness. Even as she touched it and gazed at the red stains on her fingers, she knew that this place will always hold a scar, a memory. The point of the sword, pressed against her skin, bore into it, inflicting ever-increasing pain.

Damn you, Delita. How could you do this to me?

The memory burned, a clean, bright flame. It was weakness, weakness— her terrible weakness for him. The moment that she had failed to kill him had been her moment of truth.

She had followed him into the room, confident that she knew exactly what she was going to do. When she watched him send the queen away, her contempt towards her overrid pity. That beautiful, helpless girl controlled by Delita's ruthless iron will, nothing but a toy, a plaything in his hands. She had no control over her own life. She was nothing but a useful, pretty puppet to him.

A bitter smile curled Balmafula's lips at the irony of it. Yes, she reflected, and I considered myself better than her. I wanted to believe myself stronger; maybe because I thought that if I was strong I would obtain him for myself. I wanted to have a perfect control over my life and over my emotions, and I believed that this strength would be my salvation. But I was just the same; just a silly plaything to his will.

Just like her.

Balmafula bit her lips, her fingers passing over the wound again, fresh blood clinging to their tips. She ignored the pain, almost reveling in it in a strange, unsettling way. Yes, she thought, I wanted to believe that I would have him as SHE never could. I wanted to prove myself to him. Control, control... and all that time it was he who controlled my thoughts, my actions and my emotions, and I didn't even realize it.

God DAMN you Delita, how COULD you?

The acrid smile twisted her lips again. When she drew her knife, she still believed in her strength for one last, fleeting moment. And then the truth flashed upon her with a blinding clarity, an almost physical blow, rendering her as helpless as a child.

He had turned towards her and perceived the knife, and a sardonic smile curled his lip. Then he said, spreading his arms open, his voice ringing with terrible coolness: "Kill me, then. I know WHO you are; so why don't you kill me?"

And it was then that she lost that illusion of her perfect self-control. Everything jumbled together at once; the memories, the emotions, the understanding. The church suspected his intentions, and told her to kill him if he proved to be dangerous. But even as she worked on their side, her emotions had swayed onto HIS, and it gave her confusion and pain. She realized that everything that he planned to do had been right. And she did not want to be the one to destroy it, when she recognized it as her country's salvation. She'd be damned if she will.

And then she also realized that he had always known about her, and understood her struggle quite clearly.

Oh damn you Delita... damn you. Why did you do this to me? Why?

I couldn't kill you. I just couldn't. It was fear, it was awe, it was admiration, it was love. I don't care what it was, but it tied my hands and distorted my senses. Damn you Delita, damn you. You made me so weak.

Even when he drew his sword, and she knew that he was going to kill her, she did not move. Weakness... weakness... a feeling of being nothing, of being a plaything, a toy, just like that queen that she despised just moments before. He was still smiling, the same cool, terrible smile with which he had accepted his death earlier. And now he had recognized her weakness, and, with that same smile, he was going to kill her.

She screamed. She knew that he had no scruples in killing anyone who stood in his way, and that she was going to be treated the same way; because, after all, she was nothing to him. When the point of his sword pressed against her skin, the panic constricted her throat and she was hardly able to breath.

He stood very still, the sharp point boring deeper and deeper, inflicting pain... and more pain... and more pain. Kill me, kill me, something inside her had begged. She was frozen by now, feeling nothing but the pain. My life is in your hand; so just end it and kill me.

Balmafula lowered her head. And you thought that THIS was the worst thing... you thought that to die was the worst thing that he could do to you. You were wrong.

Why did you do this to me? Why? Why, why?

She could still reprise it all in her mind, like a recurring nightmare. And it felt like a nightmare, even though it had happened such a short while ago. It was the nightmare of a realization that your life was not in your hands, that nothing of it was yours. Your life, your emotions, your heart were all stripped bare, placed into the hands of another, and was subject to mockery, to derision, to disdain. This was the most painful thing of all; when he understood. When he saw through her emotions and expressed nothing… nothing but contempt.

When the iron point was withdrawn from her breast, she stared at him with shock. She could do nothing but stand and stare, frozen with some emotion other than pain. He was not going to kill her— he had spared her life—

And she was foolish enough, shocked enough, to ask: "WHY?"

She bit her lip hard at the memory, ignoring the blood that she felt on her tongue. Yes; you had hoped that he would tell you that he felt the same way. THIS is what you hoped to hear, even when you knew with absolute clarity that it couldn't be true. But you wanted it to be true. Your body burned with the hope that it would be true. You laid yourself open to him; and, for one moment, you let a childish dream overrule your emotions.

Because it was only, as he told her, a warning— and pity.

He had said it with the same cool, staid voice, and when he stated these reasons for sparing her, life his eyes expressed comprehension of her emotions, and his contempt of this comprehension. Nothing but contempt and scorn... for her weakness. She knew that he would have valued her more if she had at least gone through with the attempt of killing him. But he could see through her now— the weakness of her— nothing but a toy in his hand, nothing but a child... like the other one... nothing to him... nothing.

Balmafula lowered her head into her hands, and her bloodstained fingers slid across her face, staining her cheeks with blood that mingled with the sliding tears. Damn you, damn you, damn you Delita. Why?

Why did you let me live when... at that moment... I wished that I could die?

© Written by Hadas Rose

Final Fantasy Tactics is © Square, 1998.

Note

Good lord, this piece is angsty, and kind of perverse. It's a bit bewildering to find myself disagreeing with so much that I've written back then. Final Fantasy Tactics, however, is still the best.