Author's Notes: I've always been drawn to the play between Ramza and Delita. Even as a kid, the way their relationship maintained its core elements while evolving into something radically different intrigued me. I sought to capture that in these early chapters. Thus, you'll see that Ramza and Delita, while best friends, have radically different world views—its just that one won't start revealing it to the other until after the Fort Zeakden affair.
Pride and Prejudice Notes: Two recurring themes in FFT—pride and social prejudice. You will see a lot of it in this fanfic. Indeed, I may have even gone overboard on it. I felt that it was not played up enough in the early stages of the game (at least not until Algus started being a total prick), and even then, the interplay was limited to only a few main characters. In order to capitalize on this theme and to give Delita a very definitive reason for becoming a power-hungry plotter later in life, I globalized the social distinctions and made them far more prevalent. They are now extremely crucial to the initial stages of the game.
Chapter One: The BravesIvalice.
A land of kings, where the crown was law. A land of God, where the church held sway. A land of deceit. A land of war.
Spring had come to this land, bringing with it revitalization and greenery…and bloodshed.
For Ivalice had but left one war for another. Commoners, who had provided the bulk of the war machine during the Hundred Years' War, grew discontent and angry with the increased taxes and lack of reparations in the wake of the final battles. Many turned to banditry. Such groups tended to be small and easily controlled, for it took only a single troop of knights to dispatch them. Peace and order was enforced by the sword, but this was no great surprise to the feudal monarchies of Ivalice.
But some gathered and plotted, staging a greater attack than anything mere bandits could organize. And it was this that proved the largest threat to the stability of a war-ravaged Ivalice….
In Gariland, plans were being made to deal with the new enemy. For within this city of proud Gallione lay the Royal Military Academy, where young nobles from regions as disparate as esteemed Igros Castle to backwater Mandalia received their education in the arts of war. To graduate from this prestigious college was to be awarded knighthood and a place of honor among Gallione's proudest warriors.
Today, the senior cadets of the Academy had been drawn from their normal patrols and classes. Gathered in the auditorium for an urgent meeting with the armsmaster, they gossiped excitedly about the possible reasons for such an unusual occurrence.
"It must certainly be a mission," exclaimed one of the cadets, a handsome and charismatic youth of sixteen. With his bright blue eyes, blonde hair, and smooth, sculpted features, he was a veritable poster child for the Academy's most promising students. His name was Ramza Beoulve, the youngest son of the legendary war hero and Holy Knight, Balbanes. "We have often been told that we are the finest class in the past ten years," he went on, his words drawing approving nods and smiles from his fellow classmates, "so therefore it only stands to reason that they'd need us to aid the knights in securing the peace."
"That makes sense," a dark-haired youth agreed. If Ramza were the poster child, Delita Hyral was the exception to the rule. While every other student was of noble birth, Delita was merely a commoner who was admitted by virtue of sponsorship by Balbanes Beoulve himself. And with such a recommendation, not even the armsmaster—who held a not-so-secret dislike of commoners—could deny young Delita a chance to show his worth.
And show his worth he most certainly did. While Ramza seemed to be the best and brightest, he was, in truth, only an average student. It was, of all people, Delita who held the coveted position of valedictorian. No small number of nobles looked at him with envy or even outright despised him for his accomplishments. To such men, who viewed the differences of caste as an indicator of one's worth in all things, Delita was an aberration, a creature who somehow outstripped the God-blessed nobility in every lesson, skill, and field—with the exception of his social status.
"I have heard that the Marquis of Limberry was heading to Igros to sign a new charter with us," Delita went on, stoically ignoring the dark glares he received from many of his "fellow" students. "As a highly-ranked politician, it wouldn't be above the Death Corps to take advantage of such a man. He could very well have been attacked, which would be cause for the knights to resort to using cadets like us."
Ramza, confused by this reasoning, broached the question, "What do you mean?"
Delita, accustomed to his friend's occasional bouts of denseness, patiently elucidated, "The knights are stretched thin with keeping the peace. Banditry is at an all-time high at the moment, so every soldier has been deployed at outposts and checkpoints. The Death Corps is only making things worse. In order to deal with them, the knights will need to draw their troops out of certain provinces. They'll need us cadets to fill in those outposts and checkpoints in their absence."
The blonde nobleman nodded in understanding. "I see. That makes sense. Do you really think that the marquis will be a target?"
Delita shrugged. "If I were one of the Death Corps, I certainly would consider him a viable one, even if it were to just hold him for ransom."
It was not lost on the young commoner that the gathered nobles—save Ramza—were giving him a look that said, "You almost are one." Delita pointedly ignored their silent barbs, crossing his arms over the leather breastplate he wore.
Suddenly, there came an order, "Attention! Fall into rank!" Armsmaster Tallondale marched to the podium at the head of the auditorium as the cadets assumed precise lines. Giving each of them a stern look—which went double for Delita—to indicate the seriousness of the situation, the armsmaster declared, "You have studied well these last four years. You are now on the cusp of knighthood—" When he said these words, he looked at Delita reproachfully, for he did not approve of a commoner attaining such a title. "—and should be proud of your accomplishment! You are Gallione's finest!"
He paused to let his praise sink in. After seeing the pleased expressions on many faces—though Delita kept his countenance stubbornly flat and professional—Tallondale continued, "But now is not the time for merriment! Now is the time for war! You will be assigned to border positions to watch for the encroachment of bandits and Death Corps soldiers. This is a great honor for men who have yet to graduate from the Academy, for you will be treated with the full honor and authority of knights."
He pounded a gauntleted fist on the podium. "The time to show your worth is now, young heroes of Gallione! Indeed, you will be called to arms this very moment, for the Death Corps has entered the walls of our fair city to raid its stores for supplies and weapons. These dishonorable thieves must be brought to justice. Subdue and capture, but slay if you must. Now go and arm yourselves! Battle is at hand!"
The cadets, eager for real fighting, dismissed themselves with military alacrity. But Tallondale gripped Delita's shoulder, stopping him. Ramza, who would not go anywhere without his friend, halted as well.
"Hyral," the armsmaster said disdainfully, drawing out the common surname with contempt, "I expect you to know your place in this mission."
Delita, face placid, tautly replied, "I do not know your meaning. Sir." The last was a quick addition, just to avoid impropriety.
But Tallondale caught it. "I won't stand for any disrespect from you, commoner, valedictorian though you may be. You will follow the lead of your betters, boy. Do you understand?"
The young commoner clenched a fist tightly, anger starting to seep through his stoic exterior. Ramza saw this and prudently stepped in, putting a calming hand on his friend's shoulder while saying to the armsmaster, "We understand sir. Delita, who is my friend and servant, will follow me lead wholeheartedly." The blonde noble squeezed his friend's shoulder for emphasis.
That was all Delita needed to calm down. In an uncharacteristically meek tone, he said, "As Ramza says, I will follow his lead."
The armsmaster was placated by this, but he put in one final barb, "That would be Lord Beoulve to you, Hyral."
Delita's teeth were grinding so hard that Ramza feared they should shatter. "Of course…armsmaster, sir. Forgive the slip of my tongue." With that, Delita and Ramza left the auditorium to join the other cadets.
The encounter with the armsmaster delayed the two long enough for them to be the last ones in the armory. The other cadets had already selected their weapons, leaving only a paltry array left. Delita grabbed a long-bladed sword, testing the reach and the span of the guards. "Thanks for earlier, Ramza," he said quietly, buckling the weapon around his waist. "I almost lost my head there."
"Don't mention it. You would have done the same for me, right?" Ramza doffed his blue tunic, a fine silk piece, and threw on a thin shirt of mail.
Delita laughed. "Like you'd ever need it. You never lose your temper." He tossed his friend a sword.
Ramza caught it and girded it on. While he tugged his tunic over the mail armor, he said, "I just can't be angry, that's all. But you, Delita, you shouldn't let Tallondale get to you like that. You know you're a million times better than him, me, or any of the other students here. I mean, you're the valedictorian—and you barely try! I don't think I've ever seen you lose in a sword-fight."
"I wish the others could admit that as easily as you," the commoner murmured.
Ramza just flashed him a reassuring smile. "They'll eventually come around, especially now that you're going to be a knight. They'll have to treat you as an equal then!"
Delita was not so sure. All his life he had been looked down on by the nobility—with the exception of Ramza, the younger sister Alma, and the father Balbanes. Delita was all too aware of how prejudices could continue, despite all evidence to the contrary. But seeing the open, kind smile on Ramza's face made it impossible for him to disparage his friend's optimism. "Yes, I'm sure you're right. I'll just have to be patient."
Their preparations finished, the two youths left the armory to join their comrades in battle.
"Death Corps! Lower your weapons and surrender and you will be spared!" Ramza declared with all the pride and conviction of a son of Balbanes and an heir to the three-hundred-year-long name of Beoulve.
He stood at the head of a street bisected by the River Igros. Assembled with him were the senior cadets and Delita, whose dark eyes followed the movements of every Death Corps trooper. The Death Corps were ten strong, equal in strength to the cadets in terms of numbers. They moved to the alleys and the rooftops, taking advantage of the unusual terrain in order to confuse their enemies.
Indeed, it seemed to be working, for the cadets, clambering atop crates to get to the roofs, were obviously unaccustomed to such unusual battlefields. With only the opening exchanges, the Death Corps felled four of the cadets; the youthful faces were frozen in death masks.
"Do you want to throw your lives away that badly?" Ramza cried.
The leader of the Death Corps company hooted. "You just saw us wipe out almost half of your friends, and you still talk like you've got a chance? You're stupider than you look, brat!"
"You dare to insult a Beoulve?" the noble countered.
That surprised the leader, who drew his sword prominently in reply. "The Beoulve family, eh? I used to work for your father, kid. I was promised a good stipend, enough to feed my wife and kids. What'd the proud and honest Balbanes Beoulve give me? Nothing! His words were just empty promises! We don't get squat from the king, no matter the words of a war hero!"
With that, the leader charged down the street, sword cutting for Ramza's head. The noble raised his sword high in a desperate block. Steel clashed and shrieked. Ramza was a healthy and strong youth, with superior training despite his less-than-phenomenal skill. But his education had never been tested like this. The Death Corps leader had no such training, only experience. And experience was more than enough to send Ramza sprawling onto the flagstones.
"I got to admit," the leader grunted as he approached menacingly, "I'm going to enjoy stepping over you, Beoulve. Just like your precious king stepped over me and all of us other commoners who shed our blood for your stupid war!" He raised his blade high for the killing stroke…
…but found another blade to block it. Delita Hyral had come to Ramza's aid. He shoved the leader back with one heave of his shoulders. "Recall your men," Delita demanded. "I've already slain six of them myself and avenged the cadets they killed." Sure enough, six corpses rested beside the four fallen nobles.
The leader was astonished that such a youth was able to best so many hardened fighters. "You Beoulves…" he murmured, thinking Delita to be of that clan. The young commoner did not dissuade him of this idea, for the thought of facing a skilled "Beoulve" warrior was enough to send terror down the spine of the most experienced swordsman.
The leader, however, regained his courage. "You're just a boy! Ha!" he cried, thrusting with all his strength. Delita parried the strike and slid his sword around his foe's guard. There was the sickening sound of metal entering flesh. Delita kicked the dead man off his blade and offered his hand to Ramza. "Are you all right?"
Ramza took it and got back to his feet, his eyes locked on the corpse at his feet. "We…should have tried to talk to him. His anger was justified…."
"No time for that now!" Delita countered. "Grab your sword—the others are coming right at us!"
The two youths set aside all other concerns as the three remaining Death Corps soldiers rushed them with daggers and swords. The exchange was perilous indeed, for these were the best fighters of the ten that attacked. Ramza was hard-pressed to win a victory, but with a blow that must have been born from luck itself, he buried the edge of his weapon in the throat of his foe. Delita, unsurprisingly, lopped off the heads of the other two soldiers with greater ease.
The young commoner seemed as comfortable on the battlefield as a grizzled veteran. He held himself calmly, resolute and purified of the sin of killing by virtue of survival. It was a stark contrast to his friend, Ramza, who shuddered involuntarily as he regarded the act he just committed. He had never killed a man before, but looking down at the frozen face of the soldier whose life he took sent a chill through him.
"Are you all right?" Delita asked him again, brows knitted in worry. Ramza's lips were almost white.
"Er, I'm fine," the noble stammered. "Just fine. Um, where're the others?"
Delita surveyed the battlefield. "Dead, looks like," he said without remorse. After all, he did not particularly like any of them. "We're the only ones left."
Ramza's shoulders fell sadly. "That's…that's horrible. I mean, this was just our first battle, and they're all…."
"Did you expect it to be a game, where the winners and losers would all still be alive except with a few bruises?" Delita asked coldly. "Grow up, Ramza. We're lucky to still be alive."
Taken aback by the vehemence in his friend's voice, Ramza meekly stuttered, "Er, y-yes we are, b-but still…don't you feel bad about all this?"
"Sure I do," he lied. "They were cadets like us."
"No…I mean about everyone. Even the Death Corps. Their leader said that Father tried to help them, but that his words were hollow. These men had legitimate reasons to be angry with us, Delita. Killing them like this just seems…wrong."
Delita looked at his friend incredulously. Ramza was given to bouts like this, certainly, but he had never sounded so...fervent before. "You always were a bleeding heart," Delita said with a sigh. "Come on, we must report back to Tallondale. He'll have someone…clean up the mess."
"I'm impressed by your work, Ramza," Tallondale praised with a smile. "That you survived your first battle against such odds is quite remarkable. Truly a testimony to the skill and name of the Beoulves."
Ramza blushed with pleasure. "Thank you for your kind words, sir, but I was not alone in this endeavor. Indeed, I owe my life to Delita, without whose intervention I would most certainly be lying in a grave." The commoner, standing stonily at attention, gave the barest nod to indicate that he heard the praise.
But the armsmaster merely leveled a hard glare on him; Delita tensed up further. Finally, Tallondale said, "Saving one's master is but the duty of the servant. It is not a thing to be praised, Beoulve, lest your servant get the wrong idea. No, his actions are merely what his station demand."
Ramza's face heated with embarrassment for his friend's sake; Delita's face, on the other hand, had turned to ice.
Tallondale did not notice this exchange. He shuffled some papers on his desk and plucked one, handing it to Ramza. "This is your assignment. It is a letter for the captain of the guard at Igros Castle; you and your servant, Delita, will guard the castle from any encroachments by the Death Corps."
"Is that even necessary?" Delita asked, the first words he spoke since entering the armsmaster's office. "Even with only a skeleton guard, Igros is one of the most heavily-defended cities in Gallione. The Death Corps may be a threat, but they are not so strong as to penetrate the castle. Armsmaster, please assign us to a worthier outpost!"
Tallondale's glare became like a legion of mounted knights, their lances leveled at Delita's heart. "Do not question me again, Hyral," he growled. "I won't stand for impudence—not from a Beoulve and especially not from you. You will go to Igros because that is your assignment. Dismissed." He said the word with such finality that the two youths automatically made crisp salutes and left.
As soon as they escaped Tallondale's earshot, Delita punched the wall hard enough for the stone to crack. "That arrogant son of a bitch," he growled.
Ramza tried to mollify his friend's rage with a joke, "Come now, Delita, Igros isn't all that bad at this time of year…."
"You know it's not that, Ramza!" Delita shouted. Seeing his friend's stricken face, he calmed down. "I apologize. Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just…I'm so…." Delita marched down the hall, Ramza in tow. He scratched at his brown locks in frustration. "Everyone looks down on me, Ramza. Everyone—well, not everyone. You don't. But everyone else just sees me as a commoner, as a low-life who got in because Balbanes gave me a fancy letter. If I show them that I'm smarter, or stronger, or in any way better than they are, they hate me. If I pretend to be useless and common, they just kick me around and treat me like dirt. I can't stand it!"
Ramza did not know how to console his friend or how to remove the anguish he felt. In all the years they had known each other, the young Beoulve had never realized how angry Delita was at the caste system. Perhaps the Beoulve compound was too sheltering, where Ramza and Delita could play without harassment or care for class. Perhaps Ramza just felt so at home here in the Academy, surrounded as he was by friends from equally noble families. In any case, he had been completely oblivious to just how deep Delita's frustration really was.
"Delita…if there's anything I can do to help," but Ramza stopped. Even to him, the words sounded hollow. He was reminded of the Death Corps leader's incriminating declarations.
But Delita waved him off. "Don't worry about it. Sorry I blew up like that; I'll try to be more in control from now on." Then he smiled, forced though it was. "Well? Let's get going. It's good long hike to Igros."