Requiem for the King
By: akikos_wok
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Square-Enix!
Warnings: Some strong language, a half-hearted attempt at Olde English, and some borderline explicit Delita/Ramza lovin'.
Summary: Gravely wounded, King Delita wonders at how his life has come to pass and if all he has is really enough. Rated for language and adult content.
Part- I
Her death was swift and clean. She didn't even shudder as the blade slew her, let alone cry out. Just a perfectly aimed thrust through the heart and she collapsed dead. By the time she fell forward into his arms she was already gone. Death was instantaneous, free of gasping final breaths, devoid of realization that life was at an end, no hint of struggle. It truly was a testament to how loose her grip on life had grown.
He was not sure why she was dead, but he was certain that he killed her. It was a reflex. She stabbed him so he stabbed back. Yet it was much more that, for he was aware that he had wrenched the dagger that slew her from his own body and made the conscious decision to kill her. He needn't have done so, for her aim was poor and his injuries probably treatable; it was unlikely that the meek and gentle queen could have conjured up enough malice to deal him a second blow. He might have just let her be, let her realize what she'd done as his blood soaked the grass, and stained crimson the grounds of the ruined church. It would have driven her mad, probably. Then she would be committed to an asylum for insanity and attempted murder of the King of Ivalice.
Unless it did not. She might have remained perfectly sane and struck again, this time killing him or worse yet not striking, the people would sympathize with her fears that she was a mere pawn in his plan and then they would drive him to ruin, revoking his crown, returning him to the vermin from whence he came, resigned to live forever in the shadow of his fleeting rise to greatness. No, that could never be, and that was why she had to die. People loved her and trusted her, the poor abused princess, rescued finally from a life of constant suffering for the advancement of others by a common boy, who raised her up above the ashes of a fallen kingdom to be become queen of a brighter future. But it could not have been just any princess. It had to be Ovelia. Had it been a princess who'd had enough sense to stand up for herself, the people would never have been so willing to accept him as the all benevolent hero they though him to be.
She had to die because they would have believed her. And unstable as Ovelia was, she was not insane. Even the people's all good and righteous hero could not convince them of that.
Again he remembered: she was dead and he killed her. The murder weapon lay shamelessly by her golden head, now facedown on the earth and framed with a halo of discarded flowers intended as a birthday gift. There was no way of concealing it. He was too weak to take it and run, and how could he possibly run away from everything he had worked so hard acquire?
But someone would discover them soon and he had to have a story. His mind swam and found only one possible solution: it was suicide.
He fought against gravity's venture to drag his body to the ground and half-stumbled, half-crawled over to the queen's fallen frame. He took the dagger from where it lay and held it level with the wound the dead girl had dealt him, calculating how the weapon might have fallen had he inflicted it himself. Satisfied with a position, he flung the dagger to the ground and let himself fall with it.
He was surprised how good it felt to lie there, to just surrender to the aches of his exhausted body and let it rest. But even as his body rested, his mind was ever scheming.
She'd killed herself. He didn't know why she'd done it, but she was already dead when he arrived. Stricken with grief, he took that self-same dagger that she had used to end her life and attempted to end his own. But, being so wild with grief, he was unable to stay his aim and he missed his heart.
It was a good story. Ovelia had always been a tragic figure. Who was to say that she would ever really be able to cope with a life of stability and contentment? Perhaps she ended her life out of fear that her happiness would not last and she would find herself used and discarded as always. He did not know, but it sounded plausible enough, and would sound even more plausible coming from her distraught and potentially dying husband, who had endeavored to kill himself that he might join his beloved.
He laughed at his cleverness, began to cough and tasted the unmistakable tang of blood on his lips, felt its eerie warmth on his chin. She must have grazed his lung. Perhaps she would succeed in killing him after all.
"Lord Delita!" cried a horrified voice, but his mind was beginning to wander and he could not tell for certain to whom it belonged.
Perhaps it was in the stead of panic that his thoughts began to drift. He was dying but refusing to acknowledge it. Whilst his life's blood continued to seep from him and quench the thirsty earth, he was ten years in the past, laughing as his sweet little Tietra stood up, dripping with mud and fury, after face-planting during a game of tag in the rain. Then he was watching she and Alma, still beaming and joyful in the last days of summer, being loaded into a carriage along with most of their belongings, as they were sent away to school for the first time. Now she was home, her arms flung about his neck in congratulations for his own impending departure to the Akademy, but his eyes did not see her, for they focused elsewhere.
As darkness overtook him, his mind was consumed with only one thought: Ramza. How had he fared in all of this?
"Your majesty!" the voice cried again but to Delita's ears it sounded far away, though he was certain its owner nigh hovered over him now.
But he could fight no longer and surrendered to darkness and the image of a hardened hero, a shadow of a boy he'd known in years long past.
---
It was summer. In a few more days autumn would rear her fair and fickle head and once again separate him from his beloved little sister. Only this time he too would be leaving Eagrosse. He hoped it might ease the blow of their parting; it was always painful but he thought, perhaps, knowing that Delita would not be at home would make Tietra less loathe to leave it. Perhaps he would also find it easier to be without her in a place where they had never been together. But for now he would let it be summer and try to forget the impending autumn winds that would carry him away from the only place he'd ever called home.
It had been a cruel summer, its advent heralded by the death of Lord Barbaneth, a man who'd bestowed every luxury and generosity he could upon the common-born Heiral children. Barbaneth's younger children had spent the first few weeks of summer in virtual seclusion as they mourned their father's death. Delita was certain that, in that dark time, he was the only person who saw Ramza aside from his servants who no doubt were force-feeding him and insisting he take some exercise. But Ramza never denied Delita's company, and it was from the youngest Beoulve son that Delita learned that Barbaneth had arranged for him to enter the Akademy in the fall, an act very likely provoked by his failing health. Barbaneth was so very fond of his youngest son, and perpetually suspicious of the aristocracy's meddling with him.
As he rightfully should have been, for a season away at school had made no dent in Ramza's naïveté. He needed someone he could trust, someone who hadn't spent his whole life squandering money and making personal conquests. He needed someone he knew, and that person was Delita. Saddened though he was by Barbaneth's passing, Delita was grateful his imminent death had made the man see his worth.
Now the summer's end drew nigh, Barbaneth's children smiled again, and each day was filled with more and more preparations for the departure of four of Eagrosse's children, suddenly grown into adults.
The day was radiant. They'd gone out to the river for an afternoon swim and, having grown tired of struggling against the fearsome current, Delita rested on a blanket, basking in the rays of the soon setting sun. As it threatened to begin its descent beyond the horizon, the sun tinted amber everything that it touched, rendering all things, already beautiful for being drunk on the habitual joy of summer, that much more lovely to behold. It brightened the yellow undertones in the leaves about to turn, made golden the stalks of wheat in the distant fields, danced upon the water and gave warmth to the river's flow. It softened the redness in Tietra's flushed and tired cheeks, making them seem a perfect, bronzed rose, and it veritably sparkled as it played in Alma's thick, yellow hair. Golden Alma was particularly striking, the soft amber not only complimenting her hair, but her skin, and lips and well. Every inch of her seemed to soak up the light then radiate it back out through her pores. But stunning as Alma was this day, she was merely pretty in comparison to her brother.
Ramza still played in the river. His skin would probably look blue by now if it weren't for the sun painting it a healthy tanned hue. The water was not freezing, but neither was it warm, and Ramza had been in near two hours uninterrupted. He stood in shallow depths, the current racing by his ankles, his thin layers of linen undergarments clinging to his damp skin. He poked idly at the rocky floor, perhaps looking to unearth some tadpoles, unaware of how his friend watched him.
Half naked and doused in sunlight, Delita could not see how anyone could deny that Ramza was the fairest of the Beoulve children. Alma was lovely indeed with her round face and thick plumes of hair, but hers was a very soft, human loveliness, while Ramza was a work of art. His was a slender, angular frame and a chiseled look that carried throughout his every feature. His cheekbones were high, his legs long and spindly, the slant of his torso from his chest to his waist almost as severe as that in a woman's body. Everything about Ramza was so very refined and precise it was as if some sculptor had carved him out of stone then miraculously brought him to life. Even his corn-silk hair, tied back, as always, at the nape, was perfectly executed. Delita thought perhaps he ought to feel shame for seeing such beauty in another man, but felt certain that any man of culture would be foolish not to appreciate the aesthetic being that was Ramza Beoulve.
And besides, it was no secret that many, men among them, had admired him more crudely than the connoisseur observing a work of art. No secret to Delita anyway who watched others watch him with lusty eyes across drunken, glittering ballrooms, watched their shameless flirtations and coercing touches, that always passed unnoticed by the impossibly naïve Ramza. If anything, his season at school had simply made the boy more beautiful, muscle-tone having now appeared in his sturdy, slender limbs, and all the more subject to the lecherous advances of drunken aristocrats. And this made Delita gladder to think that when Ramza left, this time he would be with him, and he would be there to protect his oblivious friend from such vile creatures. Though Delita was under no illusions that his own interest in Ramza was merely artistic.
Ramza looked up from his task and glanced towards his sister, who sat on a rock by the water's edge. He said something to her, but Delita was too far away to hear what it was. Not far off from Alma, Tietra stood and futilely attempted to skip a stone across the river's surface.
Then Ramza looked straight up at him and, seeing Delita looking back at him, smiled. Delita thought his heart had dropped down into his stomach, or stayed put and stopped beating all together. And then it was racing.
"Delita!" Ramza called, "will you not come down and swim another minute with us? We needs be starting back soon."
"No Ramza," he called back, his voice quivering slightly. "I've little desire to leave a watermark at supper."
"Do come down and at least speak with us Delita," Tietra implored. "I've not long for your company and am going to miss it so."
Delita sighed and shook his head. He never could seem to say "no" to her. "Well, if my sister commands it," he surrendered and rose to his feet. He strode leisurely down the sloping bank until he was at the water's edge, right beside his willful little sister. He was thankful that Ramza remained in the water, safely out of arms reach, for he could not tell what kind of reactions physical closeness might stir in him.
"Delita," Tietra began, wrapping her arms about one of his, "is it not wonderful? The four of us, here together, just like when we were children. Are you not glad of it?"
"Very glad sister," he agreed, though he was subtly aware that he wished to be rid of her and Alma that he might be alone with Ramza presently.
"How sweet it is to play like this and forget for a moment that we shall all be adults soon," Alma remarked. "I declare this send-off ball he's planned is merely an excuse to present me to suitors that Dycedarg should marry me off in some treaty or ploy for power."
"Alma, speak not so ill of our lord brother," Ramza scolded. "Dycedarg is a good man and all he does is for the good of the family and the people we govern. He shall yet make a fine lord of Eagrosse, shall he not Delita?"
He looked right at him as he asked his opinion and their eyes locked. Delita wondered how long they stayed like that before he finally managed to mutter his agreement and tear his gaze away.
"Blast!" Alma exclaimed suddenly. "I had forgotten. I am to meet with the tailor before supper this eve to be fitted for my gown for Dycedarg's party." Her nose wrinkled as she looked sadly over the river and hobbled from her perch on the rock to the grassy bank. "I must hasten away."
"We shall go with you," Tietra offered.
"No, do not yet leave on my account, but stay a while and enjoy the sunset," Alma protested.
"Oh but I am soaked through and will like catch cold should I not be warm and dry when darkness comes," Tietra declared. "What a way that would be to start the new school year, my nose all swollen and red and sniffling through my lessons. I shall walk with you."
"Not I my sister," said Ramza, though he did begin to make his way towards the bank. "For I do desire to see this day to its end. Forgive me."
And then Delita knew he might have what he wanted, if he chose it. He could leave with his sister, return to the castle and dress for supper, leaving behind the odd and lusty longings of a late summer's day. Or he could stay.
"Not at all brother," Alma said warmly. "I would that I could remain." She turned about to face the other boy in her company. "Will you away with us Delita?"
"I…" He hesitated and considered. Did he want to stay? He was definitely ready to go indoors for the evening; though he liked being outside, he was hardly a great admirer of nature and the promise of a glorious sunset did not tempt. But Ramza did, though he was a temptation Delita thought he ought to resist. Thought he should, but decided not to, and soon Tietra and Alma, with blankets wrapped about them under a false pretense of modesty, had disappeared over the hill and he and Ramza were entirely alone.
They walked up the bank to sit by the blanket Delita had rested on before, Ramza claiming that the view was much better from up there, that one could really appreciate the beauty of the setting sun and its effect upon the water. He said that if you sat down right at the river's edge, the angle was too low, and it would greatly reduce the length of time in which you could view the sun itself, though its effect on the color of the sky could be enjoyed from anywhere. Delita did not care, but pretended to for Ramza's sake. He returned to his still outspread blanket, while Ramza sat on the naked ground nearby, tugging up blades of grass, searching in vain for one to make a suitable whistle.
"Here," Delita said, stretching his arm out to offer a long, flat specimen he had spotted and picked, "try this one."
"Thank you," Ramza said, moving closer and raising a hand to accept it. Their hands brushed and Ramza clumsily dropped the grass, their palms pressing up against one another, their fingers interlocking. Ramza cast his eyes downward and blushed as Delita tightened his grip on him.
"Ramza," Delita began, but realized he did not know what he meant to say. Here he sat, hand in hand with his old friend, a position they'd been in many times before, but suddenly fraught with more than mere brotherly companionship. Yet to the outside eye, there was nothing wrong or sinful about them. It would be a gifted person indeed who could simply look upon them and see the turmoil in Delita's heart. And, if his suspicions were correct, Ramza's too.
"Well, we are to away to Gariland in less than a fortnight," Ramza observed. He shifted to sit beside his friend, never letting go of his hand.
"Yes," Delita agreed, debating whether or not to ignore the sudden heat from the side of Ramza's outstretched leg pressing lightly against his.
"It's strange. I spent five months at Gariland in the last year, yet I feel I've scarcely been away at all," Ramza stated.
Delita laughed, though really he longed to embrace and console his friend. "What, afraid to leave again are you?" he chided.
"No," Ramza protested sharply, breaking from Delita's hold on his hand. "'Twas merely an observation."
"I jest Ramza," Delita said. He rested his weight on the heels of his hands and leaned back, observing the river before him. Eagrosse really was a beautiful place. He'd always thought it rather small and dull for a castle town, but knowing that soon he would be enveloped by the noise and commotion of the distant city made him suddenly more appreciative of the wheat fields and shallow streams that comprised the majority of the grounds at Eagrosse.
"Will you miss it?" Delita asked, head turning to Ramza, whom he discovered was already looking at him.
"I cannot say," Ramza admitted, shaking his head. "Presently, my most vivid memories of home are painful ones." Then he asked, "Will you?"
"No," Delita replied truthfully.
"You shan't?" Ramza asked, bewildered. "Not at all?"
"Of course not," said Delita. "There will be nothing left here for me to miss."
Ramza's brown eyes saddened, but Delita was sure he did not know it, else he would have looked away in a futile attempt to appear strong. But the boy's emotions always registered on his face and he was easier to read than a children's book, though he was entirely unaware of it. And Delita was glad to think that Ramza might be hurt by the idea that he would not miss him.
"You mean Tietra," Ramza said softly. "She will be away at school."
"Of course," Delita agreed. Ramza's hand had fallen back to rest on the ground beside him, and Delita gently placed his hand on top of it. "But you forget Ramza. We shall be together."
At this Ramza blushed again and Delita grew all the more confident of his affection for him. Knowledge compelled him to action, and he lifted an arm about Ramza's shoulders, closing the small gap between them. He kissed him fleetingly, innocently on the cheek, leaned very close to his ear and said lowly, "Were only I away and you remained here, then I would have cause indeed to be homesick for this place."
"Delita…" Ramza began and this time it was he who was speechless.
"You know I missed you every day when you were gone," Delita said, now moving to place a kiss on Ramza's lightly tanned throat. There was a small and distant part of him that told him this was wrong, but that little voice of reason could not trump the mysterious, lusty force that compelled him.
"I missed you too," Ramza near gasped, his neck arching into the touch of Delita's lips.
"I do not think I ever could have forgiven myself if something horrid should have happened to you whilst you were out of my sight," Delita said, sitting upright and drawing the other boy into his arms.
Ramza pushed away. "I can take care of myself Delita."
His eyes did their best to be angry and Delita wondered what his own reflected back. He was not sure what to feel, but he was sure Ramza's attempt at rage was no rejection of him. They stayed like that for a while, until Ramza stopped trying to be angry and Delita started wondering how to get Ramza back into his arms.
A question that was soon answered, as Ramza flew at him, placed his hands on either side of his face, and kissed him. It was a very unsuspected kiss, much harder and more deliberate than Delita would have expected out of Ramza. Nevertheless Delita soon took control of it, Ramza's arms falling limply over his shoulders as he wrapped his arms about his waist and drew him closer to him, Ramza's lips parting easily, allowing Delita's tongue to explore.
Almost as abruptly as it had begun, the kiss was over, Ramza pushing Delita away from him, face terror-struck. "Zalbaag!" he exclaimed in a harsh whisper. "His party rides in from Gariland any moment, they may pass this way."
Suddenly that scrap of reason was much more formidable and Delita remembered why he should not indulge fantasies of kissing Ramza Beoulve. It was not for feelings of shame or sinfulness for desiring another man, for he knew he could not help what he wanted and that history was full of love affairs between comrades in arms, though often un-penned by the record keepers. The trouble was not one of gender, but of station, for if Ramza was discovered he would suffer little, except to become the subject of the latest courtly gossip. But common-born Delita stood to lose everything, when he was finally about to have something to lose. He could no sooner love Ramza's sister, though he suspected punishment might be slightly less severe if he were caught kissing a noble-born girl.
"We must away. We do not want to be late to supper," Delita said finally, rising to his feet. He reached for the tunic and trousers he'd worn out to that morning and began to dress.
Ramza too began to dress but even as his body grew less exposed Delita was no less attracted to him. But he would not have him and never could. Not when he stood to gain so much, a common-born boy about to break into the ranks of nobility as Knight Apprentice. Perhaps some day he might enter into the Order of the Northern Sky and become a war hero, like the late lord Barabaneth. Then through his bravery he might secure himself a title and land, maybe even a castle-town of his own. But until that day Ramza must remain safely in his sight but untouched by any part of him save for his sword hand, to offer a comradely handshake or lend an aid in battle.
---
"Your majesty, are you awake?"
Delita's eyes were open and his surroundings began to come into focus. He was in his bedchamber, covered to the neck with blankets and furs, an assortment of potions and a golden saucer with clean bandages resting in it on a narrow table by his side. In a heavy armchair by the table sat Orran, who must have been the person who'd spoken, for Delita could see no one else.
"Yes…yes, I am awake," he replied slowly, uncertain of what pain speaking might cause. It was minor, but undeniably present.
"You majesty," Orran said, rising from the chair then kneeling by his bedside. He was a miserable sight, eyes bloodshot and encased in dark circles, hair unkempt, clothes all creased and wrinkled. He must not have slept in days. Delita wondered how long he had been at his side, and how long he himself had been unconscious.
"Orran," Delita said, "I…what's happened?"
"We found you, Valmafra and I, by the ruins of the ancient church," Orran answered, his voice pained and hesitant, and of course Delita knew why. As expected, Orran continued saying, "You were gravely wounded, stabbed through the chest, blood everywhere…"
"Ovelia? Where is Ovelia?" Delita asked with feigned concern for he already knew the answer.
"She," Orran began and hesitantly continued, "she is…I am so sorry your majesty, but she is gone."
"Gone?"
"Dead my lord." The first word was almost a whisper.
"I see," Delita said coolly. "So you could not save her." He remembered his plan and tried to think how best to execute it. But his mind was still hazy.
"She was already dead when we found her my liege," Orran said. "There was nothing to be done."
"I know. She was dead upon my own arrival," Delita confessed. "I only hoped that maybe I'd been wrong. But I delude myself. I knew it was hopeless else I would not have–" he paused, the real, physical pain he felt in speaking greatly enhancing the emotional pain he inflected in his voice.
"Would not have what your majesty?" Orran asked insistently.
"Tried to end my own life as well," Delita replied, letting his eyes gaze sadly downward.
"So that is what happened then," said Orran, nodding his head slowly. "The queen took her own life. I had suspected but hoped it might prove untrue."
"Alas, it is the truth," Delita concluded. "And being struck with grief did myself endeavor to join her. But to no avail."
Orran tried to interject but Delita continued, "A fool I was to do so. And a lucky fool, for in my wild folly I could not stay my hand and missed my mark."
"Your majesty," Orran interjected again, this time more forcefully and successfully. "Your majesty, forgive me, but…"
"But what Orran?"
"You are indeed badly off," Orran replied slowly. "Your injuries are grave and we do not yet know if you shall recover from them. Or…"
"Or what?" Delita feared his tone may have been too harsh for one who was supposed to have just attempted to kill himself in mourning for his wife, but Orran's hesitance had struck a note of fear in him.
"Survive them, your majesty." Orran's head was bowed deeply and doing its best to disappear into one of his shoulders.
So that was it then. She really had done him in. How fitting that the key player in his ascension to power should be the same person to end it all. Her death seemed rather pointless now that he was going to die. She was a good person after all, might have done a lot of right for her kingdom. And now he would die wifeless and heirless and then what would there be? Another war? In the end that blasted Louveria might see her son on the throne of Ivalice after all.
Delita laughed at his pathetic fate and immediately remembered that he should not have, for it induced another coughing fit and sent a spurt of blood up his throat and over his lips. Orran was instantly upon him with cloths to mop the blood, and he tilted Delita's head back to help him swallow a potion. Delita was not sure what its intended effect was, but it certainly soothed his throat and counteracted the bitter taste of blood.
"Chemists!" Orran cried. "We need chemists at once to tend to his majesty! Chemists I say!"
"Orran," Delita said weakly, fighting to free his arms from beneath the layers of covers. He succeeded and grasped fervently at Orran's arm. "Is there nothing to be done?"
"We are doing everything we can your majesty," Orran assured him, gently placing a hand over Delita's vice-like grip. "Please save your strength. I fear you shall need it."
Delita released him and fell back onto the pillows. Soon a flurry of chemists and white mages paraded in and fretted over him, the chemists ferociously grinding up herbs to make new potions, the mages casting healing and regeneration spells. Delita was not certain if it was from his own weakness or a sleep spell, but within a few minutes of their descent upon him he could no longer keep his eyes open and he slumbered once more.
---
He could have murdered her. Stupid, stuttering, blundering little Syndonny. She was the daughter of a merchant lord of Dorter, a Knight Apprentice in their year. Not that the girl had ever successfully even struck a stationary target with a sword before, let alone endeavored to wield one on the battlefield. She had given up her instruction in swordsmanship months ago. She was a chemist, and the chemist in the party of Knights Apprentice who had been sent in pursuit of the remnants of the Corpse Brigade.
Not two hours prior on the misty Mandalia Plain, they had crossed swords with those they pursued and earned themselves a mighty victory. Yet it was not without cost; one of their party, a young cousin of Duke Larg hailing from Zaland had almost lost his life, and would have indeed had it not been for the foolish bravery and selflessness exhibited by Ramza, who took it upon himself to knowingly enter harm's way to revive his fallen companion. By some miracle, Ramza not only survived a crushing blow from an enemy, but managed to arise victorious in this encounter, though not without a splintered buckler and horribly mangled arm.
Which Syndonny now tended to. Never mind the fact that she ought to have been the one to resurrect the duke's nephew and, consequently, she was responsible for Ramza's injury in the first place. But now, two hours later, at a little village inn in the middle of nowhere she set to making amends for her error, blushing and stammering all the while.
"Oh Lord Ramza you fought well today," she managed in an ill-executed attempt at flirting, her hand lingering on her patients uninjured bicep once she'd secured the end of the bandage it had held. "Fought well." That was all she could come up with. Not "you exhibited unprecedented skill " or "rarely have I seen such skill in one so young" or "it is no doubt thanks to you that we emerged victorious today", any of which would have been true and far more flattering and effective if she intended to seduce the boy. But then again, it was a wonder that she managed to form a grammatically correct sentence given how ineloquent she was, even when not in the presence of one she desired.
"I thank you," Ramza said politely, unaware of her superfluous touch. "And please Syndonny, call me not "Lord" Ramza, for I am no superior to you."
He meant it humbly; she might have taken it as affectionately. "Alright then," she said and, after a moment of hesitation, added, "Ramza." She blushed furiously and set to finishing with his bandages.
Delita thought he might have liked her, were she not so obviously enamored with the object of his affection. He was still not convinced that she was or ever would be a great asset to any battle party, but she was not like other nobles. She had no swaggering arrogance, nor insatiable vanity, nor inability to take "no" for an answer. Sure she wasn't the greatest conversational companion and far too meek to engage in a good argument, but she was sincere and compassionate, and completely incapable of the selfishness so often exhibited by her kindred. For example, were she more ordinary, once she had discovered her lust for Ramza, she would have set about seducing him immediately, with no regard for whether or not he reciprocated her desire. But Syndonny was probably not capable of lust, for any attraction she felt would likely be redirected into affection.
"Is…is there anything else I can do for you Lor…I mean, Ramza?" she asked, having completed her task of bandaging his arm. She did not mean it crudely, but Delita could not help but think how she might have.
"No," Ramza replied, expectedly. Perhaps even more expectedly if Ramza were aware that Syndonny was flirting with him, as he would not have wanted to give her false hope that he might return her affections, but he remained oblivious. Even the most experienced harlot might have trouble seducing the sunny, thick-headed Ramza Beoulve.
"Then, I shall away," Syndonny said, twinge of disappointment in her tone.
"I thank you Syndonny," Ramza said, smiling radiantly and bringing that familiar redness back to the girl's cheeks.
"I…uh, yes Lo…Ramza," she stammered. She rose to her feet from her stool at Ramza's bedside, lowered her head, curtsied deeply and exited the room.
"Anything else I can do for you Lord Ramza?" Delita mimicked when he was certain she was out of earshot. "Anything at all? Tch. How fortuitous to have your party's chemist in love with you."
"Do not jest Delita," Ramza scolded. "She merely attends to me as she would any other patient. She is a good and devoted chemist."
"Yet you do not see her fretting and fumbling like that over me," Delita observed.
"She is merely concerned for me Delita, as she would be for you had you sustained such injury so far away from Gariland," Ramza insisted. "Remember we have not yet been so far from the Akademy."
Delita sighed. "You are right." He was still convinced of Syndonny's fondness for Ramza, but he had to admit that Ramza was correct in stating that they had never been so far away. He ought to have been grateful that Syndonny had enough confidence in her skill to see to Ramza's wounds without the supervision of one of her advisors.
"Are you alright?" Delita asked gravely, moving to sit on the edge of Ramza's bed. Through all of his seething at Syndonny, he had near forgotten that he might well have lost his dearest friend this day.
"Yes," Ramza replied, smiling reassuringly. "I needs just rest and regain my strength. The bandages and potions should well take care of my arm."
"You are certain there is nothing else you need?" Delita asked in earnest, quite forgetting the more carnal interpretation he had imagined when Syndonny had asked it.
"Indeed," Ramza assured him, "else I would have asked Syndonny for it."
"And given her the satisfaction of an excuse to return to your company!" Delita spat, rising from Ramza's bed and stomping back towards the window.
"Must we go through this again Delita?" Ramza asked, exasperated. "Syndonny cares not for me. I am a patient to her, nothing more."
"A most welcome patient, indeed!" Delita remarked. He leaned against the window, scowling.
"Yes, for she is a novice and it is of great import that she find opportunity to practice her art," Ramza retorted. "Any patient is a welcome one."
"Especially if that patient is one you'd lie on your back and open your cunt for, if only he'd realize you were hot to trot."
"Delita!" Ramza gasped. "There is no call for such vulgarity. At any rate, had she feelings for me beyond friendship, I do not and would not reciprocate them."
"Oh no? You would not?" Delita moved closer to the bed and rested his hands on the end of it. "You mean to say to me that if Syndonny offered herself to you, you would refuse her?" He already knew the answer, but now they were arguing and Delita was not about to give it up.
"Yes," Ramza replied.
"You could do that to her?" Delita asked, his voice softening, moving to sit again by Ramza's feet. "Break the poor girl's heart?"
"I would endeavor to let her down easy," Ramza insisted. "But I would refuse her. I do not love her."
"Oh you love not her," Delita mused, "and by this you perhaps imply you love another?" Something inside told Delita he ought not to provoke Ramza so, but he ignored it and moved closer. Soon their faces were but inches apart and Delita muttered "Well?" in reaction to Ramza's lack of response.
Ramza cast his eyes downward and, though they were mostly concealed by a deluge of thick, blonde bangs, Delita could see that a soft blush had settled on his porcelain cheeks. "I-," he began, barely audibly. "I-," he repeated, stronger this time, "you know I…well that is to say that, well…"
Delita cupped a hand beneath Ramza's chin and forced him to meet his gaze. "What do I know?" Of course he knew what Ramza was trying to say, and he wasn't supposed to want what the boy was hesitant to tell. But he did, and his desire was trumping his reason.
Ramza tensed, but did not attempt to look away. With slow conviction he began. "You know that I only want…"
And Delita could resist no longer. He veritably threw himself upon his longtime companion, sealing the negligable distance between their bodies, lips covering Ramza's, all his pent up frustration with Syndonny's meek advances erupting in one violently passionate kiss. Ramza's back crashed audibly against the headboard, but he did not falter, and merely eased downwards until his head rested against pillows, his back flat upon the mattress. Delita moved from Ramza's mouth to place tiny, biting kisses upon his jaw bone, before finally contenting himself suck at Ramza's neck, with no regard for the telltale bruises he would leave behind. Ramza's hands tangled helplessly in Delita's hair and the fibers of his tunic, and with each kiss his breath shortened, his pulse quickened, his body arched further into the touch of Delita's lips, which only strengthened the brunette's resolve to devour every inch of him.
Delita reattached his lips to Ramza's, as his hands slid down the boy's sides to find the bottom edge of his tunic. He began to pull it upward and was delighted to find that, in the increasingly hot days of late spring, Ramza had decided to forgo his usual layer of undergarments. They held their kiss until the last possible second, then Ramza broke away to allow Delita to pull the garment over his head. And his arms, which Ramza stretched upwards to assist in the process, and cried out as he extended his injured arm to its full length. Delita ignored it, now kissing Ramza's throat again, now his collarbone, moving downwards to cover in kisses every piece of newly exposed flesh. Ramza reached to touch Delita encouragingly, again with his injured arm, and again he cried in pain, having already over exerted it.
This time Delita did take heed and ceased his advances, crawling off of Ramza to instead sit beside him.
"No don't stop!" Ramza near sobbed, biting on his lip, lying tensely on his back, no doubt in an effort to ignore the stinging in his arm.
Gingerly, Delita drew him upwards into his embrace, Ramza's head resting upon Delita's chest, Delita's arms wrapping tightly about his shoulders. "Don't stop," Ramza said once again, and Delita thought this time he may actually have been crying.
"Shhh," he coaxed, hand stroking the back of the blonde's head, moving downward to the nape of his neck to unravel his ever-present ponytail. Delita tilted his head downwards to kiss Ramza's forehead. He then reached across his body to very carefully take hold of Ramza's injured arm. He lifted it up to his mouth and kissed it, tenderly, repeatedly, moving along the forearm towards the wrist, until he reached the back of the hand and finally the exposed fingertips. He took one of the pearly white digits is his mouth and began to suck.
At first Ramza tensed, his body jerking into stiff attention, surprised by the new sensation. But Delita kept at it, taking the finger further into his mouth, then releasing it, tongue trailing lazily along the sides of it, and moving on to the next finger to treat it in a similar manner. Ramza's breath came in little gasps, his body alternatively stiffening then relaxing against Delita's own, his free hand digging relentlessly into the mattress. After a long moment of relishing Ramza's helplessness, he moved his lips back up along his naked arm and finally returned his attentions to the other boy's mouth. Ramza turned to meet him, their chests now pressed tightly together once again, Delita's hands draped about Ramza's shoulders, Ramza's arms clinging desperately to Delita's back. It was, like as not, all he could do to keep from falling, which he did anyway, albeit more gracefully than he might have on his own as Delita pressed him down to lie on his back once again.
Delita kissed him greedily, never allowing Ramza to take control, never stopping to breathe until he felt he would faint for lack of oxygen. And even then he could not be sure if faintness was truly from lack of oxygen or merely from the euphoria of finally having the thing he had denied himself for so long. Now that he had him, he was determined to do so in every sense of the term; his wandering hands slid their way down the sides of Ramza's naked torso until they found the edge of his trousers.
He tread cautiously, hands sliding beneath the waistband to rest on Ramza's narrow hips. Ramza moaned his approval, pelvis rocking insistently into the touch. Delita quickly moved one hand into the small of Ramza's back and began to undo the leather laces that held his trousers up, while Ramza squirmed awkwardly in a frenzied attempt to assist in the process; he seemed just as eager to be rid of his clothing as Delita was to relieve him of it.
Having successfully untangled the laces, Delita returned his hands to Ramza's hips, this time taking hold of the top edge of his trousers and sliding them downward. He was frustrated but not surprised to encounter a pair of linen drawers, which he furiously set upon removing. As he groped to find the drawstring, he felt his tunic slipping upwards and out of the high waistband of his trousers, felt hands sliding beneath it, caressing his chest. He was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate, for now Ramza grew bold and eased his tongue between Delita's lips, but he soon succeeded in his task, and Ramza was finally completely naked. Delita broke their kiss and pulled his tunic over his head, then buried his face in Ramza's neck. He kissed it fleetingly, then moved to place kisses along his collarbone, then the flesh concealing the sternum, then right above the naval, then below, creeping downward, downward…
A knock at the door sprung him to attention. He almost did not hear it for being so consumed with lust. He tried to ignore it but it came again, this time with a voice.
"Ramza, are you awake?" it called.
"D-d-ddo not reply," Ramza commanded in a harsh, albeit broken whisper.
Delita wanted to comply, but knew that he could not. He moved up to kiss Ramza's lips once more, this time gently, affectionately. "Would that I could heed those words," he whispered lowly, leaning very close to Ramza's ear. "Alas should he open the door to affirm your dormant state, he would discover us."
"No, no please," Ramza begged.
It was almost impossible to resist; like his companion Delita was aroused and aching to be touched, and to bed the youngest Beoulve son, who lay blushing and fetchingly naked beneath him would be just the remedy. But he could not do it. He was reminded of that day months prior when he had promised himself that he would not yield to his desires, that he would resist them until they could do naught to tarnish his reputation, could not impede his rise to greatness. And that day was not today, so despite being so very close, he would once again deny himself that which he longed for. He clambered off the bed, located his discarded tunic, and pulled it back on over his head.
"Delita!" Ramza cried, a little too loudly.
"Shhhh, Ramza," Delita whispered affectedly. "Sleep. Just sleep. I shall go see to whoever it is that disturbs you."
"Delita…" Ramza whimpered, eyes welling up with tears.
And just as Delita finished securing his tunic beneath his waistband the door creaked open. Ramza scrambled beneath the covers and shut his eyes, whilst Delita stood firm to find Argath, the hotheaded squire to the Marquis Elmdore whom they had rescued from the Corpse Brigade, tiptoeing into the room.
"Oh er..uh..Ser Delita was it?" he asked, clearly surprised to have encountered him. "Did you not hear me calling? I do confess, it was Ramza I did address…"
"I heard you," Delita said sternly. "If you'd waited but a moment longer, you'd not have had the chance to enter. I'd thought it best not to call a warning to you for fear of waking our slumbering hero." He indicated Ramza, who remained very convincing in his effort to feign sleep.
"Ah right," Argath agreed awkwardly.
"Will you walk with me?" Delita asked, hand gesturing towards the hallway beyond the open door.
"Indeed," Argath replied and they began their trek down the poky corridor and away from the room where a forbidden love affair was very nearly consummated.
"I wished to inquire after Ramza's health," Argath explained. "Is he well?"
"Thanks to our chemist," Delita said, choking back spite at the thought of he name. "He shall recover. He needs only rest."
"'Tis glad tidings indeed," Argath remarked. "I do confess myself to feel somewhat responsible for his ailment. 'Twas my folly that did force you into the skirmish."
Delita thought he should have said "no", assured him that it was primarily Syndonny's fault, as that was the conclusion he had come to before, but now he was jealous of anyone who might have had that which he almost had today, and that did not exclude Argath. Part of him said it was foolishness, but he was beginning to think that perhaps the arrogant squire had hoped to slink in and take advantage of Ramza in his weakened state.
"Aye," was the only response he could manage, and he would not be sorry if Argath took offense at it.
He seemed not to notice. "I did hope perchance that there was some way I might thank him…"
"He needs no thanks!" Delita declared sharply. Selflessness need not be encouraged by displays of gratitude, he added mentally.
"There now Delita, I meant only to act as befits my noble birth," said Argath.
"So you mean to say your act of thanks would be merely to keep up your own pretty appearance, born entirely of vanity and not of any true feelings of gratitude." It was not a question, nor meant to be said aloud. "Forgive me," Delita said a moment later, "I do forget myself."
"Not at all," Argath said. "You are passing bold in the face of your superiors. I ought to see you hanged, or at least locked away in a dungeon." He chuckled.
Delita knew he jested, but he did not find it amusing. In the few short hours Delita had known him, Argath had proved the worst kind aristocrat, egotistical, vain, and arrogant to a fault. While other nobles were capable of coexisting with the common-born Delita, having the decency to hold their tongues and whisper their snide remarks about his heritage to one another when clustered on the opposite ends of crowded ballrooms, Argath was completely incapable of doing so. He clearly believed himself above such false courtesy; he was noble, Delita was common, and he would make sure to remind the latter of it.
"I do believe such punishment might displease your recent savior," Delita said finally. "And since it is his brother's help you seek, I would do naught to upset him if I were you."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Argath agreed.
They had reached the end of the hall now where it met the stairs and came to a stop. Delita moved to begin his descent, but suddenly became aware of Argath's eyes locked upon him, studying him. He turned to meet his gaze.
"Is something the matter?" Delita asked, feeling both relieved and apprehensive when Argath looked directly at his face.
"You are all flushed," Argath remarked. "Perhaps it is I who should be asking you what it the matter?"
"Nonsense," Delita replied defensively. "I am perfectly well."
"Then it is again Ramza after whom I must inquire, for 'twas only you and he in that room, and I do swear I heard him cry ou…"
"His arm was ailing him," Delita insisted. His heart was racing; how long had Argath been outside the room?
"Ah. And I suppose 'twas you who consoled him?" Argath inquired. "After all, you are his dearest friend, or so I understand."
"It was by no skill of mine that he did recover," Delita insisted, perhaps a little too adamantly. "Potions did numb and heal his pain, and I am no great chemist."
"Certainly, you must have been some comfort to him," Argath declared. "Your affection for him alone would-"
"I've no great affection for Ramza," Delita lied and very loudly. "He is a friend to me, and I do appreciate his family's kindness."
"You would do well to remember that Ser Delita," Argath said venomously. "Do not fancy yourself entitled to all your undue privileges. There are some who would search for reason to see them taken from you."
Delita was livid, yet terrified that were he to unleash his mounting temper he might confirm his recent foolishness. He clenched his fist but managed to say calmly, "I will, Ser Argath."
The nobleman smiled in such an unpleasant manner that the smile would be more accurately described a sneer. "Good," he said. He started down the stairs. "Oh and Delita," he added, turning back to him, "I would keep my distance from Lord Ramza, were I you. He seems to be quite infatuated with you, and an outside party might interpret his affection as something, less innocent?" And with that, he was gone.
Delita threw a bridled punch into the nearby wall with his already extant fist. He wanted to strike hard, but knew such commotion would draw unwanted attention and likely do needless damage to his hand. How dare Argath make such assumptions? He'd known them but a few hours and already he presumed to make commentary on their personal lives. The average noble swine might have waited until the following morning or at least until after they had all sat down to supper and he had had chance to carry out a worthwhile conversation with them. But Argath was proving to be several degrees below average when it came to common decency. What Delita wouldn't give to beat some sense into his inflated little head…
Yet the fact remained that what irked him most about Argath's words was not that they were blunt or unkind or suggestive. It was that everything he said was true.
---
He awoke to the sound of chattering voices, at once foreign and entirely familiar. They were girls' voices. Voices young enough to still be girls, though on the verge of belonging to young women. He did not know them, for since he took up arms at the start of the War of Lions, he had not been long for keeping company with ladies. Ovelia had been his sole female companion, until Valmafra became a constant, but such light and jovial voice certainly did not belong to her. He opened his eyes to find two girls, heads covered in pale blue bonnets, dressed in practical, tea-length frocks, of a similar hue and full, off-white aprons seated on a bench beside the table full of chemist's supplies.
Great, just what I need, he thought, a couple of apprentice chemists.
"Your majesty?" one of them said tentatively. She was a very pretty blonde, as most noble-born girls were, with perfectly formed ringlets and brilliantly blue eyes. "Are you awake?" she pressed on. "I think he is awake," she said to her companion.
"You majesty?" said the other. She was not nearly so lovely as the other, save for one staggering fact: her hair was practically black. Every noble girl Delita had ever known was blonde or, at the very least, her pale brown hair might as well have been called blonde. There was the occasional redhead in the mix; had Ramza and Alma been born of the same mother as their elder brothers they too might have had auburn hair. However, never before had Delita seen a noble girl with such shockingly dark hair.
"I shall run and fetch someone," the fair one declared, and almost as soon as she said it, she was gone.
The dark haired girl rose from her place on the bench and inched closer to the bed. "Your majesty?" she said again.
"Yes, yes I am awake," Delita replied. She must have noticed that his eyes had opened else she would never have though to ask if he was awake, and the thought of one sleeping with one's eyes open was disconcerting. That and she very well may have mistaken him for dead and raised unnecessary alarm.
"Someone's gone to fetch help," she said. Her voice was light and timid even at its full volume.
"Why think you I need help, child?" Delita asked, and immediately felt a little foolish; he was far too young still to refer anyone in such terms. Such speech was reserved for old war veterans, scholars and kings long past their prime.
"I...well, you are hurt your majesty, and perhaps you require some attention," she replied hesitantly.
Delita chuckled and found it was far less painful than he might have anticipated. What a sorry lot she was. So young and inexperienced and utterly uncertain of her skills. Though at least she had managed a somewhat articulate reply. "And are you not a chemist and capable of administering such care?"
"I am merely an apprentice my liege," she answered, bowing her head and curtseying humbly. "I was only left here as a watch dog."
"A fine thing indeed, leaving a girl to do a dog's work," Delita remarked. His speech was coming rather easily.
"I did not mean it like that your majesty," she protested, shaking her head, sending loose plumes of near-black hair careening over her shoulders. "I am happy to do that which my superiors request of me. Besides, it is not often that an apprentice finds herself in direct service of the king. It is an honor."
What a novelty she was: dark haired and soft-spoken: a humble aristocrat. Perhaps it was an act and if so she ought to pursue a career in the theatre for she was thoroughly convincing, but Delita felt somehow certain of her sincerity. "You puzzle me," he declared. "Have you no ambition?"
"Why should I be ambitious my liege?" she asked. "I wish only to serve the sick and injured to the best of my ability. I suppose my only ambition is to be the best medic I can."
Delita sat upright, a little too quickly and was soon reminded of his injuries; pain forced him back almost instantly and the girl flew to his side to steady him. She placed her hands firmly, one on his shoulder nearest her and one on his back, and helped him to recline back onto the pillows.
"Hang on your majesty," she said, "help will be here soon."
"I am fine," Delita assured her. "Just moved too suddenly."
"I just pray you have not reopened your wound…"
"Don't be daft girl," Delita scolded. "I have not flown out of bed and into battle, I merely sat up too hastily."
"Yes your majesty," she said obediently, bowing her head and curtseying again.
"What is your name?" Delita asked suddenly. "I feel unkind referring to you as "girl"."
"Teara, your majesty," she replied.
Teara. He suddenly remembered a girl he had not thought about in a long, long time. And was she not the reason for all this? The reason why he had turned the world upside down, the driving force that eventually placed him, a common nobody, on the throne of Ivalice?
"And you are certain you're a noblewoman?" he asked her, though he already knew her reply. Much as she might resemble her, that girl had died years ago.
Teara giggled. "Yes my liege. I am the daughter of the magistrate of sea trade at Warjillis."
"I see," Delita said sadly.
"I shall go and see what is keeping Margeau," Teara declared. "Please stay well while I am gone. I do not think I could ever forgive myself if you were to ail suddenly in my absence."
"Fear not Teara of Warjillis," Delita assured her. "I am as well as I can be and so shall remain."
"I shall take you word your majesty," she said. She curtseyed swiftly and with a brisk turn of her pretty dark head she was gone.
But not entirely gone. For in her stead was the memory of another girl, with long, unruly near-black locks and sad brown eyes. In those last years of her brief life, she was always sad, though she never let on. Hers was a broken spirit, battered to pieces by the cruel insensitivity of highborn schoolgirls constantly berating her lowly heritage. But she glued a smile on her face that never faltered, and few ever realized how miserable she was. Even he, her own brother, did not know of her sorrow. And when he finally did, it was too late; for in less than a fortnight she was gone.
---
He sat on the ground, amongst sun-faded blades of grass, back pressed against the meager remains of what might have once been a barn, a storefront, or even perhaps the great sentry walls of a castle. There was no way of knowing now. His education had not begun until later in life and he'd missed out on general history. The only history he knew was recent enough to have been witnessed by people still living today, and it was a mixed record, all passed on by word of mouth. That and the military history he head learned at the Akademy, but he had never been long for such bookish endeavor and would readily admit he had mostly forgotten it.
Evening was approaching, and soon the sun would disappear beyond the horizon. Another day gone, another day further from the sorrowful memory of his sister's kidnapping, another day lost in rescuing her. It was two days ago now. They had returned to Eagrosse with news of the success of their raid on the brigand's den to the south, only to find that the Corpse Brigade had executed its own assault upon its assailants. Five men dead, Lord Dycedarg bedridden, and Tietra gone, taken hostage by the attacking party.
He'd been furious and confused. Why Tietra? Why did it have to be her? She had done nothing wrong; their quarrel was with the aristocracy and Tietra was not one of them. By Alma's account, the other girls at school reminded her of that every day. So why should she be the one to suffer? Of course the answer was simple: her captors thought she was an aristocrat, most likely a daughter of the Beoulve family at that. And why wouldn't they? They'd taken her from the family manse, a well-dressed, soft-handed girl, taking her leisure in the library. It was an honest, but dreadful mistake.
The Brigade was the enemy. They were the ones they had pursued since the day the Knights Apprentice were sent away from the Akademy, the ones who kidnapped the Marquis Elmdore, the ones whom Lord Dycedarg had sent them to destroy. Yet Delita could not help feeling that, if circumstances were different and they did not currently hold his sister hostage and pose a real, immediate threat to her life, then he might easily have given up his pursuit. For they were commoners who held a grudge against the nobility, and he could not help but feel some sympathy for their plight. Though blind as the aristocracy was to the reasons for their grievances, they too were just as blind to another fact: that not all those of high birth fancied themselves so high and mighty as they imagined them to.
Almost as soon as he thought of him, Ramza appeared. His neck was red and bruising, though these were no bruises of lovemaking; those had long since faded. These were bruises born of anger, and as with those marks Ramza had spent a week concealing with scarves and high-necked doulets, Delita was responsible for them. He could still see Ramza doubled over on the ground, one hand placed lightly on his throat, panting, half choked to death by Delita's hand. His temper terrified him; to think he could have flown off the handle like that, and Ramza the victim.
Yet despite the harsh treatment, Ramza had changed his mind. He had implored Delita be reasonable, to wait and have his sister returned to him by more capable hands. But harsh words from Argath had swayed him, and soon they were making ready to depart in pursuit of Tietra. Of course Lord Dycedarg and all the other apprentices in their party believed they were going to augment Lord Zalbaag's assault. The truth was much greater and, aside from Ramza who'd decided it, only Delita was privy to it. Perhaps Argath may have had some inkling, but he was gone now, dismissed forever. Ramza was apparently not so gentle and forgiving to those who would harm or offend those he loved.
"May I join you awhile?" Ramza asked, eyes hiding none of the concern he felt for his friend's welfare. Of course, Delita thought it should be he who worried for Ramza's sake, but Ramza never thought of himself.
"Of course," Delita replied.
Ramza moved closer, but did not sit nor speak. A lone hawk soared lazily overhead, tracing a perfect outline of the orange sun.
"It's beautiful isn't it?" Delita asked. How long had it been since he'd last noticed a day's end? He could recall how lovely everything looked in the soft golden, light of the setting sun, yet he could not remember where or when or whom he was with, nor any specific details. Just that everything was beautiful. "Do you think-," he hesitated, hazy images of his sister on a riverbank plaguing his memory, "do you think Tietra might be watching this same sunset?"
"Don't worry Delita," Ramza said, "I am sure she is well." Then Delita saw him perfectly, almost one year past, sitting beside him, damp and radiant, painted in twilight.
"Something's been bothering me Ramza, for some time now," Delita confessed. He was not sure why he did it. He was usually loath to voice his feelings, even with one so dear to him as Ramza.
"Argath's words trouble you. Am I not right?" Of course he was right. He was disarmingly frank and entirely accurate. Had he been anyone else, he would have found a subtler, more tactful way to express the same truth. But he was Ramza; he concealed nothing and made no apologies for it.
Delita found himself unable to deny him. "There are things beyond the power of our changing, Ramza, try though we might." His scheme to rise to greatness; how hopeless it all seemed now. He was born a commoner and coddled though he'd been by those above his station, and much as he might have believed that some day they would view him as equal, he knew they would never let him forget whom he had to thank for his lot in life. Fret though they might over their precious reputations, they would never know how much more precious was that of a boy who they'd made one of them, but who they could also quash at the slightest misstep.
"Do not say that," Ramza commanded. "If a thing can be endeavored it-"
"Will endeavor grant me an army?" Delita replied sharply, head snapping to glare at Ramza. "I would save Tietra with these hands, if aught were in my power to do. But I cannot. Tis my meager lot in this life..." And that was the truth. Had Ramza not decided on this pursuit, he would be stuck in Eagrosse, waiting while his sister's fate rested in the hands of others. Else he could have pursued her alone and thrown away a decade of noble favor.
He turned his head away and clenched his fist in frustration. How pitiful he was. To think that he would even consider choosing his comfortable lifestyle over his sister's own life was sickening and infuriating. He wanted to break something, to strike someone, to make someone else pay for his predicament, but he was immediately reminded of Ramza, choking, sputtering turning blue under the grasp of his hand, and fear took the fight out of him. He released his fist and discovered a single flower in his sightline, a wildflower, standing tall amongst the grass and bending gently in the breeze.
And suddenly he was a child again. Eight or nine at the most. He and Ramza were on the riverbank picking wildflowers for Alma. She was sick and could not go outside to play, so her brother had insisted they bring her a bouquet because, as Ramza put it, that was what you were supposed to do for sick people. They gathered so many flowers they could not carry them all, and as esacped foxglove and baby's breath marked their trail along the riverbank, Lord Barbaneth appeared.
"Do you remember Ramza?" Delita asked. He reached down beside him and loosed a long, wide blade of grass from the earth. "When your father showed us how to make a whistle of a blade of grass?"
He startled Ramza who dropped his day's spoils and began to cry. He assured him it would be all right and he could simply pick the flowers back up and bring them to his sister as intended. He also suggested that the flowers Delita still carried would be more than enough and perhaps he could bring Alma something else from outside. Ramza shrugged, saying he didn't know about anything but flowers, since Alma would be mad if he brought her a frog with no water and he did not know how to catch a bird. That was when Lord Barbaneth plucked a blade of grass from the Earth, pressed it to his lips, and began to whistle.
It was not a pleasant sound, monotone and hardly resonant, but it certainly got Ramza's attention. Barbaneth helped him choose his own blade of grass then showed him how the trick was done. He blew too hard at first, producing no sound and sending his blade flying to the ground. He picked another and, with some more coaching from his father, soon got the hang of it. Then it was Delita's turn.
Delita pressed the blade of grass to his tightly pursed lips and blew gently. The familiar whistling sound came immediately. As a child, learning for the first time, he too had his share of mishaps, but soon was whistling merrily. Now the whistle sounded only of sorrow, of mourning for carefree days when he and his sister were together and he did not constantly fret over his lack of title or fortune.
He heard a second whistle, softer, sweeter, higher pitched than his own. Ramza too had pulled a blade of grass. And mournful though the sound remained, the addition of the second pitch, blending harmoniously with the first, rendered it undeniably beautiful. Alone the sound was dismal, but the two together held some measure of hope, for they were united in their sorrow and even if all did end miserably, at least that fact would remain.
Delita stopped whistling. Where had Tietra been all those years ago? He could see her in Alma's room, see her eyes widen and mouth gape at the sound of the grass whistle, see her repeatedly blowing a piece of grass right onto the floor, and her joyous expression when she finally succeeded. She had been there when they gave Alma her gifts, but where was she when they'd gone to gather them? He could not remember.
And then the tears came. Tears of frustration because he could not remember and because he could not help her now. Tears of fear that he may never see her again. Tears of anguish at the thought of her dead, and ravaged body abandoned upon the grounds of some brigand's hideout. Tears of mourning for he was all too aware that such a future could come to pass.
"Delita?" Ramza was beside him now, leaning forward, neck craning about to try and get a look at his face. "Delita," he repeated, "are you alright?"
"My sister," Delita replied, turning his gaze to meet Ramza's. "Where was she? Where is she now?"
"I wish I could tell you," Ramza said. "But I promise you Delita, I will do everything in my power so see her returned safely home."
"And what if you are not enough?" Delita asked. Because that was truth wasn't it? Ramza was his only ally in this cruel game of reputations and social statuses.
Ramza gripped Delita's shoulder in a noble attempt at solace. The touch did naught to cheer him though and Delita only continued to cry, now weeping and sniffling. He could not stop himself. He wanted to, wanted to be strong and stoic as he normally was, but the tears just kept coming. He threw his arms around Ramza's neck and sobbed into his chest. Ramza's arms wrapped about him instantly, pulling him close, one hand moving soothingly against his back.
"Ramza," Delita cried, voice muffled by the fabric of the tunic into which he spoke. He shifted his head to one side and spoke again. "Ramza, I cannot bear to lose her." His ear now rested against Ramza's chest right where his heat was; it was beating hard, and the beat growing faster.
"Shhh," Ramza coaxed. Delita may have been mistaken, but he thought he felt a kiss on the crown of his head. "We will save her," Ramza said. "Together, you and I will save her."
"Would that I could act alone and meet with no judgment," Delita said. His arms slid downwards to rest on Ramza's shoulders.
"Do not say such things," Ramza scolded. "Were you to act on your own you would almost certainly be killed and I…"
Delita shifted himself upward so that he was face to face with his companion. "You what, Ramza?"
"I could not bear to lose you."
And there it was again, that force beyond reason that always drove him away from his good senses and right into indulging his desires. He met Ramza's lips with a gentle kiss. And then another, far less gentle, his tongue savagely parting Ramza's lips, hands gripping his shoulders tightly and forcing him towards the ground. Ramza fell back, pliant as always, yielding to Delita's will. Only this time Delita wanted nothing of foreplay; he broke their kiss and immediately began to near tear Ramza's clothing from his body.
"Delita!" Ramza exclaimed, having had his tunic wrenched over his head. He sat up and inched away. "Think about this rationally. You are distraught-"
"Please Ramza," Delita insisted, leaning in and placing another kiss on Ramza's lips. He retreated, leaning back to create distance and turning his head away. But Delita pursued, catching his chin in his hand, tilting it forwards and kissing him again. "Please," Delita repeated, more fervently, fresh tears escaping the corners of his already wet and bloodshot eyes.
He was all he had. Tietra could already be dead and it was clear to him now that most of the people in his life whom he'd thought to be friends, small in number though they might be, were nothing more than acquaintances who'd tolerated his company while he was present, but were relieved to be rid of him that they might scoff at his circumstances. He was no longer certain of Dycedarg's or Zalbaag's or even Alma's familial affection for him. But Ramza's love was undisputable, and he had to have it, had to have every ounce of it.
"Delita," Ramza said softly. He stretched his arms out to lie on the brunette's shoulders and rested his forehead against his. "Please do not do something you shall regret."
Delita leaned away, brought both of his hands to Ramza's face and looked him straight in the eyes. "Do you not want me Ramza?" he asked pitifully.
Ramza was silent for a moment, just staring gravely back into Delita's dark eyes. Then he moved his own hands to Delita's face, pulled him close, and kissed him. His kiss was tender, but fervid, born of love, yet charged with passion. Delita's arms dropped and wrapped about Ramza's waist, pulling him nearer, deepening the kiss. When it was over Ramza replied adamantly, "You know I do."
So Delita laid Ramza back upon the grass and finished what he'd started, at a not so faraway inn, nearly three weeks prior.
---
He was surprised when he awoke for he had not realized that he'd fallen asleep. The girls had gone and in their place was Orran, looking far less than grave than Delita last recalled. In fact he did not seem to be fretting at all, for he was reclined upon the window seat, reading what appeared to be a novel rather than some official documents that might pertain to the death of a newly crowned and heirless king. Delita was not even sure Orran had noticed he'd woken.
"Orran," he said softly, pleased that his speech came painlessly again.
"Your majesty!" Orran half-exclaimed, turning his head to regard the bedridden king.
"How long have I been asleep?"
"Not long," Orran replied. "'Twas but a little while ago that the apprentice chemists did call upon me to see to you. I must say I was relieved that it was me they sought and not one of their superiors. It gave me hope that your health was improving."
"And?" Delita asked.
"We do believe it is your majesty," Orran replied cheerfully.
Delita was glad of it, but could not let on, for should he react with too much relief his story of how he'd try to kill himself might become less plausible. Instead he responded with a simple, "I see," hoping that he had just the right amount of melancholy in his tone. It was difficult to discern, for he dared not speak too forcefully just yet.
Orran rose and approached. "Why so grave your majesty? Are you not happy to hear this?"
"My wife is dead, Orran," Delita said flatly. "What reason have I to live?"
"Do not say such things my liege!" Orran scolded. "You are king of all Ivalice! You are hero of the people, the champion who ended the War of the Lions. You must see how truly valuable is your life!"
"But Orran," Delita interjected, keeping up his guise of depression, "the love of my life is dead. And was she not beloved by the people?"
"She was," Orran agreed. "She was, and they all do mourn her passing. As do I."
"I cannot help but fear that I was somehow the cause her death," Delita said, trying his best to sound on the verge of tears.
"Enough of that," Orran said sternly. "No one blames your for her death and nor should you blame yourself. Her mind was fragile; we always did fear it but were more afraid to speak of it. There's none can say what madness it was that drove Ovelia to such fatal action."
"I know this to be true, and yet it consoles me not," Delita sadly agreed. There was no doubt that he had Orran thoroughly deceived, but he added for good measure, "For it is not she alone. I feel somehow accountable for the deaths of many others whom I once held dear."
"Again you speak nonsense your majesty," Orran insisted. He was silent for a moment and sat down upon the bench at Delita's bedside. "I do confess," he said gently, "I do have something to tell which I hope might hearten you."
Delita tried not to appear as interested as he felt. "And what is that?" he asked, his voice sounding thoroughly hopeless.
"Not two weeks prior, Valmafra and myself had secretly taken leave to pay our respects at the grave of young Alma Beoulve," Orran confessed.
"Why so secretive?" Delita asked. "Feared you that I would disapprove?"
"Not you, your majesty," Orran protested. "But there are many who would not see me show my love for a family the demise of whom is shrouded in such controversy."
"This I do understand, for we are men of appearances and cannot be seen to sympathize with those held in ill regard." As the words rolled off his tongue, he was struck with a familiar tinge of self-loathing. Was this fear of tarnished reputations not the very thing he had sought to destroy?
"Indeed," Orran agreed, nodding. "I did not wish to tell you, for I knew there was no way that you could visit yourself, and I know the youngest Beoulve children were very dear to you."
The boy held dearer than he can ever realize, Delita thought and his feigned sadness became suddenly real.
"There were but a handful of mourners there," Orran continued. "Some remarked sadly on Ramza's lack of funeral rights. I myself was further saddened at the thought of my own father's passing by his side."
"It is indeed a dark time for all," Delita said.
"And then just as I was trying to let go my denial, incredible though it may seem, I saw them."
Delita was certain he'd misheard him. "You saw who?"
"Ramza and Alma," Orran replied. "I saw them, riding away from the burial grounds upon chocobos. At first I did think I may have seen ghosts, but they looked bright and real as you or I. And when they left, I did watch them ride off into the distance and not evaporate from existence as a ghostly memory might do."
"Ramza…alive…" Delita said distantly. Even as he spoke he could not believe it to be true. Not now that he had accepted him for dead or at least acknowledged that he was forever lost to him. No, it couldn't be so.
"I believe he is my liege," Orran declared. "Else my delusions are so potent that Valmafra too does see them, for she would swear to have borne witness to it."
"But he met his death in battle, fighting at Mullonde, I am certain of it. Did not they find the corpses of both he and Alma?"
"No your majesty," said Orran. "They found only the body of a girl presumed to be Alma Beoulve. All else involved in the incident at Mullonde vanished and were declared dead."
"Then your father…" Delita began, trying very hard to appear interested in anyone other than Ramza, "He…he may be alive?"
"I dare not hope to think it so," Orran replied.
"But it may be true?" Delita asked insistently.
"Yes," Orran said. "It may be true."
Delita thought he might faint, and not of pain, nor loss of blood. He felt suddenly gripped with a dizzying confusion, like he were standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking indeterminable depths and he'd lost the sense of solid ground beneath his feet. His beloved Ramza was alive and not just maybe, unless some horrid fate had befallen him in the course of the week. And naïve and stubbornly optimistic though he might be, Ramza was far too clever to fall victim to any scheme that was not meticulously sculpted to undo him. Perhaps now even Delita's own deceits would not escape his notice.
"Are you displeased with this news my liege?" Orran asked cautiously.
Delita reclined back against his pillows, lightheadedness refusing to subside. "No," said he, "I am very glad of it. Forgive me if I seem despondent. This has come as rather a shock to me."
"I understand your highness. I only hoped it might hearten you to know that not all of those you love are forever lost to you."
"It has," Delita pronounced solemnly and added mentally, More than you can ever realize.
"I shall take my leave of you. I fear this news may have exhausted you in your weakened state. Is there anything you require?"
"No," Delita answered. "Only to be left alone that I may dwell upon this subject 'til the shock does pass and I may freely rejoice in it."
With a bow, Orran said, "Then I bid you farewell," and he was almost out through the door when Delita cried out for him to wait a moment.
"Orran," said the king, "have you any idea as to the whereabouts of Ramza or his sister?"
"Regretfully, no, your majesty," Orran answered sadly. "Nor have we any guess nor means of locating them. By official record, they are dead and thus none would think to look for them. And dear and great though Ramza may have been amongst those who knew him, do not forget he was called heretic and unpopular amongst the powers that be. Few knew of his true and noble needs and most would happily see him dead. For who but us knew of the corruption within the church?"
"Of course," Delita agreed. "Carry on. I think I may yet sleep a while more."
Soon Delita was alone again and acutely aware that slumber would not come to him. For his mind was restless and sent him on fruitless quests across kingdom and country in search of a man he'd hitherto believed a ghost. Still he could not be entirely certain of his existence. Even if he lived and breathed he might never find him. And that, he thought, was far worse than his previously confirmed death. For he would never again be easy in the knowledge that Ramza lived yet beyond his realm of knowledge or influence. Though death had not been his intention, was it not he who had encouraged his righteous blonde companion towards it? He was unsure whether to rejoice or despair in the fact that, though he had steered his friend into certain doom, Ramza had survived it.
The sensation of warm, sparse liquid by the sides of his nose made Delita realize suddenly that he was crying. Not a lot, but tears just the same. He could hardly recall the last time he had done so.
Author's Notes: So….this was originally just supposed to be that first little section about Delita deciding to pretend that Ovelia committed suicide. Instead I ended up with an epic. Well, what are ya gonna do? More soon.