In Pursuit

The rain-drenched air slashed at Ramza's face, saturating his hair with the moisture and making it cling to his forehead in damp strands. He raised his eyes upwards and watched the roiling clouds sweeping across the sky, forming an ever-changing drapery of darkness and light. Then he cupped his palm upwards and stood very still, absorbed in that vision, as if seeking to catch something that would descend down upon him from that stark, encompassing sight. For that one moment the clouds that obscured the skies were like the guardians of his reality; the reality that was ever shadowy, somber, and remote, and as distant and dreamy as the vision of the sky on that one moment in the aftermath of battle. Was there truth in the world, he wondered to himself; and if so, will he ever be able to reach it through that darkness? Will he ever be able to tear down that drapery of lies and bring out the shining glow that will save them whom he wants to save? Or will he die and it will forever remain out of reach, masked by those clouds, draping the world in eternal darkness?

Please, let me not die too soon, he thought. And even if I die... let the truth be revealed before I do.

A light touch on his shoulder roused him from his thoughts. The serious, compelling young woman's voice commanded his attention. The sedate, quiet fashion in which she uttered her words rendered the obvious urgency curiously absent. This was Agrias' habitual manner, that Ramza had learned to recognize well.

"Ramza," she said, "the Nanten will be coming here in any given minute in pursuit of the deserters. We have to vacate this place quickly if we don't want to get caught."

Agrias's sword was drawn, sleek with the familiar sight of blood. The raindrops that streamed down the blade produced thin strands of clearing metal. Her face was tired, but it harbored her characteristically stern look. She did not seem to notice that there was blood on her armor, and that the rising winds whipped her neatly-braided hair into disarray. She did not seem to feel the darkness that he could see engulfing her; the darkness of the lies and the violence and the blood which, he felt, slowly ensnared them both.

For a moment Ramza fancied a different Agrias. Not a warrior clad in an armor smeared with blood, but a woman who wore a dress of velvet, and who let her hair down to her waist, and who moved inside a neatly-cleaned hall full of lights from candles, and made a delicate gesture with her hands, and smiled as she spoke. Like one of those ladies that he remembered from the days when he was still a child, ladies enveloped in an aura of the luxury and ease. Those days of warmth and security which now appeared forever beyond his reach. And he wondered if the red taint on her armor was a curse, and if the curse was his own, one that she was forced to share out of no fault of her own. Was this, he thought, the truth for Agrias? Was this her way of life, and no other? And he wondered if she wished for peace as well, if she sometimes wished to return to a place where she could sink back into security, and not be pursued by the haunting truths that he wished to expose.

And if she ever agreed to wear that velvet, wouldn't that velvet be a mask and a lie? Just like it had proven a lie to Ovelia?

He finally stirred, conscious of the fact that the present was calling to him, an inclined his head slightly, passing his fingers across his forehead and removing the wet locks from his eyes. "You are right," he replied, trying to conceal the weariness in his voice. "We better move on."

But at that moment there was a hiss of a tightly indrawn breath, and someone said, "Sir, I believe that's the Nanten. And here's their leader."

"Damn," Agrias whispered with a sharp intake of breath. She swiveled around, her eyes fixing upon the forms of soldiers consolidating inside the foggy atmosphere of the rain-saturated hills. "It is indeed them," she said. Her voice was seeped with intensity, as if she was both resigned to this unpleasant vision and was preparing for the trouble that it might incur. "We ought to run, but they'll overtake us. Too late." She turned her head slightly, watching Ramza's face from the corner of her eye, while her attention remained focused upon the approaching, misty figures. "Ramza, what should we do?"

Ramza's fingers gripped the sword in his hand, feeling them stiffening, not only with the chill of the blade and the coolness of the rain, but with something else. It was the apprehension that always stole over him at such undesirable sights. The prospect of death at such times became almost tangible. "Let us wait," he replied quietly. "We are all too weary to fight, and there are simply too many of them. As busy as both the Nanten and Hokuten are with their own quarrels, they might not recognize us after all. I don't believe that anyone but the church remembers us these days." And yet, he thought, there was always a chance.

Agrias glanced at him, sensing the tightness in his voice. She often wondered to herself how Ramza handled that burden that he did not deserve, of being falsely blamed and prosecuted for Draclau's death. Although he seemed to accept it, even to ignore it before the more pressing vocation of rescuing his sister, she perceived his mixed feelings of determination and dread. He was still not used to it, she reflected, to be blamed and rejected, and to court death with open hands. He probably still longed for those days in which he lived comfortably, believing in the institution in which he had been raised. It had not been his business then to question or to oppose; and now, he taught— no, forced himself— to do both. She could not help but pity him for it, but she valued the utter conviction in the justice of his actions, which was Ramza's driving force behind his willingness to fight. This is why, she mused to herself, I am the one who follows his lead, rather than otherwise.

She did not answer Ramza, but inclined her head slightly in assent to his decision, and prepared herself for the possibility of fighting for her life. But that, she coolly reflected, always seems to happen; and what is one more time, to me?

It could be, said a voice in her mind, the final time in which the balance tips towards death. What, then?

Then, she thought, I will die, as my fate decrees. In her mind she could almost envision the great hands of some eternal clock moving, stretching the woven thread of her life thinner and thinner. She watched Ramza again and saw his pale face; and in him, she could see that thread stretched very thin indeed.

An expectant silence ensued as they scanned the approaching visions, awaiting the pale figures to emerge from the mist and expose themselves under the torn clouds of winter. Then Ramza spoke, paying close attention to something. "Agrias," he said, straining his eyes; "is it just my impression, or is the figure of the leader very familiar?"

Slightly surprised, Agrias watched the approaching figures. Then she nodded her confirmation. "Yes," she replied, speaking slowly. "We've seen that man before."

"I know who it is," Ramza said. "It's Orlan. We met him before. He warned me that I am being pursued." He could not help but remembering Orlan's words. Stay alive, he had said.

Agrias spoke curtly. "Yes. We rescued him from those thieves. Perhaps we could strike a bargain with him, who knows." She watched Orlan coming towards them, his figure coalescing from the mists. The light grew stronger as the clouds parted a little, and a thin blade of sunshine shot through them, illuminating his face. It was indeed him.

And as Agrias watched Orlan coming towards them, she felt a growing conviction that her conjecture might be true. She could perceive that Orlan recognized them, and yet something in his expression boded well. He will spare us, she decided. At least we might not die.

Not today.

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

Notes
Orlan is one of my favorite characters in Final Fantasy Tactics, because he attempted to expose the truth at the price of his life. In this story he is therefore associated with the light of truth, as opposed to the darkness of lies Ramza perceives in the beginning of the story.