Note that Ramza is a better healer than a fighter. I did not make this decision lightly; the intent was to show that he's a more empathic person than Delita. When I went through the game for the fourth or fifth time, I had already formulated this idea that Ramza is more suited to being a "healer" than a "warrior." When I say healer, I don't just mean White Mage. I mean spiritual advisor, caretaker, and nurturer. He's the kind of leader who'd give out private pep talks to his troops. So to symbolize this, I made him a skilled healer.
And yes, because Boco is here, that means the Boco fight will not appear. It was random to begin with. Let's excise it to make my authorial life easier!
Anti-Algus Note: I hate Algus. He's the prince of total prick-ery. All you Algus fans—I'm sure he has redeeming qualities. All you anti-Algus folks—let's torch the bastard at Zeakden (heh).
Zalbag Note: I don't know why, but he always reminded me of Patrick Stewart in Jean-Luc Picard mode. Expect Star Trek references and shirt tugs.
Dycedarg Note: He's a bastard. We know it and love him for it. I tried to take it one step further. Let's love him some more.
Chapter Two: IdealismThe plains of Mandalia were largely considered to be the finest and most abundant land throughout all of Ivalice. One of the major reasons why Gallione fared so well during and immediately after the Hundred Years' War was because of the vast stores of grain it possessed thanks almost entirely to the fertility of the Mandalia Plains.
Ramza was well-acquainted with the area, for the Beoulve fiefdom stretched into the heart of the plains. Many idyllic summers were spent in the clan's countryside villas. Delita and his sister, Teta, would come under the pretense of being Ramza and Alma's servants. In truth, they came as friends and adopted siblings, for they would play from sunup to sunset on the flatlands, through the grasses, and atop the few hills and rock outcroppings that dotted the otherwise level landscape.
This day, Ramza and Delita rode their chocobos through the verdant fields at a leisurely pace, the two youths both lost in the pleasant memories of their childhood. Suddenly, Delita jerked back on the reins, bringing his mount to a halt. He bent over and plucked a long blade of grass from among the wildflowers and brought it to his lips. A tinning whistle issued forth, bringing a smile born of recollection from Ramza's lips.
Delita grinned back. "Do you remember how your father showed us this trick?" He offered the grass to Ramza.
The blonde nobleman nodded. "I remember that you picked up on it much faster than Alma, Teta, or I did." He blew on it expertly, achieving the same tinning. But then it faltered and became a hiss. He set the impromptu instrument aside and gave a carefree smile of regret. "I never could keep it up as long as you could, though. But then again, you were always a fast learner." Ramza spoke heartily, cheerfully, as if mentioning some commonly known fact. His easy nature hinted at no jealousy, no indignation that he could not be as good at Delita at anything.
Delita noted this—he had noted it for as long as he knew Ramza. For Ramza Beoulve was the kind of person who never harbored a grudge, nor dipped his hand into envy, nor could think an evil thought of any man. Where Delita strove to hide his anger, Ramza simply could not feel any at all. He seemed pure of sin of any kind, for he was the truest innocent Delita had ever known.
"Ramza, tell me something," Delita probed carefully. "If you could become anything in the world, what would you be?"
"Huh?" his friend queried in confusion.
"What would you be?" Delita pressed. "What ambitions do you have? You know that I want to become a knight or a general—I've told you that was my dream since I was admitted into the Academy. But you've never told me what you wanted out of life."
"Well…."
"Well?"
Ramza chuckled, which evolved into a hearty laugh. He threw his head back, overcome with mirth. "What's so funny?" Delita asked, stupefied by this sudden change.
When Ramza finally regained control of himself, he answered, "To tell you the truth, I don't really want anything out of life. I guess I'm just talking like a spoiled child, but I'm happy right where we are. Father wanted me to be a knight, before he died. Dycedarg and Zalbag both expect it of me as it is. I think even Alma wants me to be part of the military, like a commander or something, even though she's a pacifist.
"Me? I've never really had the ambition to be anything other than just me. And I'm just not very good at fighting to begin with. You're the better swordsman, the better strategist, the better at anything you put your mind to. I can't measure up to that. But that's all right, because I don't want to be Ramza the Knight or Ramza the General. Delita the General sounds a lot more intimidating, don't you think?"
Delita frowned. "You shouldn't make jokes." But then he smiled. "But you're right about my name sounding more intimidating. What was Balbanes thinking when he named you Ramza? Sounds like a sneeze."
The sneeze punched him playfully on the arm.
The scream of the dying interrupted their banter.
"Where'd that come from?" Ramza wondered, scanning the empty field.
Delita, whose hearing and eyesight were much more attentive than Ramza's, already pinpointed the source. "Follow me," he said, bringing his chocobo into a run.
Ramza kicked his into motion. "Let's go, Boco!"
When the pair arrived at the scene, they found six highwaymen surrounding an overturned carriage. The chocobos that pulled it had been slain and lay alongside four dead knights who bore the silver cloaks of Limberry. Four more highwaymen were riding chocobos into the horizon, carrying with them a silver-haired man.
Of the carriage's escort, only one survived: a blonde youth who clutched at his bleeding side in pain.
"We have to help!" Ramza declared, drawing his sword.
Delita, however, was not so quick to act. He quietly surveyed the battlefield, noting a pile of rocks near the carriage that was close to their position. It offered a direct path to the wounded youth and to the bulk of the six highwaymen. "That way," Delita said, pointing. "We can take them by surprise."
Just as Ramza was about to urge Boco into a charge, Delita grabbed the reins. "Ramza," he said seriously, "are you going to be all right?" The pallor of Ramza's face at Gariland was too fresh in his mind to be shaken loose just yet.
Ramza knew that this was what his friend was thinking and nodded. "I can handle it, Delita. I don't like killing—I know that already—but I'm not going to stand by while someone gets killed either. I know, that doesn't sound terribly logical to me either, but I can't help but feel that way."
"Whatever helps you through a fight," Delita said with a shrug, kicking his mount into a charge.
The two rode behind the rocks, thankfully unnoticed by the enemy. Now that they were close, they could clearly make out the crude stitching on the highwaymen's cloaks—they were Death Corps. They could also see the heraldry on the carriage. Not only was the carriage from Limberry, but it was the private conveyance of Marquis Elmdor, ambassador of Limberry!
"You were right about the Death Corps," Ramza mused. "The silver-haired man must have been the marquis. We have to save him as soon as we defeat these men here."
Delita nodded his assent. "Time is of the essence, Ramza. We have to strike fast and strike hard."
Then the time for talk was over. They pair charged forth, their war cries alerting the Death Corps to their attack, but also striking fear into their hearts. Boco and Delita's chocobo trampled two of the six into their graves, while the two cadets' blades opened the throats of yet two more. The surviving Death Corps soldiers turned tail and ran, hoping to avoid the cold touch of death.
But Delita shouted, "Ramza! Take care of them—I'll save the marquis!" With that, he called, "Hya, hya!" and sent his mount into an all-out run.
Now it was up to Ramza to handle the retreating Death Corps. He urged Boco into a run and then had the strong bird slide into one of the soldiers, knocking him flat to the ground with enough force to snap his neck. Taking advantage of the turn, Ramza thrust his sword deep into the belly of the final highwayman. The fallen foe gripped the blade in his naked hands, a silent scream forming an O on his frozen lips. Then he fell off the tip and collapsed.
Shuddering in revulsion, the young noble quickly wiped his blade clean and sheathed it before going to the aid of the fallen escort guard. When Ramza turned the semiconscious youth over to inspect his wounds, the noble was surprised to see that the guard was no longer than he was. But he pushed these thoughts aside when he saw the severity of the injury: a knife blade had been lodged in the youth's upper rib cage, dangerously close to the heart.
Ramza hurriedly—but carefully—stripped the youth of his armor and tunic and then gently pried the knife free. This sent an agonized shudder through the patient's body as well as issuing forth a renewed gout of blood from the wound. But Ramza took this in stride. Field medicine was one of the few subjects that he excelled in at the Academy. Lacking the proper tools, he had to improvise. Ripping up his tunic, he wadded several strips and pressed them hard against the wound. Then he took longer strips and bound them tightly around the youth's torso. Hopefully, the injury would not become infected until Delita returned so that they could carry the injured youth to a safe haven.
Nearly half an hour later, Delita returned, his armor and sword soaked with fresh blood. He looked haggard and frustrated. "I killed two of them, but the others put up a big fight," he said tiredly. "They got away with the marquis."
Ramza pounded the grass with his fist. "Damn!"
"Don't worry though," Delita continued. "I saw where they were heading. They were passing Igros and started cutting through the country to the east, avoiding the main roads. The only major city in that area would be Dorter. I recall that Tallondale made mention of Death Corps sympathizers holing out there." Then the commoner turned his chin at the wounded youth. "How's he doing?"
"Bad. This man needs real medical attention," Ramza said. "I can't do anything here without some kind of painkiller and a disinfectant."
Delita cast a look around the field again and then said, "Painkillers and disinfectants, right? Wait here." He dismounted his chocobo and started rummaging around the bases of the rocks and then in the patches of wildflowers. Moments later, he returned, carrying an armful of roots, grasses, and flowers. "Help me pound these," he said. "Get those rocks and bring them here; we'll use them as a mortar and pestle."
Ramza grunted at the work, grinding the herbs into a messy pulp. "Where'd you learn about foraging and herb-lore?"
"Well, Teta got sick once and I had to ask one of the druggists," Delita huffed, moving the stone around. "I obviously couldn't buy any of his expensive medicines, but he was kind enough to tell me how to make a few of them. I'm not good at making medicine, though. Your father ended up mixing the herbs after I found them. He told me that if I messed up the proportions, I'd have made a poison instead of a cure."
"That's true enough," agreed Ramza. He set aside the stone and picked up a large dollop of the mix. "I recognize some of these plants, at any rate. They really are poisonous, if not used correctly. Here, now—take off his bandages and cut up my tunic into fresh strips. I'll apply the salve."
Afterwards, they waited for the young guard to awaken. By the time night fell, after Delita had built a fire and hunted up some rabbits for dinner, the patient awoke to the smell of roasting coney. A great rumbling of the stomach alerted Ramza and Delita to their patient's health.
"Here, eat this," Ramza said, offering a dish to the wounded youth, who hungrily tore into it. "Well, you've recovered well," the noble laughed heartily. Then he tore into his own food with eager relish.
"What's your name?" Delita asked, taking only the smallest and most controlled bites of meat.
The guard swallowed a mouthful of rabbit and answered, "My name is Algus, a cadet of the Limberry division of knights. It seems I must thank you for saving my life."
"Don't mention it," Ramza said jokingly, "after all, saving you just meant getting into a big fight and giving up some of our food."
Algus looked at him in astonishment, while Delita jabbed him in the ribs. "Forgive him, he's always like that after dire straits," the commoner explained. "His name is Ramza Beoulve, by the way. I'm Delita Hyral."
But Algus was not listening. He sat up in surprise. "Beoulve? The Beoulve? You are the son of the Holy Knight Balbanes, who was called the Holy Swordsman? It is an honor to meet a fellow noble of such high standing as yours!"
"You are noble as well, Algus?" Ramza inquired in an attempt to deflect the gushing praises due his family's name. In all honesty, he did not like how people fawned after him just because he was related to Balbanes; his father's exploits were not his own, so, to his thinking, his father's praises should not be his.
Algus nodded fervently. "I am." Then he became crestfallen. "At least, I was. It's a long story. At any rate, I've been granted the honor of guarding the Marquis Elmdor of Limberry, so my family's name will be—wait…the marquis! Where is he?"
Delita shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "The Death Corps who attacked you escaped with him. I managed to kill most of them, but they still managed to get away."
"How could you fail?" Algus shouted. "My life—the life of all the knights here—mean nothing compared to Marquis Elmdor's! You are nobles—knights of Gallione, or at least cadets, by your dress and armor—are you not? How could you stand to fail your ally, the marquis?" By now, Algus was making the verbal attack not on just on Delita, but both cadets.
"We tried our best," Delita said stiffly. He did not much care for Algus' haughty tone, and it showed. "And for the record, I'm not a noble. Ramza is. I'm just the one who killed the most Death Corps." He said the last with pride—which made Ramza look at him in surprise, for Delita was taking pride in killing.
But if a kill count was supposed to impress Algus, it failed to do so. He merely glared at Delita with contempt. "A commoner? No wonder you failed. If the Beoulve there had gone after the marquis, I'm sure it would have been different. Kill as many as you like, but if you fail to protect a superior officer, you're just as low as dirt. But you're already that low, aren't you?"
That made Delita spring up angrily, but Ramza intervened, pushing his friend back down. He looked at Algus warningly. "That was uncalled for," he said hotly. "Delita did more than you or I could ever do! He defeated the Death Corps and helped save your life. Yes, he failed to save the marquis and that must hurt him like a sword to the heart, but to call him on it when he gave it his utmost is beyond rude. Apologize, Algus."
There was something about Ramza's spirited words, words spoken from the depths of his heart, that penetrated even Algus' prejudices. Surprisingly, the young guard said quietly, "Sorry. I was out of line." More loudly, he said, "I owe you my thanks, Delita, for not only coming to a wounded man's aid, but you valiant attempt to render service to Limberry."
"Apology accepted," Delita murmured guardedly. Then he sat up straight and declared, "You must seek the marquis' safe return, I imagine? Please, come with us to Igros Castle, where we are to be stationed. It's a bit out of the way, as the Death Corps seem to be taking the marquis to Dorter, but I assure you that help can be found among Prince Larg's forces at the castle. With the aid of Igros' Hokuten Knights, the marquis will be saved."
With a plan of action in mind, Ramza encouraged that the three of them catch some rest, especially Algus, who needed more time to recover. The next morning, the three cadets made ready for their journey to Igros, which loomed close on the horizon.
Zalbag ran a hand through his prematurely balding hair. Baldness was a trait that ran in his family. Balbanes had it and Dycedarg inherited it to a lesser degree; Zalbag had taken it on in full, for he never could grow more than a few quarters of an inch since his childhood. Perhaps that was why he was so proud of the goatee he proudly sported on his chin, to make up for the lack of hair.
But such were idle thoughts and it was unbecoming for a Holy Knight to entertain idle thoughts when work was to be done. He reviewed the past week's reports from the various border outposts and checkpoints throughout Gallione and Limberry, where the Hokuten and their Limberry allies were hard at work in controlling the audacious attacks of the Death Corps.
But no matter how hard he tried, no matter the stratagems he devised, Zalbag Beoulve could not pinpoint the Death Corps base's location. For the Death Corps learned early on that mobility was the safest way to maintain their anonymity. Since they relied so much on guerilla strikes, it was possible that they had no main headquarters—just dozens of small forts, like the ones Zalbag's forces have been hunting down.
With a sigh, Zalbag finished reading the reports and turned to other matters. He picked up a file on an up-and-coming face just recently promoted to the coveted rank of Holy Knight. Surprisingly, it was a woman by the name of Agrias Oaks. He knew well the Oaks family's reputation for brave knights—many of them Holy Knights like Agrias—as well as the beauty of their women. But never in all his years had he heard of an Oaks female taking up a sword. Indeed, he had never heard of a woman being inducted into any rank of knighthood, much less into the elite.
"She must be a most remarkable lady," Zalbag concluded. Unlike many others of his station, he was more liberal-minded and did not see anything inherently wrong with a female knight in the ranks. He was certainly more liberal than his older brother, Dycedarg, who had just a few hours ago railed on him for being lenient with a crew of shiftless guards. A knock on his office door interrupted his train of thought.
"Enter," he commanded. A squire meekly opened the door. "What is it?"
"One Ramza Beoulve has come to report in," the squire answered. "I believe he is your brother, sir?"
Zalbag bolted to his feet, the unusual case of Agrias Oaks gone from his thoughts. "Ah, Ramza! Excellent, most excellent. I will be down presently."
The Holy Knight stood and left his offices, only to meet his half-sister on the steps. Alma's young face was flushed with excitement, for she, too, had heard of her brother's arrival. "Alma, do not be so hasty," Zalbag chided playfully. "If you run into Ramza like that, you're liable to knock him off the steps!"
Alma beamed at her half-brother. Zalbag was clearly the half-brother she favored, her love for him second only to the care she held for her full brother, Ramza. "I shall strive to curb my enthusiasm, dear brother. Come now—Teta's already downstairs. Ramza will be waiting for us regardless of whether I knock him down or not!"
"Teta—so Delita is here as well," Zalbag noted. "Good. I'd like a chance to speak with them both."
The siblings went into the courtyard of Igros Castle, where they found not two, but three, young men clad in armor and weapons. The dirt of the road was fresh on their boots and on the talons of their chocobo mounts, which were being taken away by the castle's stablehands.
Teta, who was already wrapped in her brother's arms, managed to free a hand to offer a wave to Alma and Zalbag. Alma waved back and then saw Ramza. She rushed toward him and leaped into an embrace, almost knocking him over as Zalbag predicted.
Once Ramza extricated himself from his excited sister's affections, he smiled warmly at his half-brother. "You look well, Zalbag."
The Holy Knight tugged his shirt straight self-consciously and scratched at his goatee. "As do you, Ramza, considering that you look like something the cat dragged in. It seems you've had your share of adventure on the road."
"We had two run-ins with the Death Corps," Delita supplied perfunctorily. "Once in Gariland and the other on the Mandalia Plains, which is the matter we wish to discuss with you."
The seriousness of Delita's tone made Zalbag's brows frown in concern. "Would that also be the reason why you brought a guest?" he asked, indicating Algus.
"Yes," said Ramza. "It's of the utmost urgency, brother." He pushed Alma to arms' length, saying to her, "Sorry, this will take a while. I'll catch up with you later. Delita, could you entertain our sisters in my absence? Algus and I will talk to Zalbag on the matter."
Delita, all too happy to spend more time with Teta, agreed. He led the girls into the castle proper, but Alma turned a slightly unhappy look toward Ramza. The blonde noble only waved her off reassuringly.
Once the three had left, Zalbag turned to the matter at hand. "What have you to report?" he said coolly.
It was Algus who supplied the explanation. "Lord Zalbag Beoulve," he began respectfully, "my name is Algus of the Limberry Knights—a cadet, like your brother Ramza. Four other knights and I were assigned to escort Marquis Elmdor to Igros Castle, as per his ambassadorial mission. The Death Corps attacked us and captured the marquis. I fear that he will be held for ransom or even killed! Please, aid Limberry in its time of need, on your honor as a knight of God and a Beoulve!"
Zalbag quietly thought over the situation. Limberry needed help, to be sure, but the Hokuten—indeed, all the knightly orders in Gallione and Limberry—were tied up with suppressing the Death Corps. The marquis was indeed a prominent figure and a powerful ally of Prince Larg, but there simply was not enough manpower to make an active search without giving the Death Corps an opportunity to attack.
Finally, the Holy Knight came to a decision. "We will convene in the library in an hour. Ramza, I want you to bring Delita with you. You will meet Dycedarg and I at six o' clock this afternoon."
Teta clung to Delita's arm as if preventing a bird from flying away.
"Teta, my arm's starting to hurt," her brother said with a kindly smile reserved just for her. The younger Hyral blushed and released his offended limb.
"She's just happy to see you," Alma said with a laugh. "I know I'd probably tear off Ramza's arm if he tries to leave without saying goodbye again. At least you're kind enough to say your farewells to Teta every time you leave."
"You should forgive Ramza that," Delita admonished. "He thinks of you always; you're his closest friend and companion, you know. Even above me."
Teta smiled. "But even so, he shouldn't be so forgetful as to not say his farewells. Delita? Are you all right?" Concern carved its way into her young face, for she saw her brother's pained gaze as he looked at the castle's high walls. "You look very pensive. Is something the matter?"
Delita came to and shook his head vigorously. He had been thinking about just how high the castle's walls were…and how far he would have to climb to surmount them. "I'm fine, Teta. I've just been a little exhausted, that is all. It has been a grueling and taxing few days."
"I can imagine," said Alma. "Zalbag mentioned that you're training at the Academy is about complete and that they're now sending everyone on patrol or even guard duty."
The trio walked out of the courtyard and into the gardens, finding respite from the afternoon sun under the shade of cherry trees. When Balbanes lived, he would take Ramza, Alma, Delita, and Teta to this very garden, for he would often come to Igros for this or that mission. It was here that the four children would play hide-and-seek or tag or even ball, using the trees to make an obstacle course out of the simple game.
Those were quiet and happy times, before Delita had entered the whirlpool of caste and prejudice. Before the Academy and Tallondale and Algus. Before all of that. A part of him wished he could still live that sheltered life. Another part reproached him for his weakness—if he wanted to scale walls, he needed to learn how to fall down first.
The three walked through the gardens and spoke of little things. Schooling for Alma and Teta at the Igros College for Girls. Rumors filtering in through the grapevine. They even talked about Teta's crush on an attractive young lad who delivered the milk at the college. That last bit was reported by Alma, rose a blush from Teta to the roots of her hair, and drew a narrow-eyed gaze from overprotective Delita.
But then the hour stuck six, and soon it would be time for the meeting with Dycedarg. Delita began to bid his sister and his friend farewell. He gave Alma a quick hug and gave Teta an even longer one. "I will be done with the meeting swiftly, sister," he promised into her thick brown hair.
"I trust in your word, brother." With that, she disengaged herself and headed toward the college's dormitories.
But Alma did not immediately follow. Her face was pensive, her demeanor concerned.
This was not lost on Delita, whose usual alertness was only heightened in manners concerning Teta. "Is something wrong?"
"You don't know what an understatement that is," Alma murmured.
"What's happened?" he demanded urgently.
The girl shook her head. "Nothing threatening like the Death Corps, that's for sure, but in some ways just as damaging. They make fun of her at the college, you know—the other girls. It's because Father was the one who sponsored her, a commoner." She looked at him with sad, yet strangely mature, eyes. "You know it too, do you not? At the Gariland Academy, they must put you through the same trials."
Delita was amazed by how accurate she was. While Ramza was the elder of the two full-blooded siblings, it was Alma who was the more mature and the more aware of others' deepest feelings. This young girl seemed to read him like a book and understood his frustrations. "I wish there were something I could do for Teta," he admitted with so much self-loathing that it frightened even him. His fists clenched tightly. "But I'm powerless. I can't even help myself."
Alma clutched his hand in hers. "You do the best you can, Delita. That's more than any sister could ask of her brother. She loves you, and as long as she can have that, she'll be strong. You shouldn't underestimate a Hyral's strength. I know Ramza doesn't, and I certainly do not."
Dycedarg Beoulve was a stark contrast to both his father, Balbanes, and his younger brother, Zalbag. This does not even mention the polarity in personalities between him and his half-brother, Ramza. Where Balbanes and Zalbag were men of indisputable character, skill, charisma, and intelligence, Dycedarg was all the more so—except for his character.
Ambitious and driven, the duplicity inherent in his crafty demeanor twisted his skill into ruthlessness, his charisma into manipulation, and his intelligence into cunning. But on the outside, he seemed as devout, respectable, and admirable as the late Balbanes. As an outward show of just how like Balbanes he was, Dycedarg wore the sword the Holy Swordsman once carried, a treasured blade whose legend was as great as its former wielder. None could suspect that Dycedarg wore it for another, subtler reason.
Thus, when Ramza saw his eldest sibling wearing his father's sword with such majestic pride, he felt his heart ease. He brought Delita and Algus into the library, where the three of them sat opposite Dycedarg and Zalbag. The silence soon gave way to the business at hand.
"Limberry's situation is grave indeed," said Dycedarg coolly, "but I'm afraid we simply do not have the manpower to spare to directly aid the marquis in the manner prescribed. Neither does Limberry," he added pointedly when Algus was about to argue. "Neither country is in a position to give the Death Corps any openings. Therefore, I offer an alternative stratagem. Zalbag?"
The other brother took his cue. "Ramza, Delita, Algus—you three will remain here to guard the castle. I will take a complement of drafted men to compose a strike force. Since you have so readily provided their destination, we will lay a trap at Dorter with the knights that were stationed there." He smiled assurance at Algus, who seemed beside himself with worry. "Do not fear, Cadet Algus. Elmdor will be returned safely. Let it not be said that a Beoulve breaks his word or fails to protect those he would call friend!"
Unnoticed by them as Dycedarg's dark, disapproving frown at the age-old sobriquet.
Later, after the three cadets had been dismissed to the barracks, Dycedarg further entertained Zalbag in the library. "What do you think?" he asked suddenly.
Zalbag, who had brought with him his reports, looked up from his reading curiously. "What do you mean?"
"Ramza," the elder brother said simply.
"Ah. Well, he's certainly grown up some in four years. He's eager and determined. Indeed, I'd say he looks more like Father and you or I ever will—except for the fact that he'll probably never lose his hair, not with Ruglia as his mother. And I do not just mean he looks like Father in terms of appearance, either. He has Father's spirit in him. He isn't fettered by politics or image. He does as he likes, and it's always to help others. Father always wanted to be like that."
Dycedarg allowed himself a hollow and bitter laugh. "So you see that Ramza is still idealistic too, do you not? Father instilled that into him, forgetting the lessons he himself learned in his life: idealism alone cannot save a man! Ramza needs to learn that."
"What are you getting at, brother?"
Dycedarg stared out the window, where he had a clear view of the barracks. Ramza and Delita were conversing animatedly with their sisters, who had come to visit. The four of them looked so pristine and innocent, so peaceful and idyllic. It made his stomach wrench with disgust at their collective naivete.
"What I'm getting at, brother mine, is that Ramza's still a fool. I prayed that the Academy would ring the stupidity out of him. But I see that it failed."
Zalbag was taken aback by this declaration, but he said nothing. For though he disagreed with the intensity of Dycedarg's assessment, he admitted that there was a small kernel of truth in it.
"It is of no consequence as of yet," Dycedarg continued, "but if Ramza is to become a knight of our clan, then he must learn and must mature. Even Father eventually learned that saving people with your sword alone amounts to nothing—not when the power of a prince could save hundreds with a word!" He spoke this last bit about Balbanes with utter contempt and disappointment. "But even Father never could understand power," he murmured. "Though he learned the dangers of it, he never could see past his own idealism."
"Ramza will not be so," Zalbag countered confidently. "He is the truest Beoulve I've ever seen. Surely he will learn. He is strong—in spirit, if not in body or mind. I say we let Ramza prove himself, Dycedarg. Be not so quick to judge him so harshly."
Dycedarg looked at his brother with poorly-hidden scorn. "Think like that, Zalbag, and I may need to call your maturity into question as well." With that, the eldest Beoulve left the library, leaving his brother to mull over those heated words.