Une Fleuraison Constante
(A Constant Blossoming)

By Tenshi no Ai

All French translations by Hawk of Death

(C) Square Enix

Chapter Nine: Pray

The news rippled out from the castle and into the countryside like the low tide: slowly and consistently lapping up to the shoreline. Unlike news of a different sort, one full of alarm and passed by those seized within the grip of terror, this was no high tide, no fierce battering again and again onto a populace unused to such a frenzy. No, this was thankfully news of a different sort, one that had nothing to do with the recent troubles of the land.

"The princess is truly impressive, wanting to pray out in the countryside while the Death Knights still roam," a maid, wearing a uniform that featured prominently Zeltennia's crimson and gold, chattered brightly as she tucked in the sheets of a grand bed made of cherry wood.

Her partner, a girl of the same young age, cocked an ear as she vigilantly dusted the matching cherry armoire. "And on her own birthday, too! Why, if I had a choice between praying for the country and celebrating my seventeenth year, I just do not know which I would choose!"

Her friend grinned as she finished straightening the blood-red sheets. "That is why she is a princess of proper standing, and you are just a lowly maid," she teased, causing her friend to turn around and gape indignantly at her words.

"Why...look at yourself!"

While the maids strove to work as diligently as always, there was a large commotion at the castle gates. A large crowd of nobles had gathered there, Gallionnians and Zeltennians both by the colors they wore, lords and ladies of a range of ages. The weather was mild but clear, the mark of a day nestled within the month of May. To this the nobles were bound in thick coats and cloaks, more to show off their wealth than an attempt to properly estimate the temperature, and many ladies had to take out their embroidered lace handkerchiefs while they daintily perspired underneath the unyielding sun. Still, these delicate flowers persevered under these insurmountable conditions, waiting breathlessly for the event that was promised to them.

The first chocobo had a pearl-colored down, pale and groomed to perfection. With eyes as blue as the afternoon sky it stared forward; with feet cleaned of any grit it walked steadily, proudly bearing its rider, Princess Ovelia Atkascha of the royal Atkascha lineage. Just like her mount the woman stared forward, her face clear of anything troublesome like emotion. Her hair, said to be the color of spun gold, seemed to be lighter this morning, more ashen than rich; braids like sturdy rope hung beside her face, complementing her unbound hair. She wore the clothes accustomed for her royal bearing, a deep crimson cloak over a white dress with only gold embroidery dancing above the hem to mar its purity. The ladies tittered about the beauty their princess deigned to expose to them on this fine day, though some of the Gallionnian women thought her to be familiar. But they had never seen the princess before, and perhaps the heat really was too much for them.

Trotting at the elbow of the princess was her personal bodyguard Agrias Oaks, the youngest daughter of a baron of Gallionne. The Holy Knight, rumored to be a very stiff and formal young woman, seemed almost too comfortable in her Royal Guard uniform on this morn. Or, in the words of one older lady of Zeltennia, nearly traumatized at seeing a woman in heavy trousers: "How obscene! She looks entirely masculine. A woman should never become a knight, I say."

A young lord displaced by the Limberry Massacre gasped when the Holy Knight glanced in his direction, struck by, as he later told his cousin, "The beauty of her eyes. Were there only a woman with such clear eyes only for me!" Her braid, thick and beautifully plaited, hung between her shoulder blades, the color more brown than the bright yellow down of her chocobo.

On the other side of the lady knight was a woman cloaked from head to toe in the requisite robe of a white mage. Though most of her skin could not be seen, her face had an exotic olive tone to it, and the hair that tumbled out of her hood was dark.

A small group of soldiers followed them, Hokuten knights if their white capes with dark blue lions imprinted in the center were any hint. They were twenty-five in number, and some of the nobility noticed two unusual discrepancies to this group. One was that a few of them additionally wore the tabard of the Limberry Aegis Knights incorporated with their Hokuten uniforms. The other was a man in the center of the company who was dressed differently from the rest. His short hair was the color of harvest wheat, his clothes blue and white with a white cape securely fastened by forest-green epaulieres. In this manner did the group leave the castle, watched with awe by the nobles who wanted a glimpse of royalty.

Once they were a good distance away from the horde, the Holy Knight approached her liege. "Well well, my lady princess, that was quite the royal bearing. Even I was impressed." These words were accompanied by a wide grin that no proper elite knight would've ever let crawl onto their noble visage.

"Well, a noble is no different from royalty when it comes to manners." The 'princess' smiled widely, beaming like the sun as she turned to look at the older woman. "I had to try my best. Brother Zalbag will rue the day he doubted me!"

The cloaked mage coughed, drawing attention to her. "Alma, shall we go to the grove and pray...?"

"Oh yes. Hopefully 'they' will be waiting for us."

"Mm, they should," the woman in the uniform of the Holy Knight responded. "And I simply can't wait to prey..."

-0-

-I can do this! I may be just a half-blood Beoulve, but...we still are connected, even if it is just a little...-

Zalbag Beoulve leaned back in his chair and tried to work away the encroaching headache. His fingers worked restlessly at his temples, but the pressure wouldn't cease. No matter how much he tried, it just wouldn't go away. That feeling that he had made a horrible mistake...it just wouldn't go away.

He was feeling helpless again. Strange that the hateful feeling could only be aroused by his family.

With a grunt he sat up, forgoing a comfortable slouch in favor of his normal rigid posture. His fingers were working in vain so he stopped, instead deciding to stare at his paperwork with ringed eyes and a pounding mind behind them. Despite his headache, he could still identify the voices of people outside his office, muffled and tinny as they talked about the princess' departure, and he remembered.

It was his great plan.

It was his great mistake.

He was used to reading by candlelight, no matter how much his mother, when she was alive, had scolded him for it. She would always warn her youngest son that his vision was important, because even though he was a Beoulve, he was the younger and not expected to amount to as much as Dycedarg would. So, she had fully expected that he would become an assistant to one lord or another, just someone's trusted vassal instead of a knight in his own right, and he would be safe from harm and he would be her baby forever.

He would never reveal how he felt about his mother. She was dead, and the dead deserve respect.

The flame flickered, drawing him out of his thoughts and forcing him to focus on the map in front of him. It was yellow with age, the parchment chipped on the sides and wrinkled, but it contained a workmanship that the Arc Knight could not help but respect. It was part four in a series of ten maps that lovingly detailed portions of the land. All ten maps were in his possession, a present from his father's best friend. He had thought it a strange gift for the Swordmaster to bestow upon him from one knight to another, but the man was said to have an extraordinary forethought. Now, Zalbag could see why.

Part four out of the series of maps pertained to the area directly south of castle right to the shoreline; it included the woods east of Gariland to the woods west of Dorter and included all miscellaneous terrain. There were many, many pockets of trees and wide fields, all the better to engage in combat in. He knew he wanted to draw Gafgarion's Death Knights to a particular one away from either forest, though Wiegraf had assured him that there were no archers that had stayed with the company, archers being a valuable commodity in rural areas and those rural folks having sided with Wiegraf and Miluda during the attack on Limberry. Still, Zalbag was not going to risk death from the trees; a grove would have to do. A grove where the 'princess' would pray for the wealth of the country, and when the Death Knights drew near to the place she would reveal herself to be only bait and the Hokuten would slaughter the criminals.

The Folles siblings had asked to be allowed in the party and he had agreed with the stipulation that they did not wear the colors of Hokuten knights. That way, if they turned traitor, the Hokuten would be able to easily identify them and carry out the sentence they had once escaped from. As it were, Zalbag no longer felt that their deaths were necessary and he was trying to be optimistic in his belief that they were not completely ill-hearted people.

There was a knock on the door. Unsure if it wasn't just a fluke given the evening hour, he waited. There was another knock. "Come in," he called.

"Hello, Brother," Alma said as she opened the door. She looked the same as always to him, so he didn't bother ask if something was wrong. His sister was very adept at telling him exactly how she felt anyway. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Hm. The same as always, I suppose." He watched her stride up to the desk and sit down at one of the available chairs, her eyes large and curious as she peered at the map that took up quite a lot of space on his desk. "And yourself?"

She shook her head almost timidly, something that worried her brother. "Not really."

"'Not really' means there is something."

She made a face, distorted further by the shadows cast by the candlelight. "I hate it when you do that."

Still such a child, he thought as he smiled fondly. "So then, what can I do for you?"

"I heard from Ramza that you are going to send him and Delita on the mission," she murmured, fiddling with the end of her ponytail, "and I was wondering why."

"They are cadets, and cadets need to be tested in order to ensure that they are qualified to become knights," Zalbag answered mildly. He disliked it when people questioned his orders, but Alma had never cared.

"Oh, I see. So, you believe that they can emerge unscathed from the battle?"

"It is not a matter of believing, but rather one of accepting what happens at the end of the battle."

"I understand. But, you do trust that they will be alright, do you not?"

"...I will pray for the best, and accept the worst."

"Are you still looking for a princess?"

"Yes," he answered without thinking. Then the intent of her question burrowed its way into his mind and he looked at her with surprise marring his features. "No."

That girl, that absolutely infuriating girl, grinned at him. "Which one is it, Brother Zalbag?"

He glowered at her through the meager light. "You will not become the princess."

She was aiming one of her carefully manufactured 'this delicate girl is wounded by your words!' looks at him, but after years of exposure to it he had been inoculated to its effect. "Your words are harsh. I just want to help..."

"You would help me more if you went to your room like a good girl," he muttered, sighing inwardly when she did not budge. "Alma," he said threateningly.

"I would regret it if I do as you say! So, I will not." Crossing her arms, she should've looked like a petulant child. Instead, the flame's light seemed to draw something from her, revealing her impetuous but still noble strength. "I can help, Brother," she pleaded with an iron tone.

All he could do was close his eyes, running his bare hands through his short hair. If it wasn't stress from the job, it was stress from his family, and, as much as he loved them both, he didn't want to deal with either right now. "This is not how a lady of the Beoulve family should conduct herself," he grumbled, "and you happen to be a lady of our noble name. Going to study at Orbonne is one thing, but you are nearly sixteen now, and you cannot simply wander about and do as you like! You are a lady, not a vagrant-"

"Brother," she whispered in a distressed tone, "you say the same thing over and over!"

Zalbag was unmoved. "Well, if you understood my words the first time I uttered them, we would not be having this ridiculous conversation."

"I do not want to fight, though! I just want to be there with my brother and my friend! I-I learned magic at Orbonne that could aid them..." Alma broke off her sentence and glared at Zalbag. "I hate that! You never, ever want to listen, all you do is lecture and complain. 'Alma, why do you not act more like a lady, you need to uphold the Beoulve name with honor, you need to be more mature' ...I hate that," she hissed the last three words before standing up suddenly, her face expressing the full sum of her emotions of the moment. "I am volunteering to help because I -am- a Beoulve! I can do this! I may be just a half-blood Beoulve, but...we still are connected, even if it is just a little..."

Zalbag shook his head once, as if wanting to clear his mind from the dazed aftereffect he experienced from her explosion of words. In particular, he had never known her to complain using the difference of blood that separated them, and dimly he wondered if Ramza felt the same way. As it were, he wanted to make amends for it, as it was never his intent to alienate either of his younger siblings; they were all his father's children, after all. "Alma, you are my sister through and through," he said to her, feeling uncomfortable with talking about his feelings. "I am sorry if you feel otherwise, or if you think I feel otherwise, because that is decidedly untrue. I...do not like the idea of sending both my younger brother and sister to such a crucial battle, especially since the Death Knights have proven themselves to be cruel."

He held up a hand, stopping her from speaking whatever words were bound to spill from her opened mouth. "But if you can prove to me your worth in battle, I will consider it."

The memory of the magic under her command was almost frightening. Alma did not wield destructive forces at her delicate fingertips; her powers were truly clerical in nature. It was grudgingly that he revealed that her mother would have been proud of her, particularly in regards to how powerful her healing was. Perhaps it was a lapse of judgment that caused him to allow her to become the bait, though it helped that she held a passing resemblance to the true princess. When Alma had told him that Orbonne had also taught Teta to use that same magic, his military mind thought immediately that two clerics were better than one.

The headache would not go away. He bowed his head and began to pray.

-0-

-I appreciate your offer, but no. You're needed here-

Beowulf Kadmus stood before the assembled knights, watching them as they concentrated on honing their mana. As it was a nice morning, he had ushered them up here, on the weather-beaten stone that was Murond's rooftop, claiming that it would be the best place to commune with the elements that governed the world. From his vantage point he could faintly hear the horns blaring in the front of the castle, signaling the departure of the princess' entourage. Since the hall that was now called Murond had been placed at the opposite end of the grand entrance to the castle, the low, forlorn bellow of the horns was Beowulf's only sign that his friends had left the castle.

He wished he could've spent more time with them. Before they were otherwise engaged with the creation of the Death Knights, they were frequent users of the outposts of the chocobo messengers guild, sending letters back and forth with a tenacity only lifelong friends could adhere to. It didn't feel right to him that he was training knights instead of being with his friends. Perhaps in an unconscious protest of the situation, he did not join in his students' efforts at magical control. His control was already commendable.

As he remembered his last conversation with Wiegraf, he considered it condemnable.

It was nighttime, and the dark field of the sky was only somewhat hindered from its all encompassing blackness by the waning moon, the many miniscule stars notwithstanding. Beowulf climbed up the staircase within one of the turrets jutting up alongside the perimeter of the top floor of the castle, desiring nothing more than to be alone. Locking himself up in his room would've served the same purpose, but his youth in the countryside of Lionel had given him a dislike to the closed, cold walls that the castle offered. Unlike the turrets of Gallionne and Zeltennia, which had been converted into the most elite housing for the most elite of nobles, Murond's three towers were simply that: watchtowers for public defense. It therefore didn't take him very long to reach the top and the open sky he sought.

There was already someone standing there, his back to the staircase, and Beowulf almost mistook the other person for a guard before noticing the clothes this figure wore, that of a ranking knight of Lionel. "Wiegraf," he called before realizing that the other man's reason for being up here might've mirrored his own. Now he didn't know if he should stay or make a tactful exit.

"Beowulf," the other man responded lightly, turning to acknowledge the older man. "This castle is stuffy," he casually remarked as Beowulf approached him.

"Hm, it is. Nice night, though."

"It's strange, being this close to the sky."

Beowulf leaned forward, against the edge of the turret, and watched his friend through night-stained eyes. "It cannot be that strange," he reasoned out loud, smiling as he continued. "Remember when we hiked up Bariaus Hill while looking for dragons? I think that hill is higher than this turret by at least five sectas."

"That hunt..." A strange expression, a potent mixture of embarrassment and dismay, crossed over Wiegraf's face. "We stumbled into that dragon's den, and then we had to jump off that cliff to get away from that snarling litter."

"I remember that. You broke your leg when you landed, and I was barely able to heal the worst of it with my magic."

"Only because you used our bag of potions to soften your fall."

"...I do not remember that."

"You wouldn't."

Beowulf shot a look at Wiegraf, though there was something of a smile playing on his lips. "I should not be expected to remember everything in my life," he said airily.

"And you don't." Despite the bland words, there was a genuine expression of amusement on Wiegraf's face. Beowulf gave into letting the smile appear, though after a moment it was tempered into a slightly curved line. There was a deep silence looming over the two, challenging one of them to fill it with the words they had been holding back.

"Miluda seems happy," Beowulf offered, enticed by the challenge of the quiet but unwilling to give it what it really wanted.

"She's been ready to leave for some time now."

"So have you, it seems."

Wiegraf shrugged. "I'm not looking forward to it, if that's what you mean. It is my responsibility to make up for my mistakes, and-"

"Wait," Beowulf interrupted, his brow furrowed in confusion, "you do not actually think that the Death Knights was a mistake, do you? It was your dream to help people in this manner."

"It is still my dream," Wiegraf said, sounding slightly irritated at the interruption, "I've just learned that perhaps I will have to go about it in a different way. To have my efforts tangled up in the politics of the castle..." He sighed heavily. "But we will persevere, regardless."

Beowulf said nothing for a long moment, knowing instinctively what 'we' Wiegraf was referring to. "I was surprised that you let Miluda loose on Zalbag," he commented instead. "How did you know it would work?"

"I didn't. The way he was acting at that point, it seemed unlikely that he was willing to respond to anything else I said. Besides, Miluda is better at showing what I feel." Wiegraf paused, a small smile quirking up the corners of his lips as he turned to look at his friend full face. "And also, he was looking at her strangely. After all, it was probably the first time he had seen her without her mask."

Chuckling lightly, Beowulf shook his head. "Miluda's curse. I do not know who to feel more sorry for. How many proposals did she receive before you two left Lionel?"

"After you left until then? Maybe fifteen or so. Those poor men, thinking that they could seduce a warrior into becoming a pleasant little trophy wife with the mere mention of land or money. Why do you think she took up that mask?"

"How sad." The words were nothing short of teasing. "Beauty is wasted on the merciless. I suppose some men enjoy the challenge, though."

"What would you know about that?"

Something dark crossed over the elder man's face for the barest silver of a second before a non-committal expression replaced it. "About as much as you, I suppose," he retorted jokingly.

"Hm." Wiegraf was normally a very closed off man, not given to revealing private details of his life, not even a tantalizing morsel. But Beowulf had known him since they were children toddling about the expansive town, years before Miluda had been born to her proud parents, and so the oddly cool response seemed out of place. "How is Boco?" he suddenly asked, the non-sequitor confirming Beowulf's suspicions.

Not that he was going to do anything about it. It wasn't as if he was going to reveal his own secrets regarding the topic of women.

"He is fine. Father mentioned in his last letter that the bird takes well to those really nice greens...Sylkis, or something of that name."

Uncharacteristically, Wiegraf looked visibly miserable at the news. "When Boco eats those, he gets picky about returning to his normal diet, not to mention that he gains so much weight. He's a traveling chocobo, not a breeding chocobo."

"...Your house is still standing, but I do not think you care after the last news..." Beowulf turned away and tried vainly to suppress his laughter, saying instead, "Miluda was right. Even with everything else in your life, the only thing that would get a rise out of you is mention of that bird."

"I raised him from an egg," Wiegraf countered defensively. "You would feel the same if you raised something from birth."

"Just like your ideas, right?"

"Exactly."

They had reached another impasse in their conversation, one that was like a yawning chasm that could only be filled by the one topic that had brought them together after a period of months. With trepidation, Beowulf decided to take the plunge. "In a few days, you will fight the remnants of what was supposed to be your dream," he stated, searching Wiegraf's profile for any hint of emotion. There was none, so he continued, "I want to be there."

Wiegraf seemed to hesitate, but he kept his eyes towards the darkness beyond. "Would Murond allow it?"

"Murond is merely a hall. It is not an entity, and it does not dictate my every waking moment," the Temple Knight stated, his tone dry.

"And yet, you serve under it as a Shrine Knight. You pledged fealty to it, and I doubt there was a clause that allows you to run off whenever you choose." Wiegraf smiled slightly, sadly. "I had to leave the Lionel Holy Knights to chase after my dream. My sister had to leave as well to accompany me. Do you have a dream you're willing to leave your life behind for?"

The words gnawed at Beowulf, adding discomfort in a scene that already pricked needles into his flesh. Maybe some people are just meant to have dreams and others are meant to carry them out, he wanted to argue, but he could already see the fallacy involved in such a statement. To be human is to dream, whether or not a person actually carries out what they want in their innermost soul. He dreamt, but he had been unwilling to live a life driven solely by the staccato bursts of ecstasy and despair. It scared him, truth be told, to live a life connected and defined by something his soul craved. He wasn't sure if the things he dreamt he wanted were worth it.

He envied his friend, a man who had a reason to fight.

"There is something to be said for friendship," he argued, feebly.

"Yes, that's true, but not this time." There was a trace of sympathy within Wiegraf's eyes, highlighted by the meager light of a dying moon. "I appreciate your offer, but no. You're needed here."

"As you say," Beowulf said, disappointment coloring his polite response.

Wiegraf nodded. "But, there is something you can do while we're gone."

"What is it?"

"Pray for us. I suspect that victory will not come as easily as Miluda believes it should."

Beowulf had prayed, but his prayer had a benefit to it that would envy those who tried fervently to make God grant them their deepest desires. The night before, he had been able to find Wiegraf and Miluda's confiscated swords. They were old blades, bestowed upon the siblings from loving parents who had sworn their lives to knighthood but died from disease eight years ago. The swords were, in effect, the Folles' family treasures; although they had taken many lives over the course of two generations, there was a beatific love humming inside them. All he had done was unlock this power, that of everlasting familial bonds, hoping it would help his friends in their battle.

Now, he watched the men and women before him and thought that, out of all the foul four letter words he had heard in his life, none were as bad as that affront to the language known as duty.

-0-

-As commoners, we need to be strong. I'm curious to know what your strength is-

Teta Hyral softly patted the soft down of her chocobo's neck, letting her touch soothe the bird while enjoying the gentle caress of the feathers. Judging by the newness of the down, she guessed that the chocobo she rode was still a child. Telling the age of the avian monsters was one of the first things she had learned from her dearly departed papa, and she kept the knowledge close to her heart. She longed to lean forward and wrap her arms around its neck while snuggling her face within the delicate down, but the white mage robes were heavy and restricted much of her movement. This, as well as the fact that there was a large regiment of Hokuten knights riding behind her, was enough to keep her body rigid and her eyes forward.

She had a great fear of embarrassing herself. It was bad enough that she was a mere peasant who was allowed access into one of the most prominent families in the castle. Even if she had reservations about this plan, even if she had a secret that she couldn't bear to let even her own brother or best friend know, she would try her best. She would not fail the trust that had gotten her placed into this mission.

As the group trudged onward towards the designated place, the girl stole a number of glances to the side, appreciative of the fact that her hood hid much of her face. She didn't want to find out how the woman Miluda would react upon noticing her surreptitious looks. That too was motivated out of fear of embarrassment; she was not scared of the tempestuous lady knight.

After the words Miluda had bestowed upon her, she was only intrigued.

"Hello there."

The words froze Teta in her tracks, the tone moreso. In dismay she realized that the corridor she was in was devoid of all life, except for her and the woman directly in her path.

Miluda only smiled beguilingly. "You're really scared of me, huh? I remember you. I saved your life and traveled with you, but you're still scared. That's a shame."

Teta only lowered her head, not sure as to how to reply. On one hand, the woman seemed brutally honest and would most likely appreciate a similar response. On the other hand, she had seen that same woman kill as easy as another would pare an apple.

"That bad, hm...I'm sorry. We'll be working together tomorrow, so I'd like to at least gain your support." The woman suddenly laughed, confusing and frightening the poor girl. "Great, now I sound like my brother. Are you scared of my brother?" This was asked bluntly, though there was a tinge of kindness threading her words.

After a moment, Teta realized that the scary woman was not going to leave until she received a response. Timidly, the girl shook her head. That was truth. The man called Wiegraf had never told her frightening stories, or killed before her very eyes, or even interacted with her. He was just there, and people who were just there didn't bother Teta all that much.

"I see. Well, we all have something in common. If you think about it that way, maybe I won't seem so scary in your eyes," Miluda said, and when Teta looked up she noticed a smile that seemed to lighten the lady knight's expressive eyes. Miluda grinned at this, saying, "There, that's not so bad. Commoners should be able to look at each other in the eye, after all."

There was that. They were from the lower echelons of society. But Teta didn't understand why that should bind them inextricably to each other, not when there were nice nobles like Alma and her family. It certainly didn't make Miluda any less intimidating.

It seemed that the elder woman noticed this indifference by the way she looked skyward and sighed dramatically. "I see how it is. You've been living in this musty old castle for so long that such a thing doesn't even matter to you. Or perhaps that's the result from living with a family as high up as the Beoulves." A sour look distorted the lady knight's normally attractive features as her thoughts seemed to expand on that point. "From what I've seen, that Zalbag wouldn't care about a commoner if she was in the way of his job..."

"You shouldn-should not say such things about Sir Zalbag. He is a nice man," Teta retorted angrily, or as angrily as a gentle soul like her could actually be. She was no longer afraid of this rude woman who could judge someone without actually knowing them.

There was a look of surprise on Miluda's face, one that quickly turned thoughtful. "So, you can fight back. I'm glad to see that," she murmured.

Teta turned her head away, her dark eyes downcast. "I do not understand..." she said softly, wishing for nothing more than for Alma to suddenly appear and whisk her away from this odd woman.

"Unlike you and me, nobles don't tend to have to put their greatest effort into anything," Miluda started, crossing her arms as she spoke, "they take and take and take, but taking doesn't require any more effort than to reach forward. This castle, for instance, is supported by the back-breaking efforts of many people who look just like you or me. Field laborers see most of their crops taken away, with a mere pittance left for their families. Young ladies your age are routinely taken or sold from their poor families to work as maids. Even Murond's guilty of some of these practices. As long as there has been a system in which one provides for others, people have been exploited.

"Naturally, in the face of this, we've all adopted some sort of defense," the lady knight continued lecturing, and Teta had to admit that she was very interested in what the woman had to say. It wasn't so much the words themselves as the hypnotic resonance reverberating within them. "My brother is a dreamer. To listen to him is like believing. Myself..." Slowly, sadness drew itself over her delicate facial structure, caressing her high cheekbones and thin lips with an intimacy that bordered obscenity. Then it was gone, and she was grinning in that same feral manner that Teta had associated with the woman as she said, "Well, I'm a killer. I use my anger to define my actions, and believe me, I have more to be angry about than just the nobles."

Teta didn't understand. "Doesn-Does that not make you unhappy...though?" she asked unsteadily, feeling merely out of place now.

"Unhappy? I've never had the leisure to think about that," Miluda answered, an eyebrow raised questioningly. "I suppose if I had to kill an innocent I'd be pretty regretful, but I haven't. I'm not bound by duty, I've never done a dishonorable thing in my life...I just do what I think is right and I live with it."

"I...I see." Now Teta was bewildered. She would have to tell Alma about this later, if only to hear what her friend thought. As for herself, she wasn't sure if the things the woman was saying now would ever reconcile with the image of the fearsome woman she had met weeks before.

Perhaps she was just as bad when it came to judging others.

"I'll tell you this, though," Miluda said conspiratorially. "As long as you do what you think is the right thing, you'll be using your strength. As commoners, we need to be strong." She smiled, and this time it was something that Teta felt was truly sincere. "I'm curious to know what your strength is."

Teta had thought about the lady knight's words, even confiding them to Alma as she had wanted to. Her friend didn't have anything useful to say, other than expressing admiration for the woman-the words about Zalbag notwithstanding. In the end, she would have to find her own meaning in those words.

Strength? But I'm...I am not strong, not like Brother, or Alma, or Ramza. I am just a fraud...

"We're here," she dimly heard the false Holy Knight mutter with a voice that betrayed some anxiety. She could understand. Even with all the promises of being safe and that the battle would end quickly, she still held her reservations.

She prayed for the best outcome. That was all she could offer.

-End to Chapter Nine-

Happy Chinese New Year! It's the year of the rooster. Hopefully it'll be a good year for a rat person like me.

In fic news, the next chapter will be delayed until 2/22. I'm getting my wisdom teeth yanked out on the next update, and from all the horror stories I've heard I don't think I'll be up for dealing with proofreading or the like. Also, the next two chapters will be R-rated for the following reasons overall: language, violence, blood, death, references to rape, and even more death. Keep in mind that this isn't reflective of the entire story's plot. If you need a reason why I would even devote one letter to the fifth reason, check out Gustav Margueriff's Brave Story entry.

Wiegraf is wearing Beowulf's in-game uniform. He'd probably get shot on sight if he were wearing his Death Knights outfit, after all.

The more I think about it, the more I think that Zalbag is one of the most interesting characters to grace FFT. Miluda's painfully ironic statement to Teta is definitely true in-game. Certainly he's the forerunner for most developed character in this story so far.

I miss The Burning Misery. Hope you'll see this note sooner or later.

Reviewers!

Hey, Trueborn Chaos. I'll take your words to heart. I just hate the idea of disappointing anyone with my work, since a lot of that comes from the heart as well. There are already going to be enough people who will automatically dismiss this story on the basis that it's an AU, or that it's longwinded. Sometimes I forget to keep the perspective that there's a reason why people keep reading my work, so, thank you.

Oh man, Hawk of Death, you really helped me out a lot with your catching that typo. When I ran the chapter through the spellchecker again, I found so many other typos that it made me cringe to think that it had been sitting there for days, steeped in bad spelling. So I got that all corrected thanks to you!
Yeah, motivation's still kinda low, but it's getting up there again. Maybe it's the weather. Hope it gets better for you too.

Luna, you're right. A lot of what this story demands is really strange to what I'm used to. I'm really glad to hear that you haven't found it intolerable; I feel like I'm on the knife's edge between not keeping the integrity of the story and drowning in description. But, as long as I get to explore the characters, it's pretty fun.
Congratulations on making it to your first choice! What are you majoring in?

Hi there, A Moment of Silence (unless you happen to be another reviewer without a name, in which case I'll call you A Multitude of Dots), I really appreciated your comment. After reading that, I can't have any doubts about this story. I'll definitely keep going!