(Publishing one chapter a week until the end of Part 5)

Chapter 125: The Warrior

It's a good plan.

Alister Rosenheim, swigging from his flask and feeling pleasantly numb, can appreciate how well-sprung this little trap is. His boots are propped up on the banister near the helm as the cannons of the inbound ship pepper them with cannonballs, and as the dragon roars and growls down on the rocky island. The Invincible is, well, almost invincible: there's no ship in Ivalice that can match her, blow for blow and pound for pound. So the attackers have waited until the ship is at its most exposed: half its crew ashore, trying to subdue a dragon, and the ship itself at anchor, so it cannot outmaneuver them.

Even so, their attackers will not sink the Invincible. But Alister suspects they know this. The plan isn't to sink the Invincible: it's to board it. To take out its crew, and rescue Reis, and perhaps to seize the ship itself.

It's a good plan. It's too bad it's not going to work.

The Cardinal is bellowing nonsense orders from his place by the cannon at the ship's bow. His Amazons hurry to obey like the frightened children so many of them are. Alister takes a measured look at the approaching ship, pockets his flask, and swings to his feet. He feels the faintest pang somewhere deep in his guts, but pays it no mind. His medicine will keep the pain at bay, long enough for him to get what he wants.

From the corner of his eye, he catches the first spark of crackling magic. When the lighting bolt crashes towards him, Alister has already drawn his piercing blade, and catches it neatly on its needle-nosed tip. A twist of his hand, an effort of will, and the lightning bolt dissolves into a little cloud of crackling static.

So easy, now. But this skill was hard won. All this effort, just for this moment.

Alister Rosenheim was born too late to be a legend. He did not know it on the day he was born, of course. He did not know it as a child, born into a war older than he was. He did not know it as a talented young squire, who attracted the eye of the Templars after holding off ten Ordallian troops in a surprise night attack on the Haruten camp.

But he started to suspect it, on the day he learned he had almost no magical ability to speak of, and he was gently, regretfully expelled from the Templar ranks. He had stumbled from the barracks, fighting the tears in his eyes and the sobs bucking in his throat. From the first time he had seen a man swing a sword, he'd known that was what he wanted to do, and the first time his own hand had clutched a blade he knew what it was to feel an object that was as much a part of yourself as any arm or leg.

In youth, joy and pain alike are shocking in their newness. In old age, the joy becomes familiar and comfortable, like a favorite piece of well-worn clothing: the regret pangs, but does not punish, like an old wound troubled by bad weather. And the two become harder to distinguish: the comfortable tunic reminds you of the woman you once wore it with, so your heart aches: the pang of the wound reminds you of the friends you fought alongside when you got it, so you smile.

Remembering that day, as he stumbled away from the Templar barracks in Lionel, Alister was never sure which feeling was strong in him. It was the day he tasted the despair that would be with him all his life. But it was also the day he met Zidane, when the man had attacked him with a pair of blunt training swords.

A shadow burst out of the darkness, and metal smashed against his forehead: stars spattered against his vision as he stumbled, roaring curses. "Who the hell-" he barked, and then a blurred shape was swinging out of the dark, straight towards his face. He lunged backwards, too slow: the object whipped across his chest, a burst of strange numbness in his muscles and in his lungs, a spasm that made it hard to breathe. He gasped, staggered, barely kept his feet.

"You-" he started, as the blunt blade walloped his shins (spreading numbness again, he almost fell over), and he somersaulted away as another blow whisked through the air where his head had been.

"Ah, he moves!" exclaimed a teasing voice with a Limberry Brogue. "I was wondering if he would!"

Alister, crouched on the cobblestone path where he'd rolled to a stop, glared up at his long-haired attacker. His lush brown hair framed a handsome, heart-shaped face, merry green eyes and a wicked smile. He held a pair of blunt training swords, extended out to either side like wings.

"Who the hell are you?" Alister snarled.

"Zidane Tribal, at your service." The man sketched a bow.

Alister blinked up at him. He had heard of Zidane Tribal—a freewheeling sort, in these days of massive armies ever at war, who attached himself to whatever forces were closest to the action, and plunged into danger heedless of strategy or tactics. He had heard of this man, who had faced innumerable foes, and always cut his way free.

"You're..." Alister shook his head. "Why are you..."

"I wanted to see if you lived up to the rumors I've heard of you." He shook his head regretfully. "So far, I'm not impressed. You'll have to do better than this, if you want to stay on as my student."

Alister felt something in his heart crack. "You don't...I can't..."

"You can't use magic?" Zidane asked. "Neither can I."

Despair stuttered, replaced for a moment by confusion. "But you...how do you..."

"I am a Silencer," Zidane said. "A Mage Masher. Do you know what a Silencer is, boy?" Alister shook his head, "An old Ydoran art. Not so flashy as a Mage Knight or a Swordbreaker, I admit-" he shot an amused look towards the Templar barracks behind Alister. "-but rare these days, and difficult besides. Our art does not use our power. Our art subverts the power of our enemies. Turns their own magic against them." He prodded Alister's chest with the blunt tip of one sword. "Let them swing their flashy blades, then see the terror in their eyes when you turn their thunder against them"

A flicker of hope in Alister's weary heart. "A Silencer could be a Templar?"

Zidane laughed. "A Templar?" he repeated. "A Silencer, properly trained, properly armed, and properly talented, could become a gods damned legend."

Could. Only could. Not would.

Another crack of lightning from the scaled ship, and Alister danced in front of it, caught it on his swordpoint and threw it towards the sky. The enemy mage was fast: no sooner had he flung their lightning bolt away then they unleashed a beam of pure force. This one he swung his cutting blade against, angling it so it refracted down into the water and threw up a steaming geyser. It soaked against his grey hair, flecked against his skin: he laughed in exultation.

Movement, from the corner of each eye: two swords, soaring through the air as though wielded by ghosts. Alister could sense the threads of magic in those swords, tethered back to someone on the deck: he sprang after one, crashed his cleaving edge against it, aimed to severe those threads of magic. They were strong, and cunningly woven: he could not quite manage to cut them. But he weakened their connection to their wielder: the swords wobbled dangerously, threatening to sink to the earth.

A burst of fire from the enemy mage, and another thoom of cannonfire. Alister gave them a measured glance: soon, they would be close enough to board.

"Oh, Cardinal!" Alister called, sprinting along the railing. "You might want to raise a wind!"

Bremondt glanced blankly at him, then realization dawned in his dark eyes. Ahead of him, the Workers were struggling to drag Reis back towards the ship, as she flailed feebly against her bonds and their iron grip. The enemy ship was closing, ready to storm them.

"On my mark, Cardinal!" Alister shouted, turning to face the ship, his eyes flickering across its deck, looking for-

There he was. He had slid down from the crow's nest, hurtling towards the bow. He was ready to leap aboard the Invincible. He would fight like he had never fought before.

Alister grinned, and roared, "NOW!"

There was the sound of immense wings, and a roar of wind as one only felt from a mighty storm: a great gust slammed in from one side, and crashed against the incoming ship. It was strong enough to overcome even the ship's powerful engines: this close to shore, it might well have smashed them against the rocks. But the mages aboard the enemy ship did not lack for skill: he saw a willowy woman dart forwards, and slam her staff to the ship's deck. A great shimmering wall of golden light interposed itself between the ship and the rocks, pillowing the impact.

But for that moment, they were, every one of them, distracted. For that moment, even Beowulf had stumbled. And Alister raced along the railing, and sprang with all his strength from the Invincible, flying over a short span of chopping sea. A moment later, and his feet had made contact with the deck of the enmy ship. He was already charging towards Beowulf.

Beowulf, swaying on his feet, saw him. His eyes were wide with disbelief. "Alis-" he started, and then broke off as Alister's cutting blade scythed towards his throat. He darted backwards, turned his ducking backstep into a sudden lunge with his piercing blade, and the grin on Alister's face only widened.

There was a battle beyond them, but Alister did not see it. The flying swords were still flying: the mages still loosed their mighty magics: the crew was scurrying around the deck on one errand or another, readying for battle or trying to keep the ship afloat. But for Alister, there was no battle but Beowulf. Beowulf, clumsy and caught off-guard, fumbling to deal with an unexpected contest against an unexpected enemy, and still so marvelously fast, faster than he'd ever been as they trained, fast and wicked, his weak magic peppering against Alister's, looking for weaknesses to turn against him, flaws to exploit.

It was just like Zidane had told him, years and years ago, on the last night they had ever seen one another.

Zidane was a different kind of teacher to Alister than Alister would one day be to Beowulf. There was a war going on, and Zidane thought that war was a better teacher than Zidane would ever be. Zidane would take them to one front or the next, seek out a commander to look for the right missions, and then lead Alister into the fray. They drove off Ordallian raiding parties and reconnaissance units: they slipped like ghosts into occupied towns to slaughter their occupiers: they boarded a Romandan pirate ship in Zeltennia and slew its Mage Knight captain.

But these were little fights, foes bested with no renown won, and after a few years fighting at Zidane's side Alister wearied of it. He was stronger than he'd ever been in his life, and that strength was wasted on the foes Zidane chose for them.

"You might be going grey," Zidane laughed. "But you're a child yet."

Alister glared at him. "What is the point of all this fighting if no one even knows our name?"

"People know my name," Zidane said dismissively. "As they'll one day know yours."

"Not like Balbanes!" Alister exclaimed. "Not like the Thundergod! Not like Elidibus!"

Zidane's smile faded a little. "Elidibus has been dead for years. And Balbanes and Cid are generals. They do not get to choose their fights, like we do."

"Who cares-" Alister began, and fell silent, because Zidane's eyes were suddenly blazing.

"You are still young, Alister," Zidane whispered. "You crave glory. I cannot blame you: I was once the same. But I know you've more hunger than that in you. The same hunger as me."

Alister shook his head. "What?"

Zidane gestured behind them. The hill they had fought their last battle on was a smoking ruin: a dozen Ordallian soldiers lay dead around it, and the mage who had smote the hillside was so much ash where Zidane and Alister had turned his own spells against him. "A human being is never more alive than in battle," Zidane breathed. "And a Silencer's life is spent dancing on the edge of his enemy's knife, to turn his blade against him when the moment is right. Get your name known, Alister, and you'll never be truly alive again. Not like this. Not like us."

He'd been right, though Alister hadn't known it at the time. No, for that younger Alister, the hunger for glory had been far greater than the hunger for purpose. He had left Zidane that night, with his master's begrudging blessing. He had chosen renown over passion.

But not this time. Right now, with Beowulf spinning, slicing, and stabbing before him, a flurry of parries, ripostes, and lunges, and around them their weak magics flashes in fits and sparks as they tried desperately to win some fleeting edge over one another. In all his miserable life, had Alister ever faced a foe like this? So sharp, so deadly, so desperate?

Alister had surprised him, but the surprise had passed, and if Beowulf was unsure about fighting his former master he showed no sign of it. He had recovered, rebounded, drove Alister back across the ship's deck step by grudging step, and Alister's grin was so wide on his face it hurt his cheeks, an ache to match the one deep in his guts. There were roars behind him, the flare of Worker lasers to one side, he saw one of the flying swords whip by and bury itself in the chest of an Amazon who'd swung her sway aboard, but these were idle glimpses of a wider world that concerned him not at all. There was only this fight. There was only Beowulf.

Movement from the corner of his eye, the gleam of a gun barrel, and Alister ducked just before the gun cracked its deadly report. One of the flying swords speared down at him from on high, and Alister knocked it aside, aimed for those knots of magic again, saw a boy standing near the helm wobble dangerously at the blow to his magic, and Alister laughed, turned-

Saw Beowulf leaping past him. Back onto the Invincible. Trying to reach Reis.

"We're not done here, boy!" Alister bellowed, ripping after him. Another flicker from the corner of his eye—a woman with light-brown hair, training a scepter on him that flashed with magic. Alister twisted, crossed his blades, and caught the blast of fire against them, dispelling her flames around him in a flare of sparks. He turned to leap away-

Ducked, as a saber's edge whisked through the air where his head had been.

"Stand fast, interloper!" bellowed the pink-haired woman, moving like a wave as her blade sliced after him. Alister laughed and did as she bade: they fell together in a flurry of slashes and slices.

She was good, no denying it. She was confident, poised, and flowed like water from attack into defense. And for all her talent and all her strength, she was not strong enough, not quick enough, to stand against him. It wasn't her fault: there were damn few who were, these days. One of them was behind her, fighting his way across the Invincible's deck.

He focused on his magic, struck slow and numbed her legs as she parried, struck high and sucked the air from her lungs as she dodged. He feinted, and she lunged after him, over-exposed herself: he buried the tip of his piercing blade in her thigh. She gasped, wobbled unsteadily as he found the weak spots in her magic again, knocked her legs out from under him. He raised his cutting blade to finish her-

"CAPTAIN!"

An indignant howl, one word from many throats, and all around him Alister saw the crew rushing towards him, spears and swords in hand, and they were welcome to their captain, he had other prey to hunt.

He lunged over her, landed on the ship's railing, and sprung forwards once more, leaping back towards Beowulf, back towards the battle, to the glory he was so hungry for. The glory he'd never truly known.

He left Zidane behind him, hurrying back to the glory of the 50 Years' War. He earned his reputation with one captain and another, until his name was almost as burnished as Zidane's. The war was growing steadily more desperate: the Ordallian forces were on the march in Limberry and Zeltennia, and a desperate coalition of Hokuten, Haruten, and Nanten was struggling to hold them back from the heartlands of Ivalice. Balbanes Beoulve, the Finest Knight Under Heaven, was ill with the Choking Plague that ravaged Ivalice: Thundergod Cid was locked in the siege of Zeltennia: Elidibus was long dead. There were no great heroes to save them.

This was his moment. Alister Rosenheim would take to the battlefield, and slay Ordallians, and win the renown he deserved. Silencer Rosenheim would be one of the legends of Ivalice.

And then the War was over.

He arrived to a quiet front, buzzing with victory and relief. The Thundergod's brilliant counterattack had driven the Ordallians back to their own borders, and bloodied their troops so badly that they'd agreed to peace terms that had seemed a fever dream mere weeks ago. Goltanna, Elmdor, Wiegraf, Orlandeau: the names of the heroes who had made this victory possible were on everyone's lips.

Alister's name was on none.

Sitting in a tavern in Zeltennia, Alister nursed his drink and tried to fight his disappointment. What kind of man would be sad about an end to such brutal bloodshed? Ivalice would be at peace for the first time in 50 years: farmers in Limberry and Zeltennia could tend to their crops without fear of one army or another trampling across their fields, much less setting them ablaze. So what if the glorious stories of war which he'd grown up with were finally at any end? So what if Alister Rosenheim did not have a chance to etch his name into the annals of Ivalician history?

The handle of his mug splintered in his grip. Alister felt shards of glass digging into his palm.

Almost thirty, his hair going grey, and still such a child. Still hungry to make a name for himself, still bitter and brutal with something to prove. He had gone on any mission that would have him, faced countless foes on the off-chance he might make a name for himself. He had a reputation, certainly: certain people knew you could call on Alister, just like certain people knew you could call on Geoffgrey Gaffgarion.

But even Gaffgarion had a certain infamy. Alister's name was a whisper on high-powered lips. And he wanted to be more than a whisper. He wanted to be a name shouted in bars. He wanted to be a story children begged for at night.

But that time was well behind him now, as he bound over the bodies Beowulf had left strewn in his wake. Curious to note, none seemed dead: they were wounded, certainly, injured and maimed, wheezing and moaning and weeping and screaming, but every one of them seemed alive. Oddly sloppy of Beowulf. Or was he trying to do as his friend Ramza had done so many years ago? Was he trying to fight without killing?

Ahead of them, there was Reis, draped awkwardly across the gangplanks and the rocky shore. The Workers were struggling to hall her aboard, as were a handful of Bremondt's Amazons. Bremondt himself had strode off the ship to help them. So his back was turned, as Beowulf plunged towards him, swift as only a Silencer could be. Closer, closer, closer, and Alister pushed himself to reach him first but almost hoped he would fail, almost hoped Beowulf would get his vengeance, almost-

And Beowulf slid to a stop, with his piercing blade against Bremondt's robed stomach and his cutting blade against his throat.

"That's enough," Beowulf growled, as everyone froze. "Tell your men...and..." He nodded towards the Workers. "Tell everyone to stand down."

For a moment, no one moved. The screams from the fallen Beowulf left in his wake went silent. The roar of spells cast and cannons fired died away. There were no shouts, and no clanging blades. There was Beowulf, his blades close enough to cut the Cardinal in an instant; there was the Cardinal, standing stock-still, his eyes wide and furious beneath his salt-and-pepper hair; there was Reis, stirring feebly against the ropes that bound her draconic form.

By way of answer, Bremondt opened his mouth, and exploded.

The moment he opened his mouth, black wings unfurled around him. A great roar (too great, much too great, too great for any human, it shook Alister's bones, it shook the ship beneath his feet) sounded, and the roar became a gargantuan geyser of whirling wind and fire. Bremondt, several yalms away, managed to brace his cutting blade in front of him and part the worst of the fire around him, but the heat of it, and the wind that howled alongside it, still left him teetering. Beyond Bremondt, several of his Amazons were flung backwards, and several of the ropes binding Reis burned away. Even the Workers bowed beneath the force of that gale of flame.

And when the fire started to die, the great black wings were still around Bremondt, cloaking him in their power, and when he strode towards Reis the ground shook beneath his feet like he was some titanic behemoth advancing on his chosen prey, and the handsome, stylish Cardinal squatted, and braced his arms beneath Reis, and began to heave a dragon into the air. The Workers started to help, steadying her...but it was the Cardinal doing the heavy lifting. The Cardinal, showing the strength of a dragon in his deceptive frame.

Alister felt a moment's admiration. A Dragoner truly was a thing of power. Reis had shown him a little, but he hadn't really understood it, until this moment.

In the midst of his wandering, fighting bandits and mercenaries, he had received a call from his friends among the Templars. Though he had never rejoined their ranks after his expulsion, he was remembered fondly, and his reputation had earned him a few contracts when they were spread too thin (or when there was a job both dangerous and unimportant enough where the gil spent on hiring him was worth more than the lives they'd lose otherwise).

But this call was a bit unusual. He was being called in to teach.

"Your Lordship," Alister grunted, as he strode into the study in the belltower of Igros Cathedral.

"You can call me Bremondt," said the man, his hair darker than Alister's in spite of being 20 years his senior. "How would you like to help hone a Dragoner?"

Alister arched his eyebrows. "You want me to spar with you, Bremondt?"

Bremondt chuckled. "I am not much for sparring, myself. No, it's my protege."

Alister's eyes widened. "There's another Dragoner?"

Bremondt put a finger to his lips. "We're keeping it quiet, for now." He lowered his finger. "She's young, and strong, and very talented. She needs to learn there are people in the world who can kill her, for all her strength." He smiled sadly. "It's knowledge we all need to learn, at one point or another. We'll pay your usual fee."

Alister could hardly say no. Besides the easy money, he would have a chance to test his skills against a Dragoner. And as the years had gone by, Alister found himself understanding old Zidane more and more. He still wanted his name known, yes...but the thrill of battle, of challenging a new opponent and winning through by the strength of your skills, felt more worthwhile with every passing day. Sometimes, it felt like the only thing that gave his life meaning, as the legend he'd hoped to become slipped farther and farther away.

The legend was gone now. Now, there was only the fight. There was only Beowulf, skidding backwards on the rocky beach, embers flying around him as his swords cut through even the Cardinal's strong magic. God, he was magnificent: how strong he'd grown, and in so short a time.

He sprang back on the attack, trying to cut Bremondt down as he hauled Reis aboard the ship. Alister slammed into him, their swords dancing between them so the air was a blur of singing steel.

"Move!" Beowulf snarled.

"Make me, boy!" Alister spat.

When a Silencer fought another Silencer, it wasn't merely a battle of swords; it was a subtle contest of magic, their wills flying like knives along their blades, trying to cut weakness into the heart of their enemy. Weak as their respective magics were, the air sparked between them, as they parried each other's power in the same instant they parried each other's blades.

God, but Beowulf was good. Strong, sharp, quick. His rage had strengthened his blows, his desperation had made him faster, but neither of those things had made him lose an onze of control. He was channeling his rage, channeling his desperation, using it to whet his edge. Even his magic felt strong, slipperier, like a canny wrestler refusing to let you get a grasp upon them as they constantly threatened to pin you.

He was good. Impossibly good, given how young he was. Eighteen now? Nineteen? Nearly twenty years Alister's junior, and still able to fight with him on equal footing.

Reis had known he was capable of this. Reis had told Alister, long before Alister had ever met Beowulf.

He taught her in the evening, when the Templar training halls near Igros Cathedral were emptier than they were during the day. He had expected her to be young, brash, and arrogant. She was young, yes, but bright, and fierce, and cagey. He beat her, in their first sparring match, but she made him work for it, using wind and fire to keep him back, and using draconic strength to strike at him when he got too close.

"You're not quite what the Bishop told me," Alister admitted, while they rested outside, and watched an early spring sunset settle over Igros' orderly streets.

Reis snorted, sipping at her water. "It's a philosophical disagreement."

"Oh?"

She tapped her chest. "One of the reasons Dragoner magic is different than most: we can feel the dragons inside us. Bremondt thinks that the dragon has to be tamed, so you can make the most use of it. I think the dragon's just another part of ourselves, and we have to listen to it." She laughed. "I think you're supposed to show me I'm wrong."

Alister snorted in turn. "Sounds a lot like my old master."

"Was he right?"

Alister shrugged. "Not sure yet."

Reis sighed. "It never really goes away, does it?" When Alister gave her a questioning look, she added, "The hold the past has on us. People, events..."

Alister shook his head. "No. I don't think it does."

Lights were winking on all through Igros, like stars coming out overhead. It made for a pretty sight.

"The way you fight..." Reis said. "It kind of reminds me of my boyfriend."

"Got yourself a boytoy, huh?" Alister laughed. "Templar lad?"

Reis shook her head. "Academy."

"He fights with two swords?"

Reis nodded, but her mouth was pursed into a frown. "Yeah, but...but that's not what reminds me of you. It's like...like everything he is, everything he wants to be...like it's all in his sword, every time he fights." She gave Alister a wry look. "Of course, he's never won a fight with me."

"Well, you'll be beating me soon enough," Alister grunted. "Should we get back to it?"

Reis nodded, and stood up alongside him. "It's funny," she added, as they headed back inside. "When I'm with him, the past doesn't seem so...heavy."

Her last words had stuck with Alister, long after he finished his brief stint training with her. He always felt haunted by his past—by the glories he hadn't won in the war, and the shape his life had taken since. He hadn't expected to like that girl, with her bright future and God-given talent. But she had won him over, in the week they'd spent together. He'd been glad to see her again, when he'd been having a quiet drink at the Mage's Mystery, and she'd hurried inside.

"Reis!" he called, raising his glass to her. "Heard you helped put down the Corps."

"Just went to help a friend." Reis sat down opposite him. "You had a master, right?"

"I did."

"He taught you how to be a Mage Masher?"

"Wouldn't be much of a master if he hadn't."

"Why you?"

Alister sighed. "I don't have much magical talent. But a Mage Masher doesn't need much, if they train hard enough."

"So you could teach someone else?"

Alister laughed. "What, you wanna be a Silencer and a Dragoner?"

"Not me. My boyfriend."

Alister shook his head. "I'm not looking for students."

"He's like you. No magic. He wanted to join the Templars, but they can't..."

Alister felt a pang, deep in his heart. Nearly ten years past, and it still hurt. He felt for the boy, and he could see the pain in Reis' eyes. But he didn't want to be a teacher. He didn't want to give up on his own dreams of glory.

Before he could say anything, Reis grabbed his wrist. "He's going to be a legend," she said fiercely. "With or without you. They're going to tell stories about him. But if you help him, they'll tell stories about you, too. About Beowulf's master."

Cold in Alister's heart. Still, he could not find it in him to speak. She locked her violet eyes with his, and whispered, "Just...meet him. Please."

He couldn't say no. So he'd taken up the training swords she offered him, and gone to meet the boy.

He was clumsy. Exhausted. Poorly trained. Desperate. And he still managed to surprise Alister.

He was surprising him now, yielding ground to him, letting Alister drive him back along the shoreline. So much faster, so much sharper, his defense was strong in both sword and magic, why was he allowing Alister to drive him back like this, back along the shore, near-

His ship!

Alister unleashed a flurry of rapid stabs and slashes, drove Beowulf back two more steps, and then spun backwards, pounding up the slope. The mage on the deck of the scale-patterned ship loosed her lightning bolt a second too slow: it slammed into the ground where he'd been, throwing up a plume of dust and filling his nose with singed ozone.

"Worker 3!" Bremondt snarled, from his place aboard the ship, and Worker 3 released its grasp on Reis, stepped forwards, and snapped its hands to his side. Its great spherical chest split open, and for a moment all who looked towards it were blinded: it was as though a red sun had come to the earth, burning as it fell. Alister just managed to shield his eyes.

A moment later, and there was a strange whistling sound, as a beam of red light speared through the air, and set the deck of the scaled ship ablaze.

Even before it had stopped, Alister was moving again, sprinting through the faded ghost of the island as afterimages clouded his half-blind sight. Beowulf was a shadow just a few steps ahead of him, taking a long arcing path to try and elude Alister and still strike at the Cardinal. Alister stumbled (his extremities were a little numb, his head a little foggy, but he only needed a little more time) then turned the stumble into a lunge, flinging himself into Beowulf's path.

"It's Reis!" Beowulf screamed. His face was blurry to Alister's eyes, but his voice was agony. "The dragon is Reis, Alister, please-"

"And?"

Stunned silence between them. Behind them, there was cannon fire, and the whistle of a Worker's laser, the roar of flames and the clanging of blades. But between them, only silence.

"You knew?" Beowulf's voice was like a frightened child's (a pang in Alister's heart, almost as painful as the mounting fire in his guts. But he could ignore both, just a little longer)

"I am a mercenary," Alister growled. "I do the job I am paid to do. The details do not concern me."

At last, there was real fury in Beowulf's eyes. When he burst towards Alister in a whirl of steel, Alister's glee almost masked his guilt. They crashed together again, a flurry of grasping magic and killing metal, and Alister's heart sang with the joy of it. This was it. This was what he wanted: the glory Zidane had told him about. The glory he'd been chasing all his life.

He thought he'd been close, a year after he had taken charge of Beowulf's training. He trained the boy differently than he himself had been trained. Beowulf's campaign against the Death Corps had left him wounded: he had already had a taste for real battle, and it had almost killed him. The key now was to hone his skills so that, the next time he stepped into earnest battle, he would be deadlier by far.

But the different training required a different method. Because the risk of death would not hang on Beowulf's failures, he needed a different motivation. So Alister decided he would never praise the boy. He would find the faults and flaws in even the most exemplary performance. He would remind Beowulf at every turn that there were greater heights he could obtain. That had been Alister's experience, all his life: he hoped it would leave Beowulf better suited for the future than he himself had been.

Beowulf took to the Silencer's art as though he'd been bred for it. If the magic of the average man was like a short sword, Beowulf's was like a kitchen knife...but even a kitchen knife could be deadly, if you trained with it well enough. He was lethal, clever, canny: he learned, in theory and in practice, how to cut through any kind of magic, no matter how fierce or immense or terrible. Watching him, Alister couldn't help but feel a grudging pride. Reis hadn't been wrong: the boy might well become the legend Alister had once hoped to be.

Might still hope to be, as he discovered when the two of them were training at Templar headquarters near Lionel Castle. Bremondt and Reis were busy with some Church matter in Mullonde, and Beowulf had been mopey in her absence, so Alister had insisted on marching Beowulf across Ivalice, to challenge a wider variety of Templars and initiates. So far, Beowulf had beaten every one (though Alister was careful to point out the flaws in each and every victory).

Late one night (when the boy had passed out from exhaustion, to rest a little before his morning exercises), Alister had been doing his own conditioning (five hundred strikes with each arm, then trading the cutting and piercing blades in each hand, and repeating) when a voice had called to him from the entrance: "You don't get bored, doing that?"

Alister recognized the voice with some disbelief. It was nearly ten years since the Corpse Brigade had called for reinforcements in the face of an elite Ordallian mage unit, and gotten Alister and Zidane sent to them in response. Though Wiegraf Folles had not then commanded his current infamy, his voice was hard to forget.

"You don't lack for courage, stepping into a Templar barracks with the price on your head," Alister murmured, looking over his shoulder. Wiegraf was hidden in the shadows of the doorway.

"Would you like to claim that price?" Wiegraf asked.

Alister considered. Few indeed were the Mage Knights that a canny Silencer couldn't slay...but Alister suspected Wiegraf might be one of those few. He couldn't decide if the challenge intimidated him, or excited him.

Before he could answer, Wiegraf stepped into the light. He was wearing fine clothes of red and gold. "I'm afraid it's not courage, though," Wiegraf said. "I'm welcome here."

Alister laughed in disbelief. "You're a Templar?"

"Not officially. Not yet."

"Not officially?" Alister repeated. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means they're not yet ready to claim me as their own," Wiegraf said. "Not untily they're ready to tell their legend."

Electricity in his heart. "What legend?"

An unfamiliar voice from the same doorway Wiegraf had used: "The Legend of the Zodiac Braves." A young man stepped into the runelight: he had clay-red hair framing high cheekbones, and an old burn upon his left cheek. "A story of Ivalice, corrupted by greed and ambition, hollowed out by the avarice of the powerful, until a company of heroes, united under the auspices of the Glabados Church, puts an end to the conflict, and brings a new era peace and prosperity."

Alister snorted. "And who are you supposed to be?"

"Delita Heiral." The boy bowed his head. "Someone hoping to be a Brave." He looked up. "And hoping you'll help me meet with an old friend."

Alister frowned. Heiral...he knew that name. "You're forgetting something, Heiral," he said, while he searched his memories. "To be a Zodiac Brave, you need a Zodiac Stone."

"Like this one?" Wiegraf asked, oh-so-casually, and from a pouch at his side he pulled a glowing orb of blue crystal, with the Aries sign emblazoned on its front.

Zodiac Stones. Zodiac Braves. A legend not seen in Ivalice in almost a thousand years. Alister knew men who'd already claimed those Stones. Alister might claim such a Stone himself. A mercenary Silencer, who had once left the Church behind, only to return to it when they needed the strength of his sword...yes, that would be a story worth the telling.

One last hope, to be snuffed out. His hunger for renown was at an end. There was just one final glory he craved: whirling together with his one-time student, dancing along the killing edges of each other's swords and wills, living or dying by the strength of their arms. In spite of the growing fire in his guts, in spite of the sinking weariness in his bones, Alister was sure he had never felt so alive.

A great rumbling behind them. Alister did not need to look to recognize the bone-buzzing hum of the Invincible's engines coming to life once more: even if he hadn't recognized the noise, he would have recognized the flash of fear in Beowulf's eyes. That fear gave him extra strength, extra speed, just for a moment: he drove Alister down the slope one step, two steps, three.

"They're leaving you behind!" Beowulf cried (slash, thrust, a burst of magic to try and numb his fingers, another trying to spasm in his throat, none of it was enough).

"Of course they are!" Alister retorted. "My job is not yet done! You're still alive!"

He fell back before Beowulf's fury, all his senses trained on him, waiting for the moment when desperation gave way to clumsiness, waiting for-

There. The boy slashed, spun, parried Alister's counter, lunged into a thrust with his piercing blade, and overextended himself just a fraction of an inch. The slope was rocky: his footing wasn't quite secure enough.

Panic in his eyes. The boy knew. Alister knew. And when Alister knocked aside Beowulf's cutting blade with a swift riposte, and slashed down with his own cutting blade, he fully expected to see his pupil's fingers fly.

Credit where credit was due, Beowulf was quick: he twisted, body and arms alike. Their blades clashed again, but Beowulf's footing was poor, his grip weak: his piercing blade flew from his fingers, high into the sky, and when Alister drove against him he tumbled backwards, gasping.

It was almost over now: Alister drove his own piercing blade down toward's Beowulf stomach, and Beowulf only narrowly rolled aside. Alister slashed with his cutting blade, and Beowulf caught it with his own, braced both hands on the hilt and flung Alister backwards, but he could not quite manage to stand, could not retake his feet, and Alister had two swords and Beowulf only one, a flurry of arm-rattling strikes and Beowulf could not keep his single blade between them much longer, Beowulf was prone and exhausted and it would soon be over, and Alister felt a moment's disappointment-

A flicker of movement, from the corner of his eyes. Alister flinched to one side, thinking it was one of those flying swords that he'd struck down so often now, ready to strike at its wielder's magic once more. It wasn't a flying sword, however, but a falling sword. Beowulf's sword. The piercing sword that Alister had knocked from his grasp, mere seconds ago. The one that had had been flung high into the air.

And in the instant of Alister's defensive flinch, Beowulf moved. His hand snapped up. His cutting blade struck wildly, carved a tiny hole in Alister's startled defense. The piercing blade, fresh fallen from the sky, buried its needlepoint in Beowulf's chest, and detonated magic in his lungs.

Alister blinked down at the sword. He blinked at Beowulf. He was still smiling. "Ah," he sighed. "Well...done."

He fell to one side, as the swords dropped from numb fingers. The strength was already leaving him—the cold pressure in his chest was oozing weakness, warmth and light draining from his eyes. Already he felt tired and weak, his head swimming as his undamaged lung struggled to take in enough air. In the hazy distance, Beowulf scrambled to his feet. He stared at Alister, started to speak, then shook his head and turned back to the ships.

It was too late: much too late. The Invincible was already several hundred yalms out to sea, peppering Beowulf's scaled ship with magic and cannonfire. A shimmering dome of golden light hung over the scaled ship, dulling the worst of the Cardinal's barrage...but the scaled ship was aflame in some parts, smoking in others, and listing a little to one side.

Alister, even in his dying, took this all in with the practiced eye of a soldier. But it was hard to care too much about it, and not just because he was dying. There was also Beowulf, his back turned to Alister, his swords flung out to either side. There were burns on his armor: sections of his clothes still smoldered. But framed in the cannonade of the two ships, he looked majestic. He looked like a legend.

Slowly, Beowulf turned back to Alister. The swords dropped from his hands, as knelt at Alister's side. His face was a mask of anguish.

Alister smiled up at him, and cupped a hand upon his cheek. "Thank you...my friend."

"Thank me?" Beowulf shook his head. "I've...I've killed you." His voice trembled.

"You haven't...killed me," Alister replied. "You've...released me."

"Released-?"

"I'm not...a good man," Alister whispered. "Never was. Chased...dreams of glory...all my life. Lived...for the fight...and the story...they would tell." Alister chuckled, and then the chuckling turned into a gasp: his chest was too tight to allow him to laugh anymore. "Better...this way."

"Better...what way?" Beowulf looked so painfully young.

"Dying...in battle...not...in a sickbed." He patted Beowulf's cheek again.

"Dying?" Beowulf repeated.

With his free hand, Alister touched his own stomach. "Rot...in my guts...in my bones." He shook his head. "Best Healers...can't do a thing. Without my medicine, I couldn't even...walk." Tears in his eyes now. He shook his head. "I didn't...I didn't want..."

It wasn't fair. It was a childish thought, and it had dogged him for months now, since the night he had spent in the privy with fire in his ass and in his stomach and his heart, until at last he'd passed out, to be found by a squire the next morning. All his life spent missing opportunities, and now, with a new war to fight in, with new legends to be told, another misfortune. A misfortune to end all his misfortunes. An ignominious end to an ignominious life.

"I'm sorry, Beowulf." He was crying now, and he hated it, but he couldn't stop. It wasn't the pain that brought tears to his eyes. but a child's sense of injustice. The thing he'd most in the world would never be his. "I'm sorry, I...I shouldn't have...but it was the only way I could...stand it."

He felt a hand on his, so warm even through the growing cold. He blinked open blurry eyes, and found Beowulf looking down at him with tears on his cheeks.

"I don't...want...to die," Alister breathed, lifting his other hand to cup Beowulf's other cheek, and bringing Beowulf's hand with him. "But if...I have...to die...I want it...to be a fight...worthy dying in. I want...a man...worth dying to. And I...wanted...to be...a part...of someone's...legend."

Beowulf's cupped his other hand as well, so close to his face, so warm. It was like he had his hands open towards a fire, even as the winter cold came rolling in.

"I will not...ask your...forgiveness," Alister whispered. "But please...don't...don't forget me."

"I won't," Beowulf whispered. "I couldn't. Without you, I..." Alister's vision was so dark now, except for Beowulf's tear-strewn face. "If they ever tell legends about me...it'll be because of you."

Alister manged a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough. It didn't even hurt, really: it just darkened his world a little more. "Well...that's...something." He squeezed his pupil's face. "You...really might be...the best fighter...I've ever..."

So dark now, so cold, so distant. He could barely hear his own words.

"I...don't want...to die," he said again. "I...wanted to hear...the stories they'll...tell of you...Beo..."

He drifted down into the dark, with embers of Beowulf to keep him warm.