Within Holy Walls
A Final Fantasy Tactics fanfic
By Tenshi no Ai
I don't own any of the characters or locations in this work, Square-Enix does.
Chapter 14: The Amiable Knight, Beowulf Kadmus
(Lesalia, November of Pantora 23)
It was a cold day.
The wind blew furiously throughout the mostly empty streets of uptown Lesalia Imperial castle city; Larner Channel had always seemed to produce the worst winds in early winter, then again during the tail end of the season. Knowing this, the various servants of the manors along the cobblestone streets before the royal castle tended to hasten their daily chores around the city, whereas in spring and summer they would practically choke up the streets.
In one of the more grand manors along this royal pathway, a young boy with reddened cheeks stared morosely out of a window on the second floor. He hated winter because of his intense dislike for staying at home, and frequently snuck out to play along the frozen-over fountains in his neighborhood. Because of this, he now had a severe cold and was forbidden by his older sister to leave the house.
So, he stared out of his window and sulked.
"...Is'sna' fair," he muttered underneath his breath, "I'll tell Sis I don' wanna stay in here anymore," resolute in this goal, he jumped off his bed. Despite his clumsy dismount, he managed to get to his door with nothing more than a stubbed toe--but he wasn't going to cry because he was a big boy and big boys don't cry no matter what--and yanked it open, promptly stubbing his other toe. Sucking in a deep breath at this, he rethought his position on crying, decided to continue it, then stuck his head past the threshold of the doorway.
The hallway was empty.
All clear, he thought victoriously to himself as he hopped out into the hallway. "Sis'd be in her room, stud'ing," with this in mind, he hobbled awkwardly down the hall, making sure not to put any pressure on his big toes. Almost there...almost there...almost--
"Master Beowulf! What do you think you're doing outside of bed, young man?"
Caught.
Hunching up his shoulders, he guiltily turned around. In front of him was his older sister's chambermaid, an elderly woman who stood stoutly above him. "M-matwron Leeza..." he flushed darkly, his cheeks almost the same red as his eyes. He began to move around nervously, "I'm looking for Sis."
"Your sister has expressed orders to keep you in bed until you're better," the unofficial matron of the Kadmus children frowned down at the boy, "did you want food or something to drink?"
Beowulf shook his head.
"Speak up, boy. What did you want?"
"I want t' complain."
At this, Leeza shook her head, crossing her arms at the same time. "And I'm sure that you'll just keep getting up and running around until you do get to complain, right?"
Innocently, the four-year-old nodded.
"Fine, do as you will. But when your sister gives you hell about it, don't mention my name," the elderly woman shook her head one more time, then walked away. Beaming, the young boy stumbled the rest of the way over to his sister's room without any other obstacles stalling him, or going as far as to send him back to bed. Beowulf hmphed at that thought. He was going to complain now, not when his sister came over to feed him lunch in twenty minutes.
With that stern message in mind, he politely knocked on her door. "Sis, I'm here t' complain!" He was expecting the door to be viciously thrown open and to get a severe talking-to before getting hauled off to bed. She was so fun to irritate.
Instead, the door still stood impassively in front of him.
"Sis--?" He knocked again. No answer. "SIS--?" No answer. "SIS--?"
No answer.
"I wish you would listen to me for once!"
Beowulf looked up and around expectantly. That was his sister's voice! So...where was she?
"What is there to listen to, Amelia?"
The blond-haired boy blinked. Another voice, this one almost unfamiliar, but he did recognize it.
"Can't you be a bit more caring, Mum?"
Yes, that's who she was to him. He had trouble remembering that sometimes.
If Sis and Mum were talking to each other, he reasoned, then they'd have to be in the same place. And the latter rarely ever left one room, so they'd both have to be there. At this he nodded to himself, then determinedly he limped his way to the large oak doors at the end of the family hall.
To his parents' room.
It took a lot of determination to go to that particular den of panthers, as his sister had warned him that he shouldn't ever go there. But, he thought to himself, if Sis was there, then everything would be okay. One of the doors was slightly open, and Beowulf figured it was an invitation to listen in because that wouldn't really be disobeying his sister. Just slightly, that's all. So he stood at the crack between the imposing doors and listened.
"I just don't understand, Mum," his sister was saying, "he's your son. Why don't you ever want to come out and take care of him? Raise him, even?"
"...Who?" his mother said vaguely, "oh, that boy. You know, I was completely prepared to toss him to the local church, but Jason was so adamant on keeping him, even after he opened his eyes--"
"Mum, I know this already," Amelia sounded exasperated, "but I don't understand."
"That's because you're just a mere child," there was the sound of liquid being poured, "but when you get married off and have a child of your own, you'll definitely want that child to look like your husband."
A breath of air was heavily exhaled. "So he's got blond hair and red eyes. He's still my brother, he's still your son, he's--"
"He's a bastard, that's what he is!"
The boy at the door merely blinked. He understood that he was the subject of their discussion, but that word was unfamiliar...
"Mum..." his sister's voice was hushed with a tinge of surprise, "do you mean to say that those rumors...they're true?"
"Rumors..." loud gulping sounds could be heard by Beowulf, then, "those damn rumors. He said that he didn't care if the boy looked different, he really didn't, but then he left for the war! That stupid boy's ruined me!"
"You ruined yourself, Mum!" Amelia yelled, "I don't care what you say, Beowulf's my full brother. He's going to be a great person, no thanks to you..." footsteps rushed to the door, but Beowulf didn't move.
He knew that his mother rarely left her room since his father left for the war months ago. He couldn't remember the last time she held him, or talked directly to him. It seemed that she always talked through his sister.
Was it his fault? Beowulf thought numbly. Because he didn't look like Sis, with her brown hair and green eyes?
The door suddenly swung open, and he looked up to see his sister staring down at him in shock. Her lower lip trembled, eyes flashing through different emotions before settling on a surprised sort of concern. "Oh, B-Beowulf, were you looking for me? I thought I told you never to come here, silly," her tone was falsely high and he flinched at it, "it's lunchtime, isn't it?"
He nodded. "But I wan' t' complain, too."
Somehow, that didn't seem so important anymore.
"I-I see..." Amelia smiled tightly, "well, you can complain all you want. How about we go and have lunch in the dining room today. We'll have chocobo creamed soup, your favorite!"
"Wi' crackers?" The question came out normally, and he was happy to see his sister give her usual smile at it.
"With lots of crackers," the nine-year-old girl reached out and took his hand, "and sweet berry juice," and with that, the siblings went down the hall and Beowulf had almost forgotten what had just happened, but then he heard her whisper to herself, "because I love you, even if Mum doesn't," and suddenly he felt like crying.
But big boys aren't supposed to cry, no matter what.
-----
I'm confused. I don't think that I know what that word means. "Beowulf, what does being a 'bastard' mean?"
He shifts around a bit, and maybe...maybe I shouldn't have asked. Even if I'm not facing him, I can tell that he's uncomfortable. "It means that I don't have a father." he finally answers. "That, unlike Sis, Professor Jason Kadmus isn't my real father."
"I still don't understand," I lean back into him even more, running my hands along his tense arms, "that can be told just because you look different from everybody else?"
"...It's a dangerous thing to be different in any way, especially if you're a noble." He sighs, the exhalation rushing over my right ear. I can't help but twitch my ears at this.
People are afraid of what is 'different'. Well, maybe not afraid, but they don't like it.
I don't look terribly different from most Ivalicians. Blond hair, brown eyes, taller than most females and a fashion sense that's different than the norm of the townspeople. I could be worse off. And if I don't want to look different, I could just wear normal clothes.
But...I guess Beowulf never had that option in the first place. Even if he looks normal, he still is 'different'. And what he would need to change...it's not possible.
His mother seems to be a very cold person.
Beowulf clears his throat quietly. "The next year..."
-----
(Lesalia, July of Pantora 24)
"I hate this, Sis."
"Hold still, Beowulf! I'm trying to tie this..."
"..."
"Okay, now turn around!"
Beowulf turned around slowly, the beginnings of a dark glare in his eyes. He was beautifully adorned in a snow-white dress with intricate pink ribbons and masses of frills at the end of his long sleeves and the hem of the outfit. A matching hat was skillfully tilted on his head to the left, and white barrettes decorated with pink butterflies successfully pinned his long bangs away from his crimson eyes. "But Sis," he whined plaintively, "I'm a boy..."
"Yes, and I think it's such a pity," Amelia smiled, crouching before him as she brushed down the front of the dress, "you look even better in this dress than I ever did! It's got to be because of your light hair...I wish I had blond hair," she placed her hand just below his chin and looked into his rather ignoble scowl, "smile, little brother. You won't look pretty unless you smile."
The four-year-old moved his head back from his sister's hand. "I'm not s'pposed to be pretty," he crossed his arms roughly over the stiff material, "and b'sides, Mum would hate you too if you had blond hair."
"...Beowulf," the ten-year-old placed her hands on his small shoulders and forced him to look at her, "Mum doesn't hate you. She's just...going through a phase is all."
Oh, how he desperately wanted to believe that.
"When will her phase end, Sis?"
More than anything...
"...I don't quite know, little brother."
But he was only four. He didn't know how to lie to himself yet.
"Oh."
Amelia attempted a smile. "But you look so cute in that dress! You're better than any doll I used to have," she stood up, "I'm going to go to the storage room and see if I can't find some more of my old dresses."
"Why don't you go use your old dolls then 'stead of me?" Beowulf whined. His sister shook her head, fairly irritated now.
"Because I had to donate all of them to the war cause, remember? They needed the wood to make important things, and because of my donation the war will be shorter!"
The boy stared at her blankly. "So then, if the war's shorter, Dad will come home sooner?"
"Mm-hm," she shook out her long brown hair, "and Mum will be happier and she'll be over her phase, and it'll be all because of me!"
Beowulf was amazed, dark eyes widening in hope. "Really?"
"Rea--"
A loud wail shattered the comfortable moment between the two. Then there was the sound of glass shattering downstairs. Amelia bit her lip at this, eyebrows scrunching towards the bridge of her nose. "Beowulf, you stay here. I'll be right back," she raced out of her room, leaving her brother uncomfortably confused by the sudden noises. Nothing like this had ever happened in the Kadmus home before.
He waited and waited, nervously scratching his arms every so often. Expecting Amelia to hurry back as soon as possible, he plopped down onto the floor, not caring if the expensive material became irreparably wrinkled. He waited and waited, but his sister didn't come back.
Finally, he stood up again. "I'm going ta find Sis," he said strongly, and felt comforted by the tone of his voice. It didn't sound wobbly, it sounded firm and resolute. Picking up the skirts so that he wouldn't trip, he made his way out of his sister's room, looking up and down the hallway. He noticed that the doors to his parents' room were open, but he didn't want to go there. Quietly he walked down the hall toward the grand staircase that led to the front of the house.
Then he noticed that someone was walking towards him.
It was a woman, messily garbed in an elegant black dress that seemed too big for her frame. Her dark brown hair was pinned up, sparse strands scattered across her forehead. There were lines on her face, lines on her hands, but she didn't look old. She looked faded.
The woman stopped and Beowulf froze. He wasn't quite sure, but this tired woman seemed to be someone who belonged in his house.
Someone unseen...his mother?
She stared at him...or at a spot behind him. Her eyes were greenish hazel and wavered constantly, so he wasn't too sure if she was even seeing him. He was definitely staring at her, though. This unfamiliar woman that was probably his mother...how could he not stare?
Her pale lips parted and he held his breath. Would she actually speak to him for once?
"I loved him more than anything. I love him still...but I can never tell you that again, can I, darling?"
She moved past Beowulf, and he could dimly see a yellow piece of paper clasped in her right hand as she nearly brushed against him. Black and white nearly caressed, but failed to do so. Then she was gone, and Beowulf was all alone again.
Steps, loud against the wood floor, rushed at him, and he was overtaken by thin arms and heaving sobs. "Beowulf...it's horrible...our dad...!"
Years later when he himself set off to war, he would learn that the conflict that Jason Kadmus had died in had a name.
'The Romandan Invasion.'
-----
I turn around quickly in Beowulf's arms, placing my right hand against his chest and peering into his eyes. It's dark now, so dark that all the color has been drained except for black and shades of bluish-gray, but I can still see him. That's the only important thing.
He's...he's blank.
His voice, lively when he talks about his sister, goes into a monotone when he talks about his father...his mother.
My cheerful, confident Beowulf...this isn't him.
Parents are really important! As a big sister, I know that there are things that parents can do that siblings can't, even if they tried really hard. I can't imagine Mama or Papa ever ignoring me or my brothers. They showed us how much they loved us every day we were together.
A mother who ignores a child because of rumors, then because of grief...that's a woman who places herself first.
Can that sort of person really be called a 'mother'?
With a mother who only cared about her own reputation and a big sister who had to be both 'mother' and 'older sister' ...it's amazing that he's even halfway as well-adjusted--I think that's the word--as he is now.
But I...I really despise that woman...
"Beowulf...are you really sure you want to keep telling me this? I mean..." I can feel my voice wavering in my throat as he thins his lips and stares at me with blank eyes, "doesn't it hurt to remember all these things?"
He closes his eyes, and when they open again there's actual feeling brimming in them. Thank God... "To be honest, it feels kind of good to be telling someone all this," one of his arms loosens from my waist and moves upward, wrapping around my shoulders with his hand on my left shoulder. My left leg hurts, considering that it's on the side of the sill inside the church, so I raise it over the sill to join my right leg on the outside of the church. Shifting back a bit, I can lean my head against his shoulder and still look up into his face.
If I can look into his eyes, I can comfort him in time before the emotions in his eyes burn out of existence again.
"You seem tense," his voice is soft. I close my eyes.
"I'm angry," and I really am.
He tilts his head and looks into my eyes. "Why?"
No way to say this but bluntly... "I'm angry at your...mother," a person who doesn't deserve that honorable title.
"Don't waste your energy," he says almost harshly, and I lower my eyes to the buttons of his uniform. He didn't have to say it like that... "I'm sorry. I mean that she's dead now, so it's not worth it."
By the virtue of being dead, does that mean that the dead are exempt from what they've done when they were alive?
Respecting the dead...I'll only do that if they were respectable when they were alive.
"I think it's worth it," I say to his chest, unwilling to see his expression, "I don't fully understand, but she was the one who bore you into this world, right?"
He doesn't respond quickly, so I look up. He has a rather pensive look on his face. "Yes, there were witnesses present."
"Then, considering that she gave birth to you, it's her..." duty? No...responsibility? So many cold words about what should be such a wonderful...ah! "she should feel blessed that she can raise a child--two children--when so many other women can't."
After all, to become a mother...it's like the pinnacle of womanhood. I can't see why any woman would take that honor for granted.
Beowulf gazes at me for a long moment before offering me a small smile. "The way you think...I'm sure you'd be a great mother someday."
I certainly hope so. "Thank you," I smile.
We're both smiling at each other, but I can't help but think of Beowulf's story and its connection with Peppermint's.
The Romandan invasion...Peppermint said that she was affected by it too. People in Fovoham and Lesalia, spreading outward to relatives throughout all of Ivalice...maybe there's more people affected by that attack than not.
I guess I'm a rarity.
But in listening to the experiences of others, doesn't that connect me anyway?
Even if I'm not personally affected, I still want to share my feelings with those who were. Maybe that's empathy, but I'm not really sure.
"I should probably tell you about when I got involved in the war," Beowulf takes in a deep breath, his chest rising as he does so, "I was twelve, and it was April..."
-----
(Lesalia, April of Pantora 32)
"Why, Beowulf? Why are you doing this?"
The youth in question lowered his head, looking into the dark tea that filled half of his cup. "I can't stand it here any longer, Sis."
Seventeen-year-old Amelia Kadmus rose from her seat across from him then, chest heaving as she affixed a deadly glare onto her brother. "Absolutely not, Beowulf. I refuse to have you die out there!"
"I...I just want to do my part in helping Ivalice..."
"You just want to get away from Mum!"
Beowulf wished he could hide now. It really wasn't a good idea to tell his sister, he knew, but she did deserve to know. "Maybe."
"You always were a poor liar, little brother," she sat down huffily, taking a dainty sip of her tea before glaring at him again, "and you even decided to tell me now, when tomorrow I leave for school again."
"Yes, because I felt that you needed to know," he looked up into her face, nearly wincing at the severity of her scowl now, "don't they teach you in school to not look at people like that?"
"Like I give a bleeding fig about etiquette at a time like this," she rolled her eyes as Beowulf gaped at her, "anyway, did you really expect me to gather around the coronets and celebrate because, lo and behold, my little brother's going off to war!"
He bit his lower lip. "No."
"Good, then we have an understanding," Amelia shook her head, "is it that bad when I'm away?"
He gnawed at his lower lip. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I don't like being alone."
"So you'd rather end up scattered along a battlefield with hundreds of other soldiers?" Amelia's tone was of an incredulous nature.
Beowulf looked away. "Sis, I don't belong here."
She held her gaze, although there was something unrecognizable shimmering in her eyes. "Are you not a Kadmus?"
"Am I?"
"Don't be flippant," she said absently, "I don't care about those old rumors, so you shouldn't."
The blond boy sighed. "I'm not you, Sis."
"Don't be flippant," her tone was hard now.
"'Flippant'? I'm being serious here," Beowulf quickly stood up, the force of which made the contents of his cup splash over the rim, "I'm not you. I'm not Mum. I don't understand why you defend her all the time, I don't understand why she should be defended. All I understand is that because I look like this, I'm always going to be treated as the 'bastard son of the Kadmus family'. Mum will always see me as that curse that made her husband go out to war and die, and I...no one cares if I'm hurt by that, or if I feel bad, or...
"Or if I've stopped caring."
His sister stared up at him, mouth forming soundless arguments. "B-Beowulf..."
"I give up, Sis. I can't stand it here any longer. If I'm going to be judged, I'd like it to be on something I can change, like my fighting and magic skill," he tried to smile, but it came out as a little grimace, "I'd rather die out there than hate myself for the rest of my life."
Amelia shook her head, clinging to her position in an almost futile manner. "I...but...you're only twelve!"
Brandy eyes, just now so full of righteous anger, softened. "I bet younger than that are dying out there right now."
He watched her face as it turned ashen and her eyes closed, then as she threw up her hands and opened her eyes, olive-stained orbs full of reluctance and barely checked desperation. "Little brother...this is what you really want?"
Once, twice he nodded.
She clutched the tablecloth with trembling hands, but her eyes were remarkably steady. "Then, you better have had signed the registration as 'Beowulf Kadmus'."
The blonde of the two smiled sadly. "As long as someone truly believes that, then that's who I am."
"And..." the older Kadmus sibling now had a determined look in her eyes, in her bearing as she loosened her grip on the white cloth, "don't you dare die."
-----
I think I like his big sister. As a big sister myself, I can truly appreciate her feelings. "It's a good thing you listened to her."
Beowulf looks at me, a strange emotion in his eyes. "It was a hard promise to keep."
-----
(Lesalia, May of Pantora 32)
It was becoming a desperate situation in eastern Lesalia.
Limberry and her formidable Seiten troops had fallen when the Imperial Army of Ivalice, a coalition force comprised of soldiers from the five major nations, retreated out of Ordalia after King Denamunda's death with the Ordalian army at their heels. The Ordalians now held a sizable base in northern Limberry while being bombarded with guerilla warfare everywhere else in that region, and were pushing their way into Zeltennia. While their main force had not succeeded in the invasion of Zeltennia yet, leaks in the Nanten defense were getting harder and harder to plug up, even under the leadership of Divine Knight Cidolfas Orlandu.
The only thing defending Lesalia from the Ordalians who managed to sneak through Zeltennia was the secondary front line at the borders of Lesalia and Zeltennia. While most of the best soldiers were being sent to the primary front line at Bethla Garrison, the expendable troops were sent to Doguola Pass and its general vicinity.
Twelve-year-old Beowulf Kadmus, rushed through the basics of sword fighting and survival in a few scant weeks, found himself at this no-man's land of hopelessness and death. A squire in leather armor torn off a fatally wounded soldier's body, he stood a good chance of the same happening to him. Standing among men and women his own age, lips cracked and bleeding due to the harsh eastward winds, the sword at his side making his walk uneven as the tip of the blade dragged against the dusty ground, he began to wonder if he would ever see his sister again.
The day soon came when the bells rang out throughout the makeshift fort and he was tugging on his armor in the same room as fifty other boys just like him. Noble, commoner...what did it matter?
Death never discriminates.
They all rushed outside their quarters, many with lopsided gaits and loose armor. The commanding officer, a Holy Knight from the Hokuten who was unfit to head to Bethla, ordered them to move out, to attack the menacing knights dressed uniformly in dark green who were heading towards them.
They did so, regrets weighing down their minds like their armor was weighing down their bodies.
Beowulf, lagging behind some older boys, wondered if he would ever see his sister again.
I want to tell Sis how much I love her.
The two forces crashed down upon each other, one ragtag and inexperienced, the other elite but outnumbered. Shrill cries dashed through the tranquil day, amplified and drowned out simultaneously by the vicious winds.
With cracked lips trembling, he did the only thing he really could do.
I don't want to be 'that worthless child' anymore!
He knew how to do this. Focus magical energies until they're gathered to the best of his ability, then chant the words to transmute the dormant energies into an elemental spell to unleash at his enemies.
At least, that was how he had seen it done.
He concentrated on building his magical essence, gritting his teeth as a strange pressure began building in his head. It hurt, it hurt a lot, but all he could do was to tighten his grip on his loaned sword and try to move past the pain. He could hear his heartbeat within that pressure, and he focused on that steady beat.
All he could do was focus.
The sounds of the battlefield washed away as the rhythm of his heartbeat became dominant. The pain, the pressure began to lessen bit by bit until all he could feel was a faint tingling all over his body.
He had it. He could do this!
Brandy eyes opened, then widened as he noticed that his own side was being pushed back past him. In the ocean of this battle, he had just a few minutes before he would be swept away.
Beowulf was an avid swimmer. He knew what drowning felt like.
He looked around in barely-controlled fear, dumbly watching as people he had seen once or twice at the fort were being cut down before him.
A boy from Zeltennia who bragged about getting revenge and collecting Ordalian daggers fell, blue eyes wide and unseeing, his head barely attached to the rest of his body.
A golden-haired girl from Gallionne who didn't have any reason to go to war but did so anyway staggered blindly, clutching at a gaping wound in her stomach before a man twenty years her senior ran his sword through her. She died without a sound.
The same couldn't be said for countless others. The screams and moans of the wounded and dying threatened to break his concentration, but he pushed the sounds away just as he pushed down the rising bile in his throat.
The tide was rapidly approaching, but he knew that he didn't have the energy to even pull off a level two spell, not to talk of anything that would save his life. Angry winds howled past him, pushing him towards the brutal melee.
His eyes widened again. The wind...
Ignoring the insistent voice in the back of his mind that exclaimed that this would fail, he raised his arms. "Destruction of nature, gather into flame! Fire!" Dancing flames gathered, swirling around his upraised hands, then they flew upward into the blue skies.
Orange and reds jumped across a background of pale blue, weaving and unhinging like a sinuous snake before the winds crashed through them.
The flames fell.
Transformed from a mere boy's first spell into a veritable firestorm, streaks of fire lunging to the earth like an archer brigade's arrows and splattering across the ground. Due to the severity of the winds, the radius of the spell was more than anyone, much less Beowulf, could've ever hoped for, the direction completely in favor of the defenders with little chance of retaliation by the flames. The actual damage to the Ordalian soldiers was minimal, but it scattered the elite soldiers. Emboldened by this, the defenders of Ivalice's capital renewed their attack. Quickly enough the conflict was over, in favor of the recruits who once were resigned to the idea of dying as nameless squires on the battlefield.
As for Beowulf, he found out that he had a purpose. Due to his quick thinking and emergence of his magical ability, he had saved what was left of his troop.
He had saved himself.
I won't die before telling Sis how much I love her...
-----
That sounds really...intense. I've heard some war stories at Murond, but none of them have felt so...heavy to me. Here I am, wincing and twitching inwardly as he describes his first battle, trying not to show it or else I know he'll stop.
I want to listen to everything he has to say.
Raising my right hand from his chest, I lightly touch his face. Such a strong, masculine structure, both outside and inside... "You really are a brave person, Beowulf," even with his childhood, he still has such strength of character.
That part of him that I wanted to draw out and emulate...I wonder if I can find it in myself?
He looks at me, pursing his lips slightly before leaning in, lightly touching his lips against mine. I move my hand over and around his neck, pulling him in, but he quickly pulls back. "I'm not...not nearly as brave as you may think I am," and that's annoying to hear because I have my own opinion on that, "I'm not willing to fling myself into the heart of the fray. I like living."
Don't we all? "What about when that thief had stolen my valise?"
"That's what magic is for," he says lightly, "I'll cast however many spells I need to finish a battle, but throwing myself into battle isn't something I care for."
Is he trying to make my opinion of him go down? It's too bad for him that actions mean a lot more than his humble words. "What about yesterday, when you fought off those men and asked me to escape?"
He looks at me, the light of the full moon giving his eyes an ethereal glow. "And you came back and helped," something in his voice is tense. I don't know, but he sounds a bit annoyed...although I'm not sure because I've never heard him be annoyed. Well, not towards me.
"You're angry about that, aren't you? I'm sorry," I barely finish my sentence before he engulfs me in a deep hug, holding me tightly against him. I close my eyes and sink into him. If he's going to embrace me for no real reason, then I'll take full advantage of it.
The hourly bells ring loudly, but the sound is muffled because of Beowulf's embrace. Thank God. I treasure my hearing.
"I was surprised," his lips move against the left crook of my neck. I like the slightly tickling feeling, "I didn't expect you to come back. My first selfless act of bravery, and you came back to help me," he moves back, settling back into his former position, although his right hand is now in my lap. I place my hands on top of his, watching the smile on his face as the fingers of my left hand entwine with his, my right hand covering the back of his free hand, "but angry? Not at all."
Oh, that's good then. I can't exactly reverse what I've already done. "I wasn't sure."
"Reis, I don't think it's possible for me to ever get angry at you," he states that as if it were a fact. I hope he's right, "I think you're a lot braver than me."
I wouldn't really know, although I doubt it. "You're really humble."
Beowulf looks at me curiously. "Humble? Well, I guess that's better than being an arrogant ar...idiot," I smile and pretend that I didn't know that he switched the last word, although I don't know why he would. He probably just figured that I wouldn't know it. He's always so considerate, "I've met a lot of that sort while I was on duty at Doguola Pass, although that all changed once I was knighted..."
-----
(Lesalia, July of Pantora 36)
It was unbearably hot in his Lesalia Imperial Army knight uniform as he uncomfortably kneeled before the crown-appointed official. With an air of rushed dignity, the official tapped Beowulf on his right shoulder, then his left with a highly decorated but otherwise useless sword. "Rise, Sir Knight," he commanded hollowly, and the sixteen-year-old did so stiffly. Then the official moved to the next kneeling youth and repeated the same procedure.
There were just too many men and women eligible to be knighted all around war-torn Ivalice, and it simply wouldn't do to have sickly King Omdolia travel about the country to knight all of them. Besides, he hadn't found a queen yet, and his advisors were unwilling to have him possibly be assassinated without his producing an heir first.
The new commanding officer of Doguola Pass--his predecessor killed in a melee a year before--motioned for Beowulf to approach him. After a quick glance at the official, who was still tapping shoulders and droning the same sentence over and over, he silently walked over to the officer. "Yes, sir?" This was asked in as low a tone as possible, since for the last couple of years Beowulf had been dealing a sudden tendency for his voice to rise and lower at its own leisure.
"Kadmus, I've been noticing your performance in battle has steadily increased over the year I've been here," the officer, a longtime Holy Knight, cleared his throat, "and it has come to my attention that there is an elite troop around Bervenia that is currently seeking a knight with strong magical capabilities. Bethla cannot spare any, and the Hokuten are still reforming from their heavy losses during the retreat from Ordalia," to this, the recently knighted soldier nodded attentively. The bulk of the soldiers that made up the invading coalition into Ordalia had been Hokuten and Nanten elite, "and so I will be sending you to Bervenia."
Beowulf bowed his head, not intending the gesture in a respectful manner. Leave Lesalia? Completely? Even though Doguola Pass was far removed from the capital, he was still in his home region.
He was still in the same region as his sister.
He didn't like it one bit. However, he knew that when he joined the army, he had given up all his rights as a free citizen of Ivalice. And although his mother was of noble blood, the Kadmus lineage was very modest in comparison, so he couldn't use his name to get any sort of privileges.
Had it already been four years since he had last seen his sister?
How many more would he need?
How many more could he survive?
---
(Bervenia, December of Pantora 36)
It had been better than he thought it would be.
He had celebrated his seventeenth birthday here, in a city virtually untouched by war. He had celebrated it with his new troop, a specialized one with barely ten members in it at any given time. As such, it was an exceedingly close group, and Beowulf felt almost safe for once.
All nine of them sat outside the city, huddled around a low fire while sitting in freezing cold snow. That fact didn't get past the crimson-eyed youth as he blew into his hands, which had no effect because his hands were already in thick gloves. However, his breath deflected back into his face, and that meant that he could move his lips enough to talk. But he was happy enough to listen to the other members.
"Can you believe it? That damned Church--"
A thin man, about twenty-five years old, crossed his arms inside his large summoner's cloak, borrowed from another member. He was dressed as a monk. "Watch your mouth, Hagrid!"
"...Oh, right, forgot that yer an Ajora-lover, Tannin," Hagrid Lekor, a significantly warmer-looking Dark Knight hmphed loudly, and Tannin Emperosa turned a brilliant shade of red, "well, I can't believe that they wouldn't let us in just 'cause we didn't get there in time fer the curfew."
"I can't blame them," Alice Dresel, a summoner in white mage garb with no affiliations to the Church but all to the Touten of southern Lesalia, whispered while gripping a bottle of Fovoham vodka, "that's why Bervenia's so safe. If they seal themselves off like this, nobody would be willing to breach them."
"Sounds like a lot of white mages back home," Coronada Zorel muttered. He was a Holy Knight who defected from the Shrine Knights of Murond. Alice glared at him.
"You're so crude."
"That's what they said back home," he held out his hands, "I'm cold. Bottle," she sighed and gave him the bottle, and he took a grateful gulp of the liquor before passing it to his right, "here you go, cutie."
The 'cutie' in question grabbed the bottle and took several gulps before most of the others who hadn't had a drink of the warming alcohol, and several who already had, started vocalizing their complaints. "Oh, shush. I'm small, so I get cold faster."
"Salia, you mean you get drunk faster," Risele Mossanuich, a geomancer and the troop's resident archer, took the bottle away from the Fovoham monk and passed it to her right, dumping it into Beowulf's lap. Steeling himself, he picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a large swig of the vodka. It seared horribly down his throat before deliciously burning his stomach, and he coughed from deep within his lungs.
Strawberry-blond Salia Lekoran leaned over Limberrian Risele, frowning at the red-faced knight. "Beo, are you okay? That's not a normal cough from drinking. If you have a cold I might have a potion here somewhere..." she reached behind her and started digging through her medicine bag.
"I'm fine, just still not used to drinking," he offered the bottle to the third special knight of the group, a quiet, devout Knight Blade named Jerrel Anda. The taciturn man took his required drink of the liquor and handed it to Correl Anda, his twin and a very warmly dressed time mage disguised as a ninja.
"If Kadmus is sick, I don't want his germs," he intoned through his face mask, passing the bottle to Hagrid. The Dark Knight, less concerned about such petty things like possible sickness, took his second swig of the night, "but, are we sleeping out here tonight?"
Beowulf coughed again, and Risele gave him a look as she addressed Correl. "Should we scale the walls? It doesn't seem like a good idea to break in," she gathered up her thick black hair and tied it into a ponytail, "after all, the Church is letting us use this town as our headquarters out of the kindness of...I'm not quite sure. But it wouldn't be advisable to defy their rules while we are stationed here."
"Don't like it much, but I'll agree ta that," Hagrid's voice held all the roughness a Zeltennian who had participated in many of the guerilla tactics in southern Limberry should, "anybody disagree?"
The twins, from Gallionne, looked at each other before shaking their heads. Tannin shook his head, long brown locks flying about before messily falling into his eyes. "Do you want me to take first watch then? I've got something I wanted to fix," before the Ordalians stormed down to Goug he had been a mechanic, helping his sister and brother-in-law make a weapon to help the army. After she died, he decided to take the fight to them.
It was a common story among these soldiers from all over Ivalice.
"Do what you like, though it is pretty dark," Holy Knight Coronada smirked, "I'll just cuddle up to Ali here and you can wake me for second shift," at her glare, he held up his hands in supplication, "gotta share body heat, you know?"
"Whatever you touch me with, I swear I'll bash it into the ground. I have a very nice staff."
He leaned in. "So do I."
"By Saint Ajora, you two!" Salia waved her hands in front of the bickering soldiers. "There's a cute fifteen-year-old innocent right next to you! And Beo might not want to hear that stuff either, right Beo?"
The resident Lesalian of the group slowly looked up, raggedly breathing. Everything looked blurry, and he was fairly sure it wasn't because of the alcohol. They always drank while trying to keep warm. "What stuff, Salia..."
The blurriness turned into nothingness, and he couldn't hear if she replied.
-----
My eyes widen and I tighten my grip on his hand. I don't know how he could say that so matter-of-factly! Last I've heard, coughing and fainting aren't signs of perfect health. "Reis...please don't look at me like that. I obviously didn't die or anything," he laughs and for a single moment I have an urge to do...to do...to do something not very nice. The urge mostly passes except for a lingering want, so I settle for crushing his hand some more.
"It's not funny," I insist, and his laughter fades into some misplaced chuckling. It's nice to see he's in such a good mood, "hearing that, I couldn't help but worry."
He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but it's all in the past now."
Is the past really so far away?
I sigh. "I can't help my feelings, so you'll have to forgive me for reacting as I do now."
"Reis..." I can feel his hand on my shoulder slowly caressing the bare skin of my upper arm, "thank you for caring."
Hm. "So what happened?"
"Oh, everybody in the troop went and barged into the city and took me into our residence. I woke up a week later and felt mostly fine, except for a sore throat," Beowulf shrugs like it really wasn't anything major, so I squeeze his hand one more time. He winces a bit at this, "that wasn't a good explanation, right?"
"You could easily die with a sickness," so don't make it sound as if your own life meant so little.
It means a lot...
"Hm," he looks at me thoughtfully, "they never would've let that happen. I really felt like I could place my life into their hands at any time."
It must be nice to trust so deeply like that. I feel envious... "I don't exactly understand what you did with them."
"Basically, we were there to trip up the Ordalians. We were mostly independent of the greater army gathering in Bethla, or of the smaller 'Tens..." he trails off at my confused look, "Hokuten, Nanten, Touten, and Seiten," ah, he's so perceptive, "and we would often help the resistance in southern Limberry. The Elmdor, til Mesoriel, Mossanuich, Sadalfas...well, not really the Sadalfas family, but most of the nobility were very generous in helping us. Then the Ordalians started pushing back, and it just degenerated into a massacre..."
I squeeze his hand, softly this time, and he looks into my eyes with the most peculiar look I have ever witnessed. It's like...he was looking so depressed, but then he brightened up when he saw me, but he was still clinging on to the depression...I think I've confused myself.
It hurts to be looked at like that, I know that much.
"But that's a bit later," he sounds a bit unsteady, "before then, we accepted a new member into our group."
-----
(Bervenia, September of Pantora 37)
Beowulf sat in the sitting room of the residence of his troop, muttering incoherently as he tried to smooth away the nicks in his sword. During their last confrontation with the Ordalians, which took place in a blacksmithing district in Limberry taken over by the invaders, Tannin had ordered everyone carrying swords to destroy any Romandan-imported machinery there. Still, the knight mused as he swept up his long light bangs out of his eyes, at least his sword didn't completely break like Hagrid's. He had heard a fair amount of curse words since he left the Kadmus manor, but he'd never heard of those particular ones.
"Oh, Beo! Just who I was looking for," Salia grinned as she walked into the large room, "you're coming with me to meet the new recruit!"
He didn't know that. "Where is everyone else?"
"Um..." she crossed her arms over her dress, a modest style popular in Bervenia, "Hagrid made Tannin go with him to buy a new sword, Ali and the twins went shopping for supplies, and Coronada and Risele are talking with some of the priests at the church."
"Okay then," Beowulf paused, "do you know who the new recruit is?"
"Not a clue."
"Where are we supposed to meet this person?"
"Ah...at the bar!"
He narrowed his eyes. "Who planned that?"
"You wouldn't be insinuating something, would you Beo?" Salia tossed back her head, short strands of reddish-blond hair barely touching her shoulders. He sighed and set down his sword, quietly following the extroverted girl to the bar down the road from their house. It was empty, save for the bartender cleaning out a glass and a couple men scattered about.
"Do we have any information about this recruit at all?" Beowulf asked over a mug of freshly brewed Gallionne lager. No matter how war-torn Ivalice was becoming, the breweries were working fine. It was every other food-related business that was suffering.
"Of course not! That would take out all the fun in it," Salia cooed, a shot of Fovoham whiskey quickly racing down her throat, "nothing like drinks from home!" As one of the few people of their troop who actually seemed to suffer from hangovers--or at least learn from them--the brandy-eyed man chose not to comment. Instead he sipped from his mug, wished that bars served tea, then sipped some more. The two sat in companionable silence, drinking and enjoying the warm late summer afternoon.
A blond man walked into the bar, cautiously looking around. "Salia, look over at the door. I think that's--"
"You..." Beowulf watched as the normally loud monk stumbled out of her seat and walking over to the man, who had noticed the tipsy girl heading in his direction, "is it really you...?"
The man offered her a small grin. "Miluda really misses you, Salia."
"Wiegraf!" Salia had never been reserved for as long as Beowulf had known her, but he gaped as she leaped into the young man's arms, then blushed as he noticed that the young man--this Wiegraf--was hugging her back. Everyone in the bar was watching the two make a spectacle out of themselves, so the young Lesalian merely turned back to his lager and started gulping it down, then unsteadily rose out his seat and walked over to the two.
"Um, could you two not do that here?"
The two disentangled themselves from each other. "Sorry, I haven't seen her in years," Wiegraf said, sticking out his hand towards Beowulf, "I'm Wiegraf Folles, sixteen years old, transferred from Fovoham."
"Beowulf Kadmus, seventeen. Nice to meet you," he looked around, "shall we go back?"
Salia grabbed the new recruit's arm and started hauling him towards the door. "How long has it been, Wiegraf? How's Miluda? Oh, I can't wait to introduce you to everyone!"
-----
"This Salia seems very...lively," I observe. Peppermint was often like that too...well, except a bit more toned down. It must be something about Fovoham.
"She was one of the few people I knew that were truly happy, even when she wasn't drunk," Beowulf smiles faintly, "she was a nice girl."
I tilt my head slightly. "What was she to Wiegraf?"
"Oh, a childhood friend," he looks away from me, out into the moonlit night. I follow his gaze, my eyes hitting upon Bariaus Hill. Ah... "apparently she used to care for his younger sister."
"Hm," this Wiegraf...he seems to be the first person I've heard of that has a younger sister, instead of him having an older sister, "was Wiegraf an asset to your troop?"
Slowly he begins to nod. "He was different," he turns back to me, color-drained eyes looking faintly tired. We've probably been out here too long, but it really doesn't feel like it, "he was definitely someone who always aspired for more."
-----
(Limberry, June of Pantora 38)
In the night sky stars merrily twinkled, their collective light unhindered because of the absence of the moon. A warm breeze from the south swept past the two men sitting outside a sizable camp, tousling through shades of gold and wheat, causing locks of hair to fall into their eyes. The older of the two swept his bangs back from his eyes with a gauntleted hand, tensely staring out into the distance. His right hand was on the hilt of the sword at his hip. If all went well tonight, there would be no need for him to draw his sword. But if the members of his troop and of the guerilla fighters should fail...
Beowulf Kadmus hated being backup. His nerves were frayed enough as is.
The other man sighed loudly, startling the magic knight. "I wish I were with them," Wiegraf said tightly, wringing his metal-covered hands, "or I wish that this had a better plan behind it."
The plan--always a misnomer considering the amount of improvisation that went into their attacks--was a simple one: infiltrate the ancestral home of the Sadalfas family, which had been seized by both the rebels when the patriarch was considered a traitor, then by the Ordalians when they started moving south. The family, consisting of the son of the traitor, his wife and their three-year-old son, stayed briefly to detail the floor plan of the house, then left on a carriage heading deeper into Limberry, to Ruofons.
As far as Beowulf knew, there wasn't any real reason to attack the manor, as it was a small place that couldn't house enough soldiers to mount any sort of attack. But the Limberry offensive, which contained a sizable portion of Seiten as well as ordinary townspeople from all walks of life, seemed to disagree heavily with that logic. It was the principle behind the attack that mattered. Each piece of Limberry that was snatched up dug into their hearts just a little bit deeper each time.
Privately, the Lesalian knight disagreed with his partner. The plan was fine, and he really didn't want to be with them. He wanted to see his eighteenth birthday. "You don't like backup?"
"I just..." Wiegraf sighed again, "how can I prove my worth if I'm stuck here, guarding a base?"
Beowulf paused, glancing at the younger man. "Worth? If you've lived this long in war, I would think that you've proved it just fine."
"Not for myself as a person, but...nevermind. You wouldn't understand."
Of course not, Beowulf thought in annoyance, it's hard to understand without an explanation. "We've got the time."
The golden-brown haired man made a sound in the back of his throat. "You're a noble, so it's probably hard to understand, but I want to prove that so-called 'commoners' are worth just as much as 'nobles'," he lowered his head, "I want to tear down that wall, I want to show that the only distinctions that are there are the ones we place in our own minds."
"That sounds like a long battle," crimson eyes returned to staring out at the distance, "are you really up to it?"
"I'm sure of it. All I need are like-minded people, honorable people who could fight to the death for their beliefs," the younger male's hazel eyes looked upward into the star-filled night, "if I don't do it, who will?"
-----
I'm listening attentively. This Wiegraf seems to have a strong sense of self--
--dingdingDONGdingding--
I grit my teeth. Beowulf, his mouth slightly open as if he's about to say something, looks at me questioningly, but I shake my head.
He knows that I have sensitive hearing, but for him to know how sensitive...wouldn't that make me look weird?
-----
(Bervenia, October of Pantora 38)
Nineteen-year-old Beowulf Kadmus knelt before another crown-appointed official, this one tapping him on the shoulders with a real sword, less decorated but more useful. "Rise, Sir Knight," the official gravely intoned and he did so, resplendent in the Holy Knight uniform of Lesalia's Imperial Army. The dark blue of the cloth contrasted his crimson eyes, but also complimented his light blond hair. He stood tall, taller than the official.
He made for an imposing sight.
Too bad he was such a hesitant knight.
A priest from Bervenia's church moved towards the re-knighted young man, moving his hands in the form of the holy prayer of Saint Ajora, mumbling the Lord's prayer. "And may the Lord bless your path, imbuing your sword with the righteousness of Heaven. Farlem."
Holy Knight Beowulf lowered his head in solemn acceptance.
The humble ceremony now over, he softly padded his way out of the nave of the exquisite church, the metal of his armor clinking and clanging as he walked along the red carpet through the middle of the large room. Pushing open the wide doors of the church, he stepped out into the unusually sunny fall day. "How'd it go?" A deep voice sounded to his left.
"It went well," Beowulf turned and faced a smiling Wiegraf, Salia at his side, "where's everybody else?"
"Around, y'know?" Salia smiled tensely. The two seventeen-year-olds looked at each other for a long moment. "Actually, we wanted to talk to you alone, so we told everyone that we'd meet them at home."
For a moment, Beowulf could hear his sister tell him that honesty was always the best policy, and a sudden need to see her trembled through him. "Is something wrong?"
"Well, Salia and I were talking about my dream," Wiegraf started, looking slightly uncomfortable, "and we think that we can pull it off."
The strawberry-blonde nodded eagerly. "Definitely, for sure!"
"But, like I told you, I need people who are willing to help. Good, dependable, honorable people."
"Ali already agreed!"
"Someone like you, with your skills...what I'm trying to say is...join us, Beowulf."
"You won't regret it!"
Beowulf blinked. The contrast between the serious knight and the hyperactive monk momentarily stunned him. But even he noticed that the other man had said nothing of his beliefs. "I thought you were looking for people who also held your beliefs as well," he said quietly.
"But don't you believe that there isn't a distinction between nobles and commoners, Beo?" Salia looked up at him imploringly.
Of course he did. Truth be told, he never really even noticed. He had been away from his home and the mores of upper-class Lesalian society for over six years now. "Yes, I do, but..."
He didn't believe in it enough to die for it.
War was an escape for him, his only option out of a household with a mother that didn't care enough to notice him, but more than enough to blame him for everything. But fighting as a means for someone else's end...
"But what?" Wiegraf asked calmly.
He didn't want to travel that road, even with people he considered surrogate relatives. "I think it's best if you ask someone else," soft tones threading through his baritone voice served to declare his true answer.
No.
The only girl of the group looked down. "But why, Beo? We thought you'd be perfect. You're not a cold noble who looks down on us. You fight with us, you strove to understand us...why not fight with us all the way?"
"Because..." he took a deep breath, "I fight with you, and understand you, that's true. But I've never thought, 'I want to understand commoners as a whole, or fight with them.' I choose to ignore those labels, because they don't matter to me."
Ignoring the labels instead of fighting against them at every turn...a peaceful solution.
But...wasn't that what his mother tried to do to him? If she ignored his existence long enough, maybe he would cease to exist.
If he wanted to exist, then shouldn't the societal ideals of the time be allowed to do the same?
Beowulf felt like a hypocrite.
"That's stupid! If something doesn't affect you then that's okay, is that what you mean?" Salia glared at him through watery brown eyes. "You really are like every other noble, aren't you?"
"Salia," her childhood friend said warningly before regarding the Lesalian, "we must respect Beowulf's decision, no matter the reason behind it," he nodded once at the older man, "I'm disappointed, but thank you for not dismissing us outright."
Guilt built up inside Beowulf. The guilt from not accepting Wiegraf's invitation. The guilt from not caring about their mission enough. The guilt from hurting their feelings.
The guilt from not being brave enough to join them.
-----
There is an odd emotion shimmering in Beowulf's dark eyes, raw and throbbing and hurting me so much to view it.
Shame. Guilt. Pain.
I would run out of words before I could touch the core of that emotion.
"I don't believe it," my voice is wavering and weak, but I don't care if he hears that from me.
I see much worse...I feel much worse from him.
This is your secret shame, Beowulf? I want to say that it's not you, it's because of your so-called mother, your lacking childhood, the horrors you've faced repeatedly since you were twelve. I want to say that it's all of those things.
But it's still you, in the end.
It isn't just a secret shame...this is him. The essential Beowulf, the reason why he's so learned in magic but
--...it's just too bad his swordplay is horrendous--
The reason why he left for war in the first place...
He's willing to run to the lesser pain in order to save himself from agony.
But...how is that different from anyone else?
Because he can admit this to me, to himself...I admire him so much more because of it.
"Beowulf, you're wonderful," I smile up at him, "you're truly courageous."
He stares at me, blinking a few times before slowly opening his mouth. "R-Reis? What are you...are you sure you're listening to me?"
"I can hear you perfectly fine," squeezing his hand in mine, there's a little flutter in my chest when he tenderly returns the affection, "but the fact that you can admit that you're not willing to jump when someone tells you to, that you're not willing to submit yourself to the concept of bravery...doesn't that make you better in a way, because you understand yourself?"
--Everybody runs...there's no one in the world who can claim otherwise--
I guess it's how you run that really matters.
"Reis..." he whispers, and I blush because of the way he said my name...like it really means something, "beautiful, exquisite, wonderful Reis," he pulls me towards him, and I close my eyes and snuggle up against his chest, "I love you so much," he murmurs into my ear.
I can...I can say the same thing, can't I?
"Beowulf...I...you're...
the one I care for the most
I really..."
God, why can't I say those words back?
"Don't worry about it, Reis," his voice is low, a wonderful melody, but I still...it's frustrating, "I don't know why you even care enough to understand me. However you feel about me I'll gladly accept."
...Still, I don't like this one-way situation. "So, you didn't join Wiegraf, but how did you get involved with the Church?"
"Hm," his voice is back to his normal cheerfulness, and I hope that it'll stay like that from now on, "that's something I'll always remember..."
-----
(Bervenia, August of Pantora 41)
The situation outside the walls of Ajora's hometown was nothing short of horrendous.
All the struggles of the special troop and the Limberry rebellion were petty, wasted efforts in the end. Eventually the Ordalian presence became too much, and they simply rolled over the once formidable opposition. Limberry was completely occupied, as was much of Zeltennia. The Nanten had retreated to Bethla Garrison, although it was said that newly-knighted Holy Swordsman Cidolfas Orlandu wouldn't budge from Zeltennia Castle until his close friend, fellow Holy Swordsman Balbanes Beoulve, had literally dragged the 'Thunder God' out of the castle.
The next day the castle fell.
Bervenia was safe, for the time being. It was said that the Church had 'convinced' the Ordalians that there was no need to invade either Bervenia or the Lionel region. The pious claimed that the heathen invaders realized the strength of Saint Ajora and the Shrine Knights. The cynical merely rolled their eyes and pointed out how the church coffers seemed to be literally pouring gold out of the Church-owned communities.
Their heads rolled soon after.
Holy Knight Beowulf Kadmus didn't have an opinion; that is, he really didn't care what the Church was doing. For his part, he was helping the townspeople, dispatching the odd monster that tried to force its way into the town, and coordinating efforts between what was left of his old troop and a few resistance groups. The way things were going, he knew that he would be ordered to go to Bethla soon.
He didn't want to go to Bethla.
He was selfish. He wanted to see his twenty-second birthday.
Sometimes he wondered if it would've been better to have followed Wiegraf, who had left the year before. He had taken Salia Lekoran and Alice Dresel with him to start his 'Knights of Death'. Beowulf truly wished him the best, but didn't have any strong feelings otherwise.
He often wondered what he could do next. Being transferred to Bethla seemed to be the foregone conclusion, but he didn't like that. Staying in Bervenia was like not living at all, not with all the duties he had in the town. The should've, would've, could've's were piling up.
He wanted to be helpful and be safe at the same time.
Was that really possible in his war-ravaged country?
It didn't seem so until the day the carriage drawn by yellow chocobos came into town.
That day the young Holy Knight was heading to the front of the town, ready to head out to hunt down a chimera said to be snatching up pilgrims on their way to Bervenia. It was also said to be extremely vulnerable to magic, so he figured that he would be home by the sun's setting.
The black carriage rolled through the gate as Beowulf was walking to it, inconveniently stopping there and blocking the entrance completely. The Knight Blade who was driving the carriage hopped off his seat and rushed over to the side door, opening it with a grand flourish. Uninterested but patient, Beowulf waited for the Knight Blade to move the carriage.
A man, middle-aged and looking every bit of his years, walked out of the carriage. He murmured a few words to the Knight Blade, who then hurried back to the driver's seat in his Shrine Knight armor and moved the carriage. While this went on, the man started walking away. He passed by the blonde knight, then paused and turned around. With instincts finely honed on the battlefield, Beowulf knew that he was being stared at and politely ignored the man. "Excuse me, young man?"
The young man in question blinked, then turned around. "Yes..." he quickly looked at the older man's robes, "Examiner?"
The heresy examiner nodded. "You wouldn't happen to be the 'Magic Knight' of the troop stationed here, would you?"
'Magic Knight'...Beowulf had heard that a few times. He certainly used magic more than the average knight. "I believe that would be me," although the troop referred to was no longer existing as it used to.
"What is your name, Magic Knight?"
"Beowulf Kadmus."
"It's a bit odd for a young man in a physical class like a Holy Knight to be using magic, especially enough to garner a reputation for it, don't you think?"
The obvious--truthful--answer, 'I like living,' simply wouldn't do. "I don't think so," Beowulf said slowly, "there have been many times that it was simply more prudent to use magic, and it's always a smart thing to be proficient in more than one skill." This would almost be truthful had he bothered to learn break skills when he was a knight. At least he had an excuse not to learn the Holy Knight skill set, as he hadn't actually been in the midst of battle all that often since he became a Holy Knight.
Hemming and hawing at this for a minute, the heretic examiner slowly nodded. "Wisdom beyond your years, my boy. Tell me, what do you think of this: 'Temple means shrine. It's also the upper part of the face.'"
The brandy-eyed knight smiled at this. That actually sounded really clever. "I'd say that means that intelligence and religion are closely linked, among other things."
"I see...I think you would be a fine candidate for training, then."
"Excuse me?"
"I'd like you to undergo training as a Temple Knight of the Glabados Church. Should you successfully complete the training, I'll gladly accept you into the Order of the Lionel Holy Knights."
Suddenly--finally--Beowulf Kadmus had an idea of what he could do.
In this order, he could be useful.
After the first attempt, nearly a decade ago, Lionel had never been breached by war again.
-----
Once, I read an opinionated piece that stated this: 'Puns are the lowest form of humor.'
Now I understand why.
"Ah...that line about temples meaning 'shrine' and the upper part of the face...you really thought that was...clever?" I mumble to one of the buttons along his uniform.
"Mm-hm," he sounds happy, "there are so many nuances in that simple line. To be a Temple Knight means to be proficient in magic, and to use magic one has to be intelligent, so..."
"...Reis?" Beowulf pulls away from me and I quickly put on my 'blank' expression, which I'm sure he'd appreciate more than my 'bored' look.
Even if I truly want to understand you...maybe some things are best left alone.
"So, well..." I look down at my lap and run the fingers of my right hand along the back of his hand, "did you ever get to see your sister after you left for the war?"
He continues to look at me for a moment before slowly nodding his head. "Right before I left for training, I was allowed to travel to Lesalia."
-----
(Lesalia, September of Pantora 41)
Beowulf Kadmus stood in front of his childhood home and wondered where the years went.
Nostalgia painted the manor as pristine white with blue shutters and neatly trimmed flowers hedging around it. Reality sloshed over that picture, killing off the pretty flowers and chipping away at the paint. It was still standing and it didn't look so bad, but...
"Master Beowulf?"
He turned around quickly and found himself staring at an old lady with a stooped over figure and harsh features and-- "Matron Leeza?"
"So, you haven't forgotten all of us," she sounded put out and that worried the Kadmus son, "well, come inside, your sister should be done putting the children down for their naps."
"Children?" He blurted out. Had it really been that long?
"Of course children. Your sister's been married for seven years now, I'd hope that something came out of that union..." Leeza hobbled towards the front door then turned around, looking distinctly annoyed, "come on boy, she's been waiting ten years to see you, stop gaping like that!"
Quickly he hurried over to the door and stepped inside. His sister's elderly chambermaid motioned for him to wait in the sitting room and he obediently did so, feeling uncomfortably cramped in his seat. He was dressed in his Holy Knight uniform, and he suddenly realized that his sister wouldn't want to see him as a soldier. But he was already here, and she would be happy for that much.
"Oh, Leeza, what's all this about? I'm not even halfway ready for visitors..."
"Trust me, child, this one won't care."
"What's with all the secrecy..."
Beowulf stood as his sister and her chambermaid walked into the room. Amelia looked ten years older, maturity edging over her flashy green eyes and dampening her lively spirit. Her dress hid well the belly that developed from pregnancy, and her hair was neatly drawn into a bun.
This was her, the sister he had longed for during the middle of the night, when his dreams were edged with blood and shrill cries. The sister who he wished for when he looked down into a mug of beer and simply wanted a cup of tea and some candies. The sister he admired for her strength when he had to comfort hysterical women when the rumors of invasion inevitably started up again. This was that sister.
This was his sister.
"Sis..." he started, before she stiffly walked up to him and slapped him across his face.
"You may not come here now, in that knight uniform, after over ten years and expect me to fling myself into your arms," her words were tinged with real anger, "where were you when I wrote to you to come home last year? Where?"
His face stinging and already feeling guilty for a reason he wasn't sure of, he tried to concentrate on her words. "You wrote to me? I didn't get any letters."
"I wrote," she intoned darkly, "I made it very clear that you were to come back immediately. I even used Mum's family name."
"Why did you do that?"
"For Mum's funeral."
Suddenly, his face didn't hurt so much anymore. "She's...dead?"
"Yes," Amelia closed her eyes, the pain clearly showing on her face, "it was the plague."
"I...I see," he lowered his head, "I'm sorry I didn't come."
She studied him for a moment. "Would you have?"
He thought about that. The mother who ignored and hated him had died. He had heard about what the plague did to people, and thought about the painful death that she must've suffered. He honestly thought about it, about the time they had met in the hallway and she talked to her dead husband rather than him. About how much agony she would've gone through while the plague raged through her body, leaving scores of bulbous sores in its wake.
He thought.
"I don't know."
Amelia nodded at this. "You always were so ambivalent about things. Only when you truly wanted to do something would you actually act. That's why you left, and now you're here again," she paused, sighing deeply, "you used to reach up to my chin, and now I don't even reach up to yours. And you sound like a man, and you look like a man, and...you won't be staying very long, will you?"
Beowulf closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sis."
"No, you're not. I've seen you be truly sorry, and this isn't it. So where are you off to? The front line?" Her voice was sunken in despair.
"No, to the Eastern Lands," he smiled encouragingly as she stared at him in surprise, "I'm training to be a Temple Knight, and when I'm done I'll be stationed in Lionel."
Looking away, her furrowed brows revealed her confusion. "Lionel? Church-owned Lionel? Are you religious now, little brother?"
Finally, finally she had used one of her familiar names. He smiled widely and truthfully now. "No, but I think it's a good opportunity."
"...Beowulf," she looked up at him, eyes shimmering with tears, "you'll keep living, right?"
He kept his first promise, he was sure he could keep this one. "Of course, Sis."
-----
"And you're keeping your promise," I nod to myself, "you're a good little brother."
"I try," he sounds a bit proud about that, "I became a Temple Knight about a month before my twenty-fifth birthday, then Examiner Draclau immediately transferred me to Lionel, at first for just hunting down so-called heretics, then he started having me learn about all the work that goes behind keeping the Lionel Holy Knights going," he pauses, "then he left, and then I met you."
That's awfully condensed. "Are you happy? I mean, with the life you've lived up until now..."
"I'm satisfied, now moreso than before," he grins at me, teeth glowing white in the bluish-gray night, "and I guess that my life will only get better and better."
I hope so.
Now, more than ever, things are looking up. I can enjoy looking at the past. I can live life in the present. Everything's really okay for once.
Smiling up at Beowulf, I can feel it as he gently squeezes my hand and a little flutter rises up in my chest again.
My memories are so important to me.
Good, bad, I'll cherish them equally.
Let's keep making memories together, Beowulf...
-End to chapter 14-
This chapter is the length of almost two chapters, or the length of three or so of the earlier chapters. Reis' memory chapter, believe me, won't be this monstrous...
Just a few notes out of order...
- 'Temple means shrine...' The first time I read that line, I was stunned. I swear it surpasses bad translation and Engrish and goes into a new category altogether, quite possibly the same one as Ashton's (Star Ocean 2) barrel fetish. Very '...'-ish.
-If it weren't for Beowulf's low-ish brave (45), I wouldn't have half this chapter. Actually, I wouldn't have most of this chapter. Thank you Square for giving me a knight with low brave...
-I know I'm off on the war timeline. I KNOW. I am very sad about it, too.
-I know that I'm not as skilled with writing in 3rd person. You'll have to forgive me, but I like writing the memories like this. Since no one complained about chapter 3, you just get to suffer through the format in this and Reis' memory chapter.
Reviewers!
Luna-chan, let me just throw some more wood into the fire about Verden...who says he's not already in love with Reis? Anyway, here is Beowulf's past, in improved Shidareyanagi/Tsuki no Dankai-format. Hopefully it's worth your impatience!
On the topic of plot creatures, all I have is a plot angel. Every once in a while she thwaps me with a heavy idea and expects me to use it. If I don't use it immediately, she makes me lug it around for a long time before I can.
Hey, Mavina. It's so nice to see a character get hated and another one liked by sheer willpower. I wonder if I could make him liked again, even if it's just for a bit...
Yes, my mom's cooking is like that, but only with American dishes. I am not looking forward to Thanksgiving. --; I hope that you like this chapter, and as for Reis' chapter...ah, how many more chapters until that, anyway... ;
Star Eevee...hm. I hope I don't sound mean saying this, but...I'd really rather you had emailed me that instead of non-reviewing. I mean, I understand that you're not an every-chapter reviewer like the two above this note, and it's perfectly fine. I really prefer quality over quantity when I receive a review, and if that means less reviews per chapter, I'm fine with that. I hope that your problems get cleared up as quickly as possible, I understand completely how emotional problems get in the way of, well, happier, more interesting things. If you ever feel like talking, feel free to email me, okay?
Thank you for reading! Reviewer or non-reviewer, I'm happy that you slogged your way through this chapter!
Chapter 15: Layering (Cherche Duet): 'I wish Peppermint had taught me...how do you realize you're in love?'