A/N: This is starting to get harder to write. It's bothersome, but such things seem to happen with every story.

Chapter 6

Altima. She calls herself Altima now.

This woman in blood red and angel wings, who claims to be the founding saint of our church.

This fake, fell creature, who smiles as she blasts apart the ship around us at the snap of her fingers…

She calls herself Altima.

She leers down at me from where she hovers above me so daintily in the air.

She leers down, neither angry nor determined. Neither fearful nor calculating.

She leers down… happily. She smiles, and teases, and dances through the blood and the scorched wood.

And I am struck with the alien thought that… this all must just make her happy.

I have seen all manner of men and women. I have killed the greedy, the evil, and the good.

I have slain every form of monster, of every tier and deviation.

But I have never seen anyone so truly blissful for the act of carnage.

And I realize here, why the Lucavi worship this woman. It's more than raw power. It's more than leadership or status.

She is fundamentally… just so disgusting.

"Something to say… boy?" She asks. She stays before me, out of pure amusement. I kneel here, wounded and bloody, just trying to gather the strength to stand up to her, and she stares at me in enjoyment.

"Yes." I respond. "Wipe that smile off your face."

She giggles.

"Or you'll wipe it off?" She asks. "Is that what you're going to say? Or maybe that I'll get my due in the end? Not today, but surely good will find its path? Hm? Well?"

…Bitch.

I hold up an index finger. "You talk too much." I inform her, and point to her left.

She follows my direction, and finds herself staring down a crescent blast of holy energy, courtesy of Agrias.

And she… catches it.

The high, bright column of energy whips up the air about it as it attempts to cut into her, but Altima holds it back in full composure.

"I'm still smiling… boy." She informs me.

As if I'd alert her to our attacks for no purpose. Catch Agrias's if you'd like.

The fundamental rule of combat is to defend and occupy with the shield. And strike with the sword.

I snap a signal off, and Orlandu's attack comes crashing in from the opposite side.

I finally see that smile drop in place of a surprised 'o' on her lips, as Altima is enveloped in Orlandu's more powerful strike. Being so struck, she staggers into Holy Explosion she'd been pushing back to begin with, and the swirling forces collide upon her and fuse with the evil at their center, into a tall tornado of bright wrath.

Agrias stares at me, panting. I signaled her to make her way over to the support group that had fallen to 'Hi-Ultima'. We needed to get them back up. Spread out and get back into the game.

This would not end quickly, and not traditionally either.

More tricks would be coming.

We need enough energy to be flexible and enough responsiveness to deal.

"Bit simple." Orlandu commented, as he clambered over to my side. "But strangely effective."

Our enemy's abilities and disposition are just too strange. The rules of engagement need to be rewritten, just for her. And I haven't the time.

But a sword will always be a sword. And a shield will always be a shield. The fundamentals work everywhere.

He brandished his sword at the still flaring bright column. "I've never seen holy skills react in such a sustained fashion. Perhaps they respond to her evil. Blast again?"

You're ready to go again after just firing off the Holy Swordskill's highest attack… you're really something else Orlandu.

I shake my head.

We finally drew blood. Things will change.

…It would be naive to think that a free-form teleporter would still be in that thing…

And there's a more probable explanation for why the bright column persists so oddly.

She's helping it along.

The fundamentals…

The block. The counter.

The feint.

The wood beneath us shatters, and the two of us enter free-fall.

I am surprised at the direction of the attack. With her penchant for hovering and instant, limitless teleportation, I expected above or behind. But I also expected something unexpected, anyways.

And as I fall through the new hole in the ship's deck, I find that below us is not the wooden structure of the boat's hold, cannon room, or hull, but sequences of wide holes in the ship. A long, simple drop to the inky black abyss stares back at me and Altima hovers there with her arms stretched at us, staring at me with a grim smile. That's probably… a charging Hi-Ultima. To cut short attempts of areal recovery.

A simple, neatly constructed plan. At least her smile's changed.

Orlandu swears.

The 'sword'. At all costs, protect the sword.

The gravity in this world is a little strange. I've noted it, since various techniques of mine must account for the familiar force.

It is a little weaker, and so I have that bit more time before we fall past the lower ship hull and through the point of no return.

I'm a dragoon. With preparation I can jump from anything, to anywhere. Any treebranch would do as my launching pad. Any precipice would do as my landing spot.

I work my katana beneath my feet, even in free-fall, and make eye-contact with Orlandu.

Goodbye, Masamune…

I kick off, diving for Altima.

Raw surprise allows me to land a solid flying right cross that would shatter more mortal creatures. The Hi-Ultima she'd been holding back fires off in some random direction, as she reels.

I'm not done yet. Kick off of her wide-eyed face. Dive back.

Orlandu, I've got you.

And I'm a ninja. I can throw… anything.

Any 'Sword'.

I have no parting words for you Orlandu. I don't know what to do. She can catch holy blasts, teleport any range, and snap her fingers to launch wide-area death.

The only thing that occurs to me to say, as I prep to throw him, is…

"Win."

For god's sake, Orlandu, just win. Save Alma, and Agrias, and Meilandoul, and Minerva. And win. Get them out of here. End this nightmare life. I always looked up to you, and never understood why you wished for me to lead when I was so ready to follow. Your raw power, skills, and tactics… I can find no fault with any of it. And so I entrust you with this.

I don't care how it's done. Just win. And live.

I will not… dig one more grave. Not one more.

I have never thrown Orlandu, and he seems to protest and almost fight me off, but I make sure he makes it back into the fight by arcing him into safety.

But of course I throw quite a sizable thing straight up, and so the recoil pushes me easily past the point of no-return…

And as I plummet to the inky blackness that is this alternate dimension, I can only think if there's something else I could do.

Some spell I could cast before falling too far from the battleground. If I could create one more perch, would I be able to reach back myself…

But nothing comes to me, and suddenly I hope that I haven't played things out wrong. I wonder if I could have done things differently. Could I have thought faster, reacted faster, or come up with a better response?

With no options left to play out, and only regrets and darkness around me… I fall.

"Brother. We're here. Wake up."

I don't wake with a start, as I usually do when I come out of my nightmares.

I just wake normally. Placidly. And with the lingering feel of dropping into the strange unknown.

That one… had felt more… personal.

A more personal nightmare. That's not so good.

Still…

I blink the sleep from my eyes. "Good morning, Alma."

"It's afternoon, silly." She chides. "We've rode all the way home."

Home…

Horrible dreams and familiar stone walls.

Back to my own fundamentals. Nothing's changed. Not like I'd wanted.

Ovelia. Oh…

Ovelia…

I close my eyes and wipe the crust of sleep from them.

I mustn't make Alma worry. She's all I have, again, and she worries too much over me.

I haven't really talked to her about it, but then there's nothing really to say.

The problem was all very simple. I wasn't a prince.

Armor still on, I disembark and help Alma from the carriage like a gentlemen.

Sir Guinevere's last parting lesson can take responsibility for my armored state.

Sir Guinevere's solution to heartache, it seemed, had been exactly the same as her solution to everything else.

Exercise unto the point of exhaustion, rather violent sparring, and finally a cold waterfall.

I will say that it worked very well for taking my mind off of things, and I'd passed out as soon as hitting the carriage seat.

Together, I and Alma thank the driver. We pat the horses in thanks for a safe trip and walk up to the high stone walls that represent the Bevolue branch's residence.

I step up to the familiar cobblestone floor of my family's grounds. The stone archway, so old and vine adorned as it is, seems to signal to me that my distant life at the monastery is over.

I'm home.

These grounds are one of the larger holdings of the Bevolue's. A little odd, considering that we were actually one of the smaller branches of the family. Ultimately the expansive cobblestone properties and high, sturdy, castle were marks of just how capable my father and brothers had proved in the arts of war. We are not a family that has made their name upon great stewardship of property. We are a clan of warriors and generals. Father was a great fighter. Zalbag is a great military leader. Dycedarg is a great higher-order strategist, even being relied on most closely by Duke Larg. People tell me that I am promising, but if I am so skilled it is only enough that I may glimpse the true distance between me and my blood.

I am the least of my brothers.

But still a Bevolue…

A Loyal sword-arm of the Crown…

"Ovelia…" I moan under my breath. It comes back to her. It always does, at the merest opportunity of a tangent. "How could I ever be her husband when I was raised to be her loyal subservient?"

"Quite effortlessly, I suppose." My sister pipes up beside me. "You'd have the perfect husbandly disposition."

I chuckle weakly at my sister's jest, trailing off only at her placid expression. "Are… Are you sincere, sister?"

Alma shrugs and looks away.

…wow.

"Did you love her?" Alma asks suddenly.

I'm not sure why… maybe it's just that I know her so well, but I'm not terribly surprised by Alma's sudden question.

She does like to fret over me.

I just stare at her and roll the question around in my head.

"No." I answer slowly. "But I think… I was getting there." I admit. "I wanted to love her." I say at last. "It seemed like… such a brilliant idea. I mean," I started, "I had already sent a letter to who I thought were her parents. I could find no flaw with our match and I was resolved that she was the one. I was already thinking… it's foolish… about kids and our house, and watching the sunset together. It seemed so possible, it was as if I could touch it, and yet it was so very wonderful that it seemed like a pure fairytale…" I hold my head, as if catching myself. "That was it. I felt as if I could hold that lofty and cliché dream right in my arms, if only I could hold Ovelia, and at the time I wanted that most desperately. You know, it's funny." I mutter to Alma. "I didn't even know I was romantic. Am I? Despite it all I still don't think I quite am." I decide. "But I think it's inevitable to have a time in life where we must fall in love, and watch the sun set, and have children, and a house, and all that. And… I just wanted it to be with someone like her. It would have made it all… so much more wonderful. So… no. I don't really feel as if I've lost my first love." I explain. "I lost a really exceptional idea."

"Brother." Alma sighs, before grabbing my face and pinching me painfully. "Don't be a wordy idiot."

Ow.

Alma, ow.

"You fell in love and you got your heart broken." She explains to me, before finally releasing my cheeks.

And she hugs me before I can deny it. "I'm sorry it didn't work out, brother." She consoles. "I liked her too. I thought you two made a cute couple."

Words won't come to me. I just silently hug her back.

"I'm sorry for slapping you." She apologized when we broke the hug at length. "When you said that you'd kissed her, I assumed that your nice guy disposition had at last broken down under the force of your boyish lusts." Alma admitted. "I thought Ovelia was crying because you'd forced her down and plied your wicked male intentions upon her resisting lips."

...What?

I stare at Alma, horrified.

She shuffled uncomfortably under my horrified scrutiny. "In light of this I will admit," she said at length, "to having read one or two too many torrential romance novels."

One or two, huh.

Numbly, I try to shake off the entire discussion and walk on.

Alma… really...

"Brother, look out!" Alma warns.

Too late.

My inward self-pity and my outward bafflement have distracted me too much, and as a result I have collided with a smaller and quite unobtrusive form.

"Oh. I'm sorry!" I apologize. "I wasn't paying attention."

I reach down and try to help the figure up.

A… monk?

A small form, bundled in a brown traveler's cloak and traditional monk robe. Wool, I think. Rather functional.

The hood's still up, and the figure clutches their chest. I must have startled them.

I note that the shadow it casts fully obscures the face. Which is unnatural. Clearly a passive spell is at play.

The sleeves of the robe also extend past the hands, so that even those are obscured.

My attempt to make amends were interrupted as another, larger cloaked figure lodged themselves between me and my victim.

This one's hood is up as well, and they moved rather smoothly.

Odd. How odd.

Traveler's cloaks. Familiar sights, especially in the rain or heavy sun. Easy to overlook. Easy to conceal one's identity, body type, and minor movements. Passive spells, simple enough to cast, and otherwise easy to buy, can ensure obscuration of the face in shadow. Raw popularity of full cloaks for traveling lends its greatest advantage. Hiding a needle amongst needles remains ruthlessly effective.

The greatest stereotypical disguise. Flawed only in its overuse.

I frown. "Excuse me." I apologize even as I begin to gauge this person. "I didn't mean any harm."

Silence greets me, and nothing else. There is no movement to acknowledge or deny me. There is no hesitation or shuffling. And slowly, the one before me seems to give off the impression of an enforced barricade.

Utterly immobile.

It's… suspicious right?

And combining a hooded cloak with the traditional monk's garb. It's as if you're begging people to ignore you, with such fervor that… it's actually a bit of an attention-grabber.

It's obviously suspicious.

It's super suspicious. So much that you feel like they can't be suspicious people, because it would all be too blatant.

But still…

"Excuse me." I repeat again. "Please let me see your face once."

I am about to reach for the taller figure's hood, when a hand snaps up. Her left hand – for she is a woman by the shape of her hand – grasps my right in a very firm grip, and on instinct I pull back.

I am wearing my 'brother' now, who (which?) is a knight sword. Slow and heavy. And I'm left handed.

So instead of grasping for it, I switch my footing and push back in to snap a strike at the cloaked woman.

And of all the defensive measures that I was prepared to construct an offence around, I was met with one that I least of all expected.

The defense of a clean, white envelope held before my fist.

As I freeze, note the particular wax seal upon the envelope, and pull back peacefully with the letter now in my possession, I am struck with the amusing thought that I have observed the pen being mightier that the sword.

Or the fist, I suppose.

I break the red wax seal, and observe the contents of the envelope.

It says… ah… monk training? A master, I assume the larger one, and an apprentice.

Some suspicion remains, but the wax seal I find at the bottom makes it all meaningless. The Lionsguard's crest stares up at me, majestic in its raw history and significance.

I know that upon higher, more esoteric and less practical levels, monks tend to train in various forms of abstinence.

Oaths of silence, fasts, years of blindness, and such.

If they're from the elite royal defense group, Lionsguard, then it's quite understandable. So this was such a case…

It seemed they were under an oath of silence, and obscurity. It's… social starvation? Is that their objective?

The world turns and spins through this infinite cosmos. With or without us, it turns. To learn true humility, one must grasp the true scope of that flow. To read it or be told, is rather ineffective. To observe that flow, one must remove themselves from it and feel it pass them by.

A lesson of humility to a degree that is meaningless to learn for battle.

A poignant lesson to learn for everything before and after the battle.

Well… very well.

I am an in-training Bevolue. This is a matter of the Lionsguard. There is nothing here to discuss.

If they are miscreants, I will allow them to start taking apart my home and flesh before I will even allow myself to move against them.

Such is the awkward thing called 'loyalty'.

I hand the letter over to Alma, who 'ooh's and 'ahh's at it, and I bow.

"I apologize, Master Monk." I say. This is a bit embarrassing.

"Have a nice stay." I say with a smile.

I'd like to stay and chat. I really respect higher level monks. Especially the ones devoted to the more esoteric, and less combat-orientated arts. They seem to have a very deep and clean way of life.

But well, this switch-up is all a bit embarrassing. So I'll smile and retreat for now.

I expect I'll see them around, anyways.

The meetings continue a little later on our path, as a familiar pair of siblings run over to greet us.

Delita, always familiar in his greeting, punches my arm lightly. "Hey you. Did you ace your training again?"

"I learned a lot." I answer. "And I learned that I still have a long way to go."

Sir Guinevere was quite amazing.

"Come on." Delita smiled. "You got the new skill, right?"

I nod.

"That's Ramza for you." He smiled. "Your bags?"

"We left them with the coachman." Alma explained. "The stables are closer to our rooms, if you take the service entrance."

It's just tradition to go through the main entrance on return.

"That makes sense." Delita approved. "I'll grab them for you later."

Delita… was a servant.

He was my friend.

And a servant.

It was strange when he did things for me, even after all our years together. It was uneven, and strangely distancing, and I didn't like it.

I don't think Delita liked it either, really. But he wanted to do it, with some earnestness, even though he didn't like it. And he liked to pretend that he liked it.

I've never fully sorted out why, even after these years.

He's a complicated person.

Teta… she's a good girl. As if to make up for her brother's complication, she's always been really simply just a good girl. Usually pretty quiet and unassuming as well, except when she got excited over something with Alma.

But then I think all girls get chatty when they get excited over something with Alma.

And if Teta had complication to her, then standing next to the jumble of friendly contradictions that was Delita they had always gone unnoticed.

She hugs me and Alma.

"I'm glad that you returned safely." Teta said. "There have been terrible rumors about. And I missed you."

Alma assured her we were quite fine.

"Did you see the monks just now?" Teta asked. It was rhetorical of course. The monks and us had only just parted ways. In fact, I distantly wondered if they were out of earshot yet. I hoped they were. "They came just this morning," Teta continued, "and have been keeping to themselves very quietly since."

"Yes, we saw." Alma agreed. "Oaths of social exclusion. Isn't that strange? I couldn't do it." Alma assured.

"You really couldn't." I agree.

"Oh shut up, brother."

Teta smiled at our familiar antics. "We're supposed to leave them alone, but they're guests, and from the Lionsguard." Teta explained. "So it's all strange, and you don't know how to treat them at all."

"Best just stay out of their way." Delita nodded. "For those types, it's easier to offend than to please. We saw you get into it with them Ramza, but I kept myself and Teta out of your way."

So he saw…

"We're sorry." Teta apologized.

"It's fine." I assure immediately. If Teta gets quiet and sad, she'll be like that all day. And that's no good. "Listen to Delita." I encourage. "He's clever."

"We should spar again some time Ramza." Delita said. "You can show me your new skill, and I can show you a trick or two I picked up while you were gone. After you've settled in." He assured.

"Yes. That sounds good." I agree.

Alma clapped her hands together. "And then a picnic!" She decided.

"Oh. Let's go prepare some sandwiches!" Teta suggested.

"Of course!" Alma agreed, before running off with Teta.

And just like that, it appears we're going to have a picnic.

Funny how Delita and my agreements are presupposed as long as our sisters suggest something…

Well, it's true though.

Delita watches them run off in shared amusement with me, and then sweeps his view across the rest of the courtyard. He found no one. At this time of day, there was rarely a commotion. "Ramza." He says at last. "Listen to me."

I nod, affirming his change of pace. He did that, sometimes.

" Dycedarg is back from the court." Delita explained. "He's been preoccupied with meetings ever since, but I've been getting a few more questions than usual from the other servants concerning your capacity."

I understand what he places between the lines there.

"I received no mail at the monastery though." I recall. "And if brother wanted to inquire anything about me, Delita," I say, "then he could more easily just ask directly."

"He could, certainly." Delita admitted, switching to a thoughtful pose of holding his chin. "I don't know why he wouldn't."

…

Home sweet home.

Where I understand nothing even though I keep trying.

"Zalbag is returning from the garrisons as well." Delita continued. "He'll be handing off overseeing organization of the troops to Commander Zeff tomorrow. The day after he'll be here."

"Then we'll all be together again." I muse.

"Yes." Delita nodded. "People are gathering here. I can't imagine why."

"Yes." I nod.

In that case…

Delita hurried into his next point. "In that light, the arrival of those awfully-quiet monks this morning suddenly seems…" Delita trailed off.

He doesn't want to say it aloud.

"You're right." I admit. "But there's nothing for it. One cannot suspect the Lionsguard without cause. To begin with, reaction is the only polite course. It is unfavorable, but blissfully simple as well." I explain. "And besides, it's like Teta said. They're guests."

Delita shrugged it off in that way of his. "Hah. Only the truly powerful could say something like that. It's times like this that I envy you Ramza."

"Or perhaps it is saying such things which forges strong people?" I offer.

Delita fake-cringed. "Ugh. Philosophy. Now there's the one thing I didn't miss while you were away. I'll go move your things and meet you up to spar."

It's not like I don't worry about the monks. Of course I worry. Worrying is my major redeeming feature. But there's really nothing to be done when even investigation is improper. I'm thinking about how to take on the bigger monk if it comes down to it, not whether I can confirm whether I will have to take on the bigger monk.

I would decide to stay close to Alma, but honestly I do that usually. I'll probably go watch her cut up bread and sandwich ingredients soon.

"Oh, yes." I say suddenly. "Hey Delita."

"Yeah?" He asks, stopped right before he'd left.

"I fell in love while away." I admit.

My friend since childhood blinked rapidly. "…Really? You?"

"Yes."

"Weird." He says immediately.

"I know." I admit.

"Well congratulations though." He smiles.

"She turned me down in the end. Sort of."

"Ah," Delita's smile dropped, "well… that sucks."

"Yes." I nod.

"So what was it like?"

"I was really happy, and then very confused, and then I just felt depressed and inadequate."

Delita cringed. "Is it true that it's better to have loved and lost, and all that?"

"…Objectively, on the balance, I really don't think so." I respond after some thought. "But I feel that I have to say it was worth it, because the first part was something precious that I wouldn't let go of even if I died."

"Huh…" Delita mused. "Well… Want to talk about it?"

"No. I was just mentioning as a point of interest."

"Oh, thank god." He said in relief. "Well, want a beer?"

"No thanks."

"Want to stick to picnics and beating each other up?"

"I'll check in with the girls, and then clear the sparring area by the lake."

A/N: I will disclose here that for the purposes of this story, there are job classes and traditional status. Anyone with training can function as a knight, monk, or theif, but that is all together different from being knighted by the king, or living as a monk would, or from using theft as a living. Job classes take lessons from traditional roles, and the higher a person would want to go in the monk job class, the more it would be necessary for them to learn of the more esoteric and less purely combat orientated lessons of actual monks.

I have nothing else to say other than it is perfectly acceptable in Ivalace for teenagers to have alcohol. Ramza simply doesn't care for the beverage.