Chapter Eighteen

Alma began to drag her small cot over to Izlude's side of the pitch-dark cell. They might both be able to fit on it, and Izlude would probably be pleased to have something softer than clumps of straw to sleep on.

"I am bringing the cot over," Alma explained quietly, before Izlude had a chance to question what the noise was.

She found him by touch alone, and there was some awkwardness while they fumbled to arrange the cot in a way that would allow Izlude to comfortably lay on it, accounting for the chain attached to his right wrist.

They figured it out, and Alma couldn't help the small smile that crossed her face, to be cradled in his warm bear hug again. Nobody else knew how to give a hug like Izlude, she was certain of that.

"We cannot let them find you over here on my side, in the morning," Izlude whispered, "I will wake you well before breakfast."

"All right. But how can you be certain you will wake in time?" Alma asked.

"Eh. I never sleep a whole night through. I do not know why. I wake up every couple of hours, always have."

"Sounds unpleasant. But, thank you."

"No reason to thank me," he said.

"Well…" Alma said, "I have also been meaning to thank you for what you did… with the guard this morning, I mean. I wish you had not had to fight with him, but it was kind of you to speak up for me, when he tried to stay."

Izlude inhaled sharply. "Gods, it is only what any decent man would have done! Do not thank me for that, either! I try to do the right thing, Alma."

"I think I am actually beginning to believe you, when you say that."

"One thing, though…" Izlude said haltingly, as if he was not sure he truly wanted to continue his sentence. "I wish you had not used your family's name to threaten him away from me."

"Well, I—!" Alma complained.

"I know you were only trying to help me!" Izlude cut in, "I appreciate it, I do. But that… well, that is the very sort of thing my father and I are working toward abolishing! Such great inequality, that simply having the name Beoulve means you have the right to threaten those from lesser families. I do not wish to benefit from that sort of power, not even when it was wielded by someone else."

Alma thought wryly to herself, Every time I start to think he is just loud and simple, then he goes and says something like that.

"I had not thought of it in that way before," she said.

"No, I know that. I only… wanted you to know," Izlude finished lamely.

They both went silent. Alma could not really think of anything more to say. It rather killed a conversation when one side said something to make the other side feel ashamed, even if they had a good point.

Now it was as if he had just read her mind. "Gods, I am an asshole. Sorry, Alma. I did not mean to preach at you like that!"

Alma smiled. "It is all right."

Izlude fidgeted, jostling her in his arms. Abruptly changing the subject, he asked, "So, you really thought I was ugly all this time?"

Alma chuckled at his persistent tone of indignation. To think that she had dared not to recognize his beauty underneath the muck and gore!

"I am sorry!" she repeated, "…But, who am I to judge, anyway, truly? I can only imagine how terrible I must look after all these days in this dungeon."

"No!" Izlude said, "You look wonderful, like you always do!"

"Ah, you are only being polite."

"I am not only being polite, Alma!" he insisted. "Believe me. I saw the maiden carved on the Virgo stone with my own two eyes, and she did not even have half of your beauty."

Oh, Ajora. He is a bit charming, Alma thought.

She was suddenly all too aware of how much they were touching as they lay there: his thick arm under her head, her arm around his waist, her knee resting against his knee. What she had taken as simple comfort last night… it definitely felt like more, tonight.

Not letting herself think too hard about it, Alma tipped her face up. Her nose bumped his chin for a second, until she managed to bring her lips near to his.

She heard his breathing hitch, as she hovered there. "Alma," Izlude said, his tone sounding warning, confused, curious, excited, all in the space of one word.

"Kiss me, Izlude," she murmured.

He did not need to be told twice.

Izlude kissed in the same manner as he spoke; so very mercurial, and so very passionate. Alma's mind reeled with pure sensation. The moment she thought she had a handle on what he was doing, his lips moved elsewhere; in the hollow of her throat, along her jawbone, forcing her to tip her head back. Over as much of her chest as was exposed by the collar of her shift. And always back to her lips, of course.

Alma held on for dear life, clutching at him, wondering how such a storm of a personality managed to stay contained in one person.

She hardly slept any better than Izlude did, that night. She could not stop touching him. Her body ached for everything it couldn't have. Not here, anyway, not here in a dungeon, with a man who was not her husband, and might even still be an enemy to her family.

Alma wanted to sit next to Izlude even during the daytime hours, when the light illuminated their prison the following day. But they could not risk one of the guards catching her on Izlude's side of the cell. Instead, they settled for conversation, and the occasional longing glance.

They had their dinner, and Vormav was still not there.

"For once, I cannot wait for the light to die out," Alma said. "I want to kiss you, again."

Izlude gave her his broad, happy smile. "I cannot wait, either."

The intensity she felt did not wear away, by the second night of sleeping beside him. His touch drove her quite mad, really. It was lucky that he always remembered his own moral code, because as soon as he started kissing her, Alma felt that she would happily give anything to him, take anything from him. Her practical concerns dropped away completely. There was only Izlude, and his clever mouth, and their hands, and this cot…

Izlude never tried for anything more than kissing, though. He had made love with three girls in the past, he told her, but he said they had not meant anything to him. Not like she did.

Oh, but he said such sweet things as they lay in their otherworldly dungeon darkness for four more precious nights together.

Izlude told her they would get betrothed, as soon as they were ransomed out of here. She could come live at his home, instead of wandering around Ivalice with Zalbag or Ramza. She had liked the idea of traveling with Ramza's crew, but she liked the idea of living with Izlude even more. If they got married, he said, then his father might even settle an estate on them, for Izlude's inheritance.

Alma could be the lady of her own household, instead of just an inconvenient little sister.

The logical part of her knew that it was probably all just fanciful talk, and they might change their minds once they were free. They had only known each other for about a week, after all. But the pretty ideas gave them both something to smile about, even in their captivity.

And, oh, she really liked this loud, idealistic boy who always wore his thoughts and feelings right there on his sleeve. Izlude wasn't afraid of Dycedarg, he said. He would bring her to his home, with or without her brother's consent.

And Izlude had such high hopes for Ramza! He told her that with her help, they could bring Ramza around; get him to see reason, to join the Templarate and be freed of his heresy charge. He said that if Ramza's claims about Lucavi demons turned out to be true, then they would all handle it together.

Her favorite brother could be safe again! Everything could work out well, Izlude whispered to her, and they would see Ajora's Promised Land in their own lifetimes, and their children would never have to know the sort of suffering that they had experienced…

In the present, laying in her plush four-poster bed in Vormav's chamber, Alma felt once again as if her heart were being cut from her chest.

How had things ended up like this? Izlude smiling and buckling his Platinum armor back on, as the young guard called Malak glowered nearby… Izlude promising her that he would be right back for her, after his father finished the negotiations with Lord Barinten…

And then, upstairs in the castle, Izlude's face covered in blood again, only this time it was his own.

Surrounded by stinking mangled corpses, as Izlude mumbled to her that he could not see, and he could not find his sword… and there she helplessly sat with no potions or healing staff to aid him.

How her hands had shaken as she stroked his face, and said whatever she could to put his dying mind at ease. How could she be the only person to even witness the loss of him, this vibrant boy who wanted to turn the world on its head?

To Vormav, she whispered in the dark, "I will make you suffer, one day."

"You will have whatever you wish of me, my Angel," he answered simply.

"No!" she said, "I am not your stupid Angel! I know you think you can force some demon into me, but I will never be yours!"

Vormav was silent for a moment. "No…" he finally said. "There will be no, ah, forcing… You are my High Seraph, my Angel of Blood… You lack only your memories."

Alma snorted derisively. "I have my memories, thank you."

"Not the important ones," Vormav insisted. "…Though I think, mayhap, a few have returned, as of late."

Alma brushed off his unsettling words. "How can you bear it?" she hissed, "That you murdered your own son?"

"I do everything for you," Vormav said.

"Never claim you did that for me!"

"As you wish."

She felt such burning rage for him. If she did still have a heart left inside her, she thought it was aflame right now.

She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to break his skin open… she wanted to bathe in his blood, revel in the power it would provide her…

Such an unexpectedly physical thrill, at the idea.

"Tell me what Izlude was like as a child. Tell me stories about him," Alma whispered weakly.

"He was only an ill-mannered whelp. There is nothing worth sharing."

"I said TELL ME, HASHMALUM!" she shrieked.

Her devoted servant quickly began to speak.

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"Faol… cheo… de… anda! Zorda… mu… feo… mal… Reeve of… oath unto you… bound…"

They managed to hear only snatches of the deep, low voice that was chanting from the fifth level of the Orbonne Monastery vaults, beneath their party. Ramza was fairly certain that the voice belonged to Sir Rofel.

"Time… Cross you… vastness… Throw… Her… that we… pass!" the voice finished.

A blue light emanated from the stairway nearby. It reminded Ramza of the light he had seen when Construct 8 was originally activated by the zodiac stone.

"Do they flee before us again?" Ramza asked no one.

He and his team filed down the stairs. He had been right; it was Sir Rofel waiting on the floor below, along with a few Templar warriors.

Not enough warriors to stand a chance against Ramza and his team, however. Not nearly enough. They died quickly.

Sir Rofel was not quite as easy to kill, though he was wounded already, by a stab from Ramza himself. Rofel had retreated to the far side of the room, scuttling faster than any normal man ought to be able to run. His green robes fluttered behind him, the hood falling off to reveal a shiny bald head.

"There is something familiar in this," Ramza called to him. "Something reminiscent of our battle with Celia and Lede. You are no mortal man."

"No, that I am not," Rofel admitted. "I am something far greater. Vormav has made it possible for me to leave behind ignorance, the frailty of the flesh. I am given the gift of life eternal! A joy you can never know."

For all his claims to have left behind 'the frailty of the flesh', Rofel certainly looked like the wound Ramza had dealt him was causing him pain. His face was sweating, and his breathing was loud and shallow.

"What drives you to do what you do? What is it you seek?" Ramza asked. He doubted Rofel would give him answers about the Templarate's goals or their plans involving Alma, but he also figured it didn't hurt to ask.

As he had expected, his questions were evaded. Instead, Rofel groaned, "So much remains… to be done. For you, Ramza… I shall cast open the very gates of hell. Faolos cheos de vanda! Zorda ramud feolio… Zomal, Reeve of Time, by oath unto you am I bound. Timeless, cross you now the vastness of Time's gulf. Throw wide Her gates that we may pass!"

Ramza wasn't entirely sure what had happened next. The blue light came again, but it was filled with a white light as well, which seemed to make everything around him less real. He may have lost consciousness; he felt like he had missed something, somehow.

When his eyes seemed to be functioning properly again, he found that he and his friends were standing on a strange marking that covered the floor. It was not the same floor he had previously been standing on.

"What is this place?" Ramza said, trying to keep any nervous tremor out of his voice.

"The necrohol of Mullonde. Never again will you see the skies of Ivalice. Without the glyph… the gate… there can be no return." Sir Rofel raised one hand, and quickly barked out one more short incantation.

The part of the floor that held the glyph quickly began to crumble, and Ramza and his crew dashed to the sides of the room to avoid a fall into what looked like some sort of abyss. Ramza tried not to look down at it. The darkness below did not seem to be quite as empty as a void ought to be.

Rofel, still slumped against a wall, controlled his pain well enough for a moment to give Ramza a sweating, leering smile. The green of his robes contrasted sickeningly with the red of his flushed skin, with the odd tinted light that suffused this strange place.

"There is… no turning back now," Rofel taunted. "Go. Your sister… awaits."

Ramza briefly looked around at his teammates. He tried not to register how they were feeling about all of this. If Rofel's claims were true… If they could never get back home…

There was nothing for it. There was still one goal left to chase, even here.

"Alma is near," Ramza said softly.

The group began to walk the winding stairs down to hell.

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