Disclaimer - All I own of this is the dialogue and the general storyline. The characters and settings don't belong to me.

Chapter Two - - Pain in many different shades


Dalton was not the only one who remembered those events following the Earthbound revolts. Zeal sat quietly in her chambers, the infant Janus wrapped in an embroidered blanket in her arms. Dalton was indeed very different following his seemingly swift recovery. Looking out the window nearby at the drifting sea of clouds, Zeal allowed herself to blend with them and be overtaken.

Zeal watched the man at her side surreptitiously. There was no sense drawing attention to herself, but since he was in front of her and to her right, she was confident he couldn't see her anyway. Before the incident, he'd talk to her kindly. Always with respect, of course, but never with the staunchness she received from any of the other Enlightened. It was easy for her to see why the king had been his fast friend for so many years.

Now, he rarely spoke or smiled. There was no need for guards - imagine, an Enlightened attacking HER. After all, no Earthbound could operate the Skyways, since they only responded to the presence of magic - but he stood before her throne and watched the doorway whenever she was in the chamber. She used to retreat to this room to clear her thoughts or to listen to him speak idly about things of no consequence, but now his silence disturbed her. She spent more time at the king's side or in her quarters, out of sight.

It was well known that she was to give birth to her first child in less than two months, and she was willing to attribute his odd protectiveness to that fact. She wasn't afraid of him, in any sense. He was only nineteen, though a well-built youth with golden features that lent him an unprecedented maturity, with magical abilities far inferior to her own - not for nothing was she the Queen of Zeal.

In the years since he'd been promoted to high guardsman and then advisor to the king, Dalton had become like a son to her, though she was only perhaps ten years older than he. There used to be a certain child-like susceptibility to him that was quickly being replaced by suspicion. His right eye was rarely warm or friendly any longer, always fixed on some target or another, never allowed to roam freely for want of nothing. It took no sage to realize that Dalton had lost much more than an eye.


Dalton had always kept his hair tied back neatly or in one thick braid. Zeal wasn't exactly sure when he first started wearing it loosely. It was down to his shoulder blades, hanging like a gold-brown curtain around him to shroud him even further than his own odd behavior had. Most Enlightened men wore their hair short, or down to their shoulders at the very longest, but Zeal was fairly certain Dalton stopped cutting his about two years ago. He was still immaculate as always, but it gave one the impression of a neurotic cleanliness now, if he sought by some means to wash away all that he used to be. His robes and cloak were always pressed to perfection, letting him stand out among the other Enlightened - which of itself was quite a feat.

His outward spotlessness was not unprompted. It was obvious it had something to do with his injury, but Zeal was certain there was a great deal more about it that she didn't - and perhaps wouldn't - know. She and Dalton did not share the close relationship he and her husband did. They were kind acquaintances, but she wouldn't presume to call them friends. As time wore on, she found herself more and more on edge when he was near. In her mind, she proposed that he may not have changed at all and that she herself was the culprit, more distant because of his injury.

Her own off handedness upset her. After all, she was not shallow nor shortsighted, compared to the many faceless people who surrounded her day by day. Just because he was different now was no reason for him to be scorned. In her resolve, she championed him when others made to whisper contemptuously behind his back, often unwittingly embarrassing him further than their hidden disdain could have. She made due reminding him that in her eyes, the wound was a badge of honor no warrior should be content to do without. It was with surprise and some degree of offense that she saw how he continued to draw away from her slowly.


Janus fussed a bit in her arms and she sang to him softly, rocking him as she did. The changes in Dalton hadn't come all at once, but they had manifested themselves much more noticeably after the passing of the king, two years hence. The event was not long enough past for its memory to leave her without a tear in her eye for her beloved husband. She hugged Janus to her more firmly and he gave up his struggle, succumbing to the soft lullaby that played about her lips.

That day, she stood in the commons of the Palace of Zeal, running her fingers over the leaves of a large plant that she loved. Its yellow blossoms had a hard fragrance that was not altogether pleasant, yet she would stand by it for hours, fascinated with it. All of the plants in the Palace were cared for by the guru of life. Aside from his interest in swords, the man known as Melchior possessed more knowledge of growing things than anyone else in Zeal. He'd grown this particular plant especially for her as a gift after she and the king were wed.

You sent for me, majesty? Gaspar stood before her. The old man always gave the appearance of aloofness, though all knew he was far more shrewd than either of the other gurus.

H..how is he? She did her best to keep her voice reasonably level. It wouldn't be fitting for her to show grief in so public a place. Gaspar smiled understandingly, mercifully overlooking the unstated supplication.

Belthasar is with him. Melchior is on his way from Kajar with the best healers, but I fear that nothing more can be done. It was just like Gaspar, to be so direct. For all his colorful speech on anything that had to do with time or fate, Gaspar was as straightforward as a person could be. I would spare you this heartache. However, I know you prefer the truth to any comforting lie, so I will tell you decisively. If he lives through the night, I will admit to absolute surprise. I'll send a maid to tend Janus and sit with Schala myself. If it is your wish, you should be with the king until the last.

Zeal had thanked him and gone, hating herself for her own reluctance. Part of her - a very silent, secret part - knew that the sight would be very far from pleasant. She wished she could stay away and so preserve the memory of her husband as the strong marble man she had always known instead of the dying, broken, disoriented form she knew she would find in his place once this day was done. That night proved to be one of the hardest of her life.

Dalton was already in the King's chamber when she arrived. He stood when she appeared, not meeting her glance. The guru of reason remained seated on the periphery of the room, nodding his acknowledgement. He was too old and familiar to be bothered with formalities like bowing, and Dalton had apparently not thought to bow. Zeal didn't notice. Pulling the embellished brocade around his bed away very gently, she looked down into the eyes of the king and smiled softly, only to be met with a gaze that was wild.

My darling... She whispered, reaching for his hand. To her horror, he pulled away roughly from her grasp.

Who are you? He demanded, his voice hard and rash in her ears. Why do you lay your hand on me? Who are you? Zeal staggered backward, tears streaming down her reddened visage. Belthasar rose wordlessly and pulled her into a comforting embrace, away from the enraged monarch. Dalton only looked on in what she thought might be vague disdain, though his expression was the least of her concerns. The man she loved more than anything and the father of her children didn't know her name.

Dalton's outward aloofness continued through the ordeal until the king's actual passing only an hour before the dawn. Zeal remained in the king's room that night, too exhausted with her weeping to journey to another room or even cover herself in the chair where she sat. Hers was the type of weariness that cannot be alleviated by anything but time. Sleep would have done her little good, so she didn't attempt it. In the morning, on her way to the council chambers to announce the death of the king to her subjects, she walked slowly. Any who saw her might have mistaken her gait for dignity; in truth, she didn't trust herself to move more quickly, fearing that she may run unto the highest point in the citadel and leap from it, or else burst into tears before the council and shame herself.

Deep in this train of thought, she passed by the heavy door to the room she knew to be Dalton's. Several steps later, she paused and cocked her head. Deep, rasping breaths came from within, the kind that come after sobs have died away. She noticed immediately that his door was closed firmly, but she inched it open as slowly as she could, acutely aware that any sound would give her away, and that there was no dignified way to dash down a hallway to avoid being discovered. The door gave no sound though, and she was able to peer through the crack.

Inside, Dalton sat at his bureau looking into a mirror, his one good eye inflamed. For a second she reeled and almost drew away - his fingers brushed over the patch he wore, but didn't lift it. If he had, Zeal knew she wouldn't have been able to suppress a gasp and would have brought his attention to her.

Maybe it's better this way. She could only just make out his whisperings. At least the Queen doesn't make her pity so open.

Not knowing what else to do, Zeal drew away from the door and turned back down the hallway, wishing she could explain to herself what it was she had seen.




Ollen70: I think Queen Zeal is one of the most under-appreciated villains in RPG history, so I thought I'd bring her into this. Yes, the time line goes crazy. Blame the Chrono Trigger. Anyway, we'll see where this one ends up, but this definitely isn't the end. As always, I really appreciate reviews.