Finding My Way Back To You

by ShanoaWarrior

Brought back from the dead through the power of the holy stone, former Knight Templar, Izlude Tingel, is now able to keep his promise to his love, Alma Beoulve, whom he had died to protect and searches for her in post-Lion War Ivalice. Sequel to 'When Love Awaits'. Other pairings include Ramza/Agrias, Beowulf/Reis, Delita/Ovelia, Mustadio/Meliadoul, Rad/Alicia, Malak/Lavian.

43. Secrets Between Brothers and Sisters

Secrets Between Brothers and Sisters Revealed

Mingled excitement and concern churning in her gut – and, she would swear, inspiring a fresh bout of kicking from the baby – Alma rushed to her brother and sister-in-law's room…

…tried to rush, anyway.

If anyone aware of her pregnancy had asked, she would've insisted that she had simply questioned the wisdom of trying to run while with child, and she almost made herself believe it. But, in truth, she could not deny that she was breathing hard and that, had she glanced in a mirror, she would've seen her face flush and perspiring with exertion.

This was hardly surprising, though. Whereas her brothers had grown up being groomed to follow their father's path into the knighthood, her childhood had been spent largely dedicated to study. She was not particularly athletic, and although she could clearly recall sprinting a good few yards running from, or after, Ramza, Delita, and Teta in those bygone halcyon days, her advancing pregnancy was quite draining.

Resisting the urge to sag against a wall, which might be seen by passersbys and attracting unwanted speculation, the Beoulve girl forced herself to calm down, recalling both Reis's admonishment that over-straining herself could still cause a miscarriage, and then using some of the breathing exercises the dragonkin had taught her to try and calm down. Given that the dragonkin had much, MUCH stronger lungs than her, and could breathe fire, the Alma was skeptical the Reis's technique would prove effective in her case.

Hope these work better when I'm actually in labor, Alma opined silently when her nerves refused to settle.

That calm proved elusive, however, was far from surprising. Aside from her reunion with Izlude and the fact that she had accepted his marriage proposal for a second time, and thus evading the bleak prospect of a loveless marriage of convenience to a stranger she'd have to constantly lie to about "his" child, what Ovelia had told her about Delita was both worrisome and confusing. That Delita would take in the little sister of Algus Sadalfas was truly baffling, even without touching on the rather strange conversation Ovelia had overheard between the two of them.

And, that in itself deepened Alma's concerns.

Though disbelief as to what Delita had done to topple the aristocracy and church alike to claim his bloody crown had long since given way to sad acceptance, the King of Ivalice becoming so distant with his queen and the other instances of odd behavior on his part had been making the rounds in Lesalia's legendarily efficient gossip circles. While Alma wasn't sure she could forgive what Delita had done, she also knew that, however he had done it, he now sat upon the throne and the well-being of the entire kingdom was very much dependent on his state of mind as well as his marriage to Ovelia. As the new King and Queen of Ivalice, the young royal couple would eventually be expected to produce a suitable heir to secure the line of succession, especially if another disaster like the all-too-recent War of the Lions was to be prevented from happening again.

Whatever it was that had affected Delita, it could not be allowed to become the errant spark that caused Ivalice's guarded hope for a better future to go up in smoke.

Alma was feeling almost ready to resume her journey when the baby kicked again. Hard.

"Please stop that," she whispered to her stomach, trying not to feel silly in so doing. "I'm anxious too, but mommy needs to get her breath."

The baby didn't seem to take the hint and started kicking again.

"Did you get that from your fath-" the Beoulve girl began to whisper before she cut herself off upon hearing the sound of humming from nearby.

Barely daring to breathe, Alma's eyes shot in the direction of the sound. She spotted a maid, several years older than herself, dusting a nearby vase and humming to herself all the while. Given that the girl was at least ten feet away and hadn't even glanced in the Beoulve girl's direction, she felt some relief that Lesalia's infamous gossips had been denied the fascinating morsel of the unmarried Duchess Catherine Seymour talking to her stomach and almost mentioning the word "father".

As the newly coined saying went following Mustadio's "demonstration" of marksmanship, Alma had just dodged a very large bullet.

Taking a moment to regain her composure, this time without letting any potentially incriminating words pass her lips or her hand wander anywhere questionable, Alma soon resumed her journey. Between not wanting to chance anything happening to her baby and doubting she could move much faster if she wanted to, the sedate pace chafed upon her. Not only was Ramza and Agrias's room still a ways off, but she suddenly found herself worried that she might not be so lucky if anyone else passed her by. Annie the seamstress had been quite deft at hiding her fuller figure, but what if someone managed to see through her silken camouflage? For that matter, what if her gait had turned into a telltale waddle without her realizing it? Yet, of the handful of people she passed, few even noticed her, wrapped up either in work or in trifles, and those who met her gaze and bowed betrayed no hint of seeing anything untoward.

The Beoulve girl swallowed many a breath of relief. Big bullets, indeed.

After what felt like days, she finally reached the wing of the castle where guests were lodged. It belatedly occurred to her that she was not sure whether Ramza and Agrias would be in their room, as the pair tended to head out in the mornings. Then again, noon was not far off, and the pair would likely have returned to feed and check on their daughter. The thought caused Alma to snicker under her breath. A year or two ago, she didn't doubt that Agrias would've left her daughter with a caretaker all day while she tended to her knightly duties. The holy knight likely assumed that as well, right up until she actually became a mother, at which point she loathed the idea of leaving her daughter with anyone besides herself, her husband, or one of her trusted friends.

Alma, despite having even less experience with babies than her sister-in-law, was numbered amongst that small company and, although Rachel could be a handful when she was so inclined, the Beoulve girl found herself hoping her baby and Ramza's daughter would grow close as the years passed.

Indeed, for the most part, it seemed to Alma that things could not be better. How could she not believe it when her beloved, who had died in her arms, had not only been given a second chance at life but had found his way back to her? The future she had dreamed about with Izlude during their bizarre courtship in Riovanes, which had seemingly been rent asunder by Hashmalum's claws, now seemed nearer to hand than ever, not the smallest reason being that Delita had not only given his blessing to the engagement but had also announced that the wedding would take place at the end of that week.

There had been some brief concern that having a wedding of such notoriety on such short notice might raise questions which Alma desperately hoped would go unasked, but it seemed that luck favored her once more. By the sound of it, the exploits and newfound wealth of "Damien Mitchell", not to mention his exotic charms, had apparently made him quite the desirable bachelor and the prevailing assumption was that King Delita and "Duke Drake Seymour" wanted to marry "Catherine" off to him before he was lured away by another woman.

Not the most palatable way to explain the suddenness of the wedding, but Alma would take it. After all, it was far and away better than the truth getting out.

Much like Ramza had with regards to Delita's less-than-auspicious rise to power, Alma had learned that, sometimes, the truth was harder to accept than a lie.

Putting that bit of introspection out of her mind, she eventually found herself facing an obstacle that would require all of her concentration: a stairway.

Ignoring the occasional curious glances that the passing servants and guards sent her way as she stared down the stairway like it was a wild dragon, Alma took a steadying breath before slowly and carefully making her way up the stairs. Well aware that, this time, she did not have Reis to help her, she forced herself to not hurry, to clamp down on the railing the way a castaway would clamp down upon a lifeline, and to make sure her gait didn't hint at anything the local gossipmongers would find enticing. Alma wasn't sure where Reis was now, but didn't doubt the dragonkin was somewhere out with her husband, Beowulf. Still, despite the anxiety she worked to shove into the back of her mind, that was perfectly fine by Alma. She had always been fiercely independent and hated being a burden to others. Her lengthy, and consecutive, hostage experiences during the war, not to mention how many times Ramza had risked his life to rescue her, had instilled in her a deep resentment towards being helpless.

She knew she'd never be the warrior her brother and fiancé were, and she wanted to never need for that to change, but God-willing she would not suffer abduction and imprisonment a third time.

However, now that she was pregnant, Alma knew she also had another life to consider, so it was best for her to avoid being reckless or stubborn. Still, the Beoulve girl was reasonably confident that she could at least climb a small flight of stairs by herself without harming her unborn child.

Taking a deep breath, Alma resumed her ascent, making sure to take it one step at a time until she finally reached the hallway at the top of the stairs. Not surprisingly, her brother and sister-in-law insisted that their room be as close to hers as possible, in case anything happened. Manon and Charlotte's room were right across from Alma so that she and her unlikely wards-slash-self-appointed-servants could keep an eye on one another. Given that Manon was "at that age", as boys went, the notion of him sharing a room with Charlotte had provoked more than one scandalized expression, but Alma had quickly diffused the situation by saying that, given that Manon was getting a head start on his training to become a knight, he likely wouldn't be using the room much beyond collapsing onto the bed and sleeping.

The rooms of Lavian, Alicia, and, Rad, as well as Beowulf, Reis, Malak, and Rafa, were just further down the hall. Mustadio, who preferred simpler surroundings, had supposedly opted to stay at a small inn in the city. "Supposedly" because, last Alma heard, he was now staying with Meliadoul at Tingil Manor. Izlude probably would have preferred to return to his family home as well – either to make sure his potential future brother-in-law got "the treatment", as he'd jokingly put it behind closed doors, or to spend time with his sister – but doing so would have raised unwanted questions by the Lesalia locals, now that is was known that he was the chosen suitor of "Duchess Catherine Seymour".

Even before Delita had made it official, the risky timing notwithstanding, even without the new Lesalia Times, gossip still spread around the capital at speeds which boggled the mind. Though she herself had yet to corroborate Delita's formal announcement on the matter, it was obvious to everyone who attended the ball who Alma would choose to be her husband. No one could have guessed that Duchess Catherine Seymour and Sir Damien Mitchell were actually two people who were officially declared dead, or missing and presumed dead, by the Glabados Church.

Wouldn't that throw the gossipmongers into a feeding frenzy?

Upon reaching the guest room where her brother and sister-in-law were staying, and hoping at least one or both of them were in, Alma took a deep breath and knocked on the door. At first, there was no answer, and Alma found herself wondering if perhaps Ramza and Agrias hadn't returned yet after all. Feeling more than bit irritated that she'd hauled herself up those damnable stairs for nothing, she was about to leave in disappointment when she heard something from the other side of the door.

It sounded like a crash, shattering crockery, followed by exclamations of shock and dismay.

Perhaps it was the Beoulve blood in her, quickly stirred to defend the innocent and vulnerable. Maybe it was the knowledge that her brother, sister-in-law, and niece were on the other side of that door and the commotion she'd heard might signify that they were in peril. Whatever the reason, Alma thrust open the door, charged inside (as best she could, given her advancing pregnancy) and…

…and felt something soft bounce off of her forehead.

"RACHEL!" she heard her brother exclaim. "Bad baby!"

Bemused, and a tad sore, Alma glanced down and saw a stuffed lion cub at her feet. Blinking in perplexity, she then turned her attention to Rachel, who was in a highchair being admonished by Ramza….until she grabbed hold of his finger, prompting Ramza to tell her he needed that back so he could admonish her with it. Alma blinked in perplexity again as she realized that, yes, Rachel had thrown her plush toy at her, and yet was bewildered when she gauged the distance between herself and her niece.

How in blazes did she throw it that far? She mused, stupefied.

After a moment's pondering, she threw up her hands, advanced into the room, and took in the scene. Apparently, the noise she had heard was Rachel expressing her displeasure with the food her parents had prepared by shoving the plate off the table and onto the floor, which had been followed by a rather noisy outburst of displeasure when the young parents had seen the mess this had left on the carpet.

"Rachel, daddy needs his admonishing finger!" Ramza intoned testily.

How in blazes did this man slay seven Lucavi Demons? Alma wondered as she fought a losing battle to keep herself from bursting into laughter.

Still, despite the silliness of the tableau before her and the lingering question of just how Rachel had thrown her toy that far (not to mention some incredulity that Ramza hadn't even noticed his little sister getting struck by the plush projectile), she nonetheless found herself smiling at the scene before her.

Her slightly deranged and more-than-slightly idiotic brother had shouldered many great burdens for one so young. He had lost his parents at much too young an age. He'd found himself waging battle against people who, by rights, should have been his friends and comrades-in-arms. He had learned that the Church, which had acted as the guiding light to Ivalice when crown and nobility alike had failed miserably to do the same, had been built upon deceit. He had fought creatures that made even man's worst nightmares look tame by comparison. He had found that his own brother had, in addition to orchestrating the war which had ravaged the kingdom, had poisoned their father for refusing to exploit the conflict to benefit House Beoulve. He had seen the man who might as well have been his brother turn into a weaver of deceit and murder that had toppled the old order of Ivalice and seized the bloody crown from the corpses of those he'd strung along and betrayed.

And yet, for all that, he was unbroken.

Despite all that, he still found it in himself to smile, to treasure those loved ones he had left, to find some solace in the fact that he'd lived to see another sunrise. And, above all, that he'd helped bring a new life into the world and retained the determination to make sure his daughter would not inherit her father's hardships.

Idly, Alma began to wonder if a scene similar to what she beheld might be in her future. Would Izlude prove to be a doting, if doddering, father? Perhaps he would have a firmer grasp on child-rearing? For that matter, how would Alma take to being a mother? Even months after learning that she was with child, the prospect still daunted her. Still, Agrias seemed to be managing, even under incredibly trying circumstances. And, if Agrias could do it, then Alma resolved that she could as well.

After Rachel had tired herself out in her efforts to wrest away Ramza's admonishing finger, Agrias put the baby girl down for her nap and Ramza, finally, apologized for the plush toy that ended up thrown in Alma's face.

"It's about time," the Beoulve girl commented dryly. "I was worried that father's lessons in chivalry didn't take after all."

Ramza's answering glare, much like his earlier display, was thoroughly un-intimidating.

Still, though she felt near to bursting to tell him all, her upbringing as a noble's daughter compelled her to observe the preliminaries. In this case, that meant small talk. Ramza, apparently, had passed the morning talking with Delita in his office over breakfast regarding potential reforms and policies for the battered but still recovering kingdom. That had caught Alma's attention, as the gardens would've been a fine place for such a conversation, not only because of the clement weather but also because discussing it with Ovelia, and where they would likely be overheard, would only enhance Delita's image as a monarch who was upfront with and dedicated to both his wife and his subjects.

So, why was he discussing them with Ramza in his private office instead? Granted, Ramza's true identity needed to be protected, but Delita had seemed quite deft at that so far. Simple precaution didn't seem like it answered the question, at least not completely.

And, for that matter, why did Ramza's jaw tighten when he'd said that?

Alma didn't like it, but she wasn't sure how to probe deeper for answers. Moments later, Agrias joined them. Apparently, she had lingered in their room for a time with Rachel and had been visited by Lavian, Alicia, and Rad. Rachel had had a fun time with her self-appointed uncle and aunts, but Agrias had excused herself when the trio had mentioned they were keen for some "action".

Agrias knew what that meant and, not wanting her daughter to be exposed to it, decided to take Rachel to the garden where she could coo over the flowers and be cooed over by whomever noticed the baby.

"Did those three at least clean up after themselves?" Alma asked, skepticism in her tone. "You know how they can get when they're feeling "hot" and want to use the "straddle grip"."

"Please, do not remind me," Agrias groused. "I nearly fainted when I saw what it looks like when they decide there's "no limit"."

"Indeed, Rad is a "dog"."

"And, a "degenerate"."

"Can we please change the subject? Pretty please?" Ramza asked, his cheeks reddening.

Knowing that Ramza could be downright malleable when faced with two of the three women in his life, the Beoulve girl and the holy knight exchanged glances for a long moment, just to let him stew for a time, before nodding their agreement.

"Thank you," Ramza said, a bit petulantly. "So, what are you doing here, Alma? I thought you were having lunch with the queen. Is something wrong?"

Alma shook her head. "No, brother. Just the opposite, actually. I finally have good news!"

Unable to maintain her reserve anymore, Alma broke into a broad beaming grin of the sort one might give upon seeing the sun after months of rain and thunder. That got Ramza's attention, his eyes pulsing wide in surprise as he leaned in, anxious as to what would have Alma in such in such a state.

"Alma, what has you so excited?" he asked curiously. "Has something happened?"

Were it not for her niece sleeping in the next room, and liable to go on another rampage if her nap was disturbed, not to mention the need to maintain secrecy of their current situation, Alma would have happily shouted her news. But she mastered her exhalation and began in as calm a voice as she could muster.

"I…it's about my fiancé, Sir Damien, for one…" Alma began before trailing off, belatedly finding herself uncertain as to whether even her brother would believe what she intended to reveal about her favorite and chosen suitor.

Oh, granted, Ramza had seen one of the fabled Zodiac Stones raise a man from the dead before, but suppose he found it hard to swallow that such a thing had happened twice? Besides, neither Alma nor Izlude could be sure if the Stone would allow Izlude's true face to be revealed, which likely wouldn't help her story either. Before the Almal could think her way around this problem, or kick herself for not doing so sooner, her brother interjected.

"You mean that you've officially chosen him to be your husband? I already knew that, Alma. And so does Delita. Sir Damien came to us not long ago to ask for our blessing, but we've decided to leave that decision up to you. Though I would certainly encourage you to choose quickly before you start to show. And, I doubt you will find anyone better than him, since he seems to be the only one who was even able to hold your interest at the ball…" Ramza replied, concern palpable in his voice despite the…potentially impolite ways his words could be interpreted.

She promptly fixed him with her best Little Sister Glare, got a small laugh when he spluttered "What'd I do?!", and then she considered anew just how to tell him the rest.

There was no sense in stalling, she could tell. Alma could tell that her brother was more than a little agitated by her news, and thought she knew all too well what was on his mind.

"You need not worry about that, brother. I have chosen my new husband. And believe it or not, he is the same man who asked me for my hand before."

Alma wasn't sure what she had been expecting after saying those words, especially since she'd been too overwhelmed by joy and excitement alike to have planned this like she should have. Would Ramza be disbelieving? Would he want proof that she wasn't sure she could provide?

Alma was fairly certain, however, that she was not expecting Ramza to sigh, roll his eyes, mutter "Oh, I believe it…" and then clap his hands over his mouth as though he hadn't meant to speak those words aloud.

Alma did a doubletake that would've left her old school teachers aghast and stared at Ramza accusingly. Nearby, Agrias, who had also heard her husband's words, slapped her forehead in exasperation. She then proceeded to slap the back of Ramza's head, having apparently decided that her exasperation was better vented on him than on herself.

Idly wondering if she could persuade Agrias to teach her that technique, Alma leveled a suspicious glare towards Ramza, all too aware that he knew something about "Sir Damien" that he wasn't telling her.

"Oh?" she began, her eyes narrowing. "How so?"

Ramza silently kicked himself for his slip of the tongue. As his sister suspected, he did know more about her chosen suitor than he'd led her to believe. Quite a bit more, actually.

"And, what's that supposed to mean, brother?" she demanded, eyes narrowing. If Ramza had truly suspected nothing out of the ordinary with "Damien", he would have asked her what she meant by her statement, perhaps even expressed concern about her mental faculties. He certainly would not have been so nonchalant about it.

He knew something – more likely, was hiding something – and Alma was going to squeeze it out of him. Literally, if she had to.

"I mean…" Ramza began, his brow beading with perspiration as he struggled to find the words to explain himself. Without inciting further violence, that is. Unlike Delita, he was not a very convincing liar and knew that even attempting to lie to his little sister about her new fiancé would have been just as disastrous as lying to his wife.

His wife, Agrias the holy knight, who could bend his spine like a cheap spoon.

Fortunately – or unfortunately for Ramza, he wasn't sure which – Agrias decided to save him the trouble and reveal the truth herself.

The sidelong glare she sent in his direction suggested that he could expect a great deal of diaper duty in the future, however.

"He means that we already know the truth about Sir Damien, Alma," she said bluntly, keeping her voice down. In a city like Lesalia, the walls had ears. And, the solicitous castle staff was known to linger in the hallways and knock and enter with little warning.

Ramza groaned at his wife's straightforwardness, not to mention the unspoken threat in her glare. Normally, that was a quality he admired in Agrias, but this time, it might land him in an early grave. His little sister might not be able to bend Ramza's spine like a cheap spoon, but he had a bad feeling that wouldn't stop her from trying.

Alma's eyes widened at her sister-in-law's revelation, and then narrowed into daggers as her gaze turned to her now cringing brother. "You...you mean you know who Sir Damien really is?"

Figuring that now was a good time to finally start swimming since Agrias had already thrown him into the river so to speak, Ramza finally confessed, hoping that Alma won't be too angry that he kept this particular secret from her when, admittedly, she had ample right to know.

Part of Ramza felt guilty about that since, aside from his daughter, Alma was his only blood relation left after the deaths of his father and brothers, and the knowledge that he'd kept his mouth shut because the shock might harm her baby was bitter medicine, at best. Still, with a resigned sigh, he straightened up and decided that, if she knew anyway and had apparently suffered no ill effects, then there was no point in hiding the truth any longer.

"Yes, we did. You remember a few nights ago, when you ran away from "Damien" at the ball?" Ramza asked and, seeing Alma's nod, he pressed on. "Well, Malak had been watching Damien that night and, having known all of Duke Barrington's bodyguards, he realized that the "Damien" at the ball was an imposter. Malak and I went after Izlude and, when we saw that he had the Pisces Stone, he knew he was out of options and revealed himself. I didn't mean to keep it from you but, even after seeing one of the Stones raise someone from the dead, I still had a hard time believing it myself. I needed some time to process the fact that he was truly back."

Alma could not help but be cross with her love that she was not the first one to know of his return to the land of the living, even if the circumstances were clearly beyond his control. And if Ramza saw fit to keep that small detail a secret from her, he better have a good reason for it if he didn't want her to bury him alive.

"And, why didn't you tell me sooner?" Alma demanded.

Ramza took a deep breath to steady his nerve and answered, hoping that his sister would accept his explanation. After all, what else could he do at this point but tell her the truth?

"Because it was what Izlude himself wanted," he explained gently, sweating more profusely now. "He wanted to be the one to tell you, and I didn't think it would be fair of me to rob him of that joy, so I promised him I would stay quiet about his return until the time was right. And besides, you wouldn't have believed me unless you saw it for yourself. Not to mention that Izlude and I did not want to shock you into having a miscarriage."

As if bracing himself for a plunge into deep water, which might very well be the case if Alma recalled the pond just below the room's window, Ramza held his breath and braced for his sister's response, hoping that she would find his explanation acceptable. To his relief, Alma's frown relaxed, and her expression softened a bit. But, just as Meliadoul had been with Izlude not too long ago, Alma still wasn't quite ready to let her big brother off the hook yet. He still had quite a bit of explaining to do and she wasn't going to leave him alone until he told her the whole story.

"Tell me everything, brother. Now."

Relieved that his little sister was giving him a chance to explain himself instead of burying him alive for his deception, Ramza did his best to summarize his unwitting role in this story. He reiterated how Malak had caught wind of "Damien" being in attendance and, skeptical about the man having survived the Horror of Riovanes, had shadowed this newly arrived suitor. He repeated how, having acted as an enforcer for the Duke of Favoham, and thus being intimately familiar with his bodyguards, Malak had discerned some glaring discrepancies between the Damien he'd known and the "Damien" who was dancing with Alma. Following Alma's abrupt exit from the ballroom, and seeing Damien follow her, Malak and Ramza had pursued and confronted him. During the confrontation, the Pisces Stone had fallen free of Damien's pocket and, faced with the prospect of being assumed a Lucavi host and hacked to pieces, Izlude had decided that he was out of options and, in a moment that had caused Ramza and Malak a great deal of consternation, Izlude asked the Stone for help.

Yet, instead of turning him into a demon, the Stone restored Izlude's true appearance, albeit only for a few minutes. The Duke of Lionel had been in the midst of explaining that the Stone had apparently transformed his features into that of the real Damien Mitchell when he noticed the expression on Alma's face.

It was…unfriendly.

"So, you were able to see his real face and I wasn't?" she asked, her tone icy.

"Well, I mean," Ramza spluttered, realizing he had left himself vulnerable to a deadly counteroffensive. "I mean, the Stone did that. It wasn't his decision, or mine, and…and…please don't hurt me!"

Almal, by way of answer, grabbed her brother's ear and twisted it hard enough that Ramza had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out.

"YEEOOWWCCHH!" he choked out. "Hey, I asked politely! But, seriously, that's truly all I know! I never did get the full story of how Izlude managed to make his way to Lesalia with such immense wealth. But, I'm sure he was able to fill you in on those details himself."

"He did," Alma confirmed. Although she was still slightly irked at Ramza for keeping the fact that he knew of Izlude before she did and kept it a secret from her, and even a bit cheated that the Stone hadn't seen fit to restore the true appearance of the man she'd fallen in love with when she'd gotten to the truth out of him. part of Alma was relieved. Even to her own ears, and even though both of them had witnessed the miracles as well as evils that the Holy Stones were capable of, the story had seemed ludicrous, and she'd feared her brother and sister-in-law would think she'd been driven to madness by grief or, worse, that "Damien" was some manipulative and dangerous charlatan who needed to be driven off.

At Alma's revelation, and despite his smarting ear, Ramza heaved a sigh of relief that his future brother-in-law had done his part and convinced Alma to marry him, again, as well as of his true identity. This spared him and Delita the less-than-appealing task of having to come up with another plan to find her a husband before her pregnancy became obvious, not to mention finding a man who could be fooled into believing the child was his. Even though he was relieved that his sister was no longer cross with him, and despite being rather sore (both figuratively and literally) over her earlier treatment of him, he still felt the need to apologize. Ramza was the sort of man who hated lying, especially to those he loved. Even if the reason for doing so was justified.

"I'm sorry, Alma. I didn't mean to deceive you. But like I said, I didn't want to deprive Izlude the joy of telling you himself. He deserved that much after everything he went through to find you. I mean, it's not every day that a dead man gets a second chance at life and to return to his beloved. Though I must admit that I am blessed to have witness such a thing not once, but twice."

Agrias, who had listened to her husband's explanation in silence up until now, finally spoke up.

"I agree with Ramza. And, I must apologize as well. I hope you and Izlude both understand that we only want what's best for you. You are so much luckier than you can possibly imagine, Alma. Not everybody gets the chance that you've been given. And now, I think we should go through with His Majesty's plan to have the wedding held at the end of the week, just to make sure we don't press our luck needlessly."

Ramza turned to his wife and nodded his agreement. "I've already spoken to Delita about it. He did say he had a few things to take care of first, but that Alma and Izlude's wedding is his top priority and that we should be able to hold it on schedule."

"Speaking of which, does Ovelia know about Izlude as well?" Agrias asked before they both turned to Alma.

"Umm…" Alma wavered as she recalled her earlier conversation with the queen, and the rather confusing discoveries therein which she had thus far neglected to mention. "I actually haven't told her yet."

Ramza was puzzled. "What? Why? I mean, yes, I would've preferred that information be kept in the family, so to speak, but I half expected you to have decided to tell her anyway. Weren't you just with her for lunch earlier?"

"Well, yes," Alma admitted. "And I wanted to tell her, even if I wasn't sure how to convince her. But I could tell something on her mind, something serious, so I refrained from mentioning Izlude. She does know that I've chosen "Damien", but I decided it'd be best to find out what was troubling her."

Upon hearing this, Agrias's expression immediately became concerned. Even though she had a very good idea about what could be bothering Ovelia, she had to ask all the same.

"What was it?" she asked, her tone suggesting that she already suspected the answer.

"It's Delita. To put it mildly, she's concerned about him. The past few days, he hasn't been himself. He's been quite subdued, withdrawn, preoccupied, and secretive lately. And, it's not just her who noticed, either. I hadn't realized it until recently, with everything going on, but half the castle is gossiping about how he doesn't socialize with the staff anymore and lets his mind wander during council meetings, which was pretty out of character."

Ramza and Agrias exchanged glances, their brows furrowed in worry, though neither of them seemed all that surprised at Alma's answer. The Beoulve girl noticed this, felt a hint of incredulity that they hadn't told her about his either, but held her tongue for the moment. She wanted answers, they would probably want to press her for details, so it'd be best to remain calm and talk for now.

"Did she say anything else, Alma?" Ramza asked carefully, apparently trying to coax her into mentioning something pertinent. Something he might already know, but needed confirmed.

"Well, I'm sure you know that he sent Olan, Balmafula, and some of your old classmates from the academy away on a secret mission, right?"

"Yes," Ramza admitted, pausing to bring over a chilled pewter pitcher of milk and a glass, possibly to give himself some breathing room before he continued. "I spoke with Olan and Balmafula about it before they left, but even they did not know what Delita wanted them to find. Just that they were to retrieve some kind of "secret package" and bring it to him as soon as they found it."

"I see…" Alma replied quietly. Her answer worried Agrias, who decided to press Alma further.

"Does Ovelia know anything about it? What did she say? Please, Alma, if Delita is involved in something questionable, we must know."

Alma hesitated, wondering if she should tell Ramza and Agrias about what Ovelia had discovered by spying on her husband. Part of her was loathe to betray a friend's confidence, unspoken thought it might be. But, at the same time, she also knew that this was important and that what Delita had send Olan and the others to find might be a vital clue in whatever had affected the King of Ivalice.

Now that it was her turn to explain, Alma took a deep breath and braced herself. What she had to say would give her brother and sister-in-law quite a shock.

"Brother Ramza, do you remember Algus Sadalfas?" she asked, deciding that the bandage had best be ripped off sooner so that the pain might subside sooner.

Ramza might've been perplexed at the seeming non-sequitur but, if he was, it was hidden by how his expression darkened as he recalled the haughty and imperious nobleman whose thirst to prove himself had not only proven his own undoing, but had also cost Teta her life and turned Delita into what he was now.

Love, fatherhood, and peace had not erased those scars. In all likelihood, nothing ever would, though they might become easier to live with as the years rolled by.

"Sometimes I wish I could forget," the Duke of Lionel intoned, filling his mug with milk and looking as though he was silently pondering the wisdom of his long-standing abstinence from alcohol. "What about Algus?"

Alma took a deep, fortifying breath and then gave her answer.

"Did you know that he had a little sister, who Delita has apparently taken in?"

Ramza had been in the midst of taking a long pull from his mug but, upon hearing the question, his eyes popped open and he spat the drink back into his mug, hacking for long moments until he fell silent and regarded Alma with slack-jawed stupefaction.

"…what?" he gasped out, barely able to force the word past his lips.

Alma then gave a, much abbreviated, version of what Ovelia told her. About how the "package" Delita wanted Olan and company to find actually was actually a little girl who was likely the last surviving member of House Sadalfas, that Delita had put her up in the chambers once occupied by the former Prince Orinias, and that he had been visiting her almost daily since her arrival. She decided not to mention either the gossiping nobles' suppositions that the child, Layla, was actually is Delita's bastard child or, worse, mistress, nor the queen's short-lived fears that either might be true. Such a thing would be far too personal to reveal, not to mention a cruel violation of her friend's privacy and dignity.

Not that Ramza or Agrias needed to hear such a detail to understand just how bizarre this act was. Even without the salacious tittle-tattle bandied about by people with nothing better to do, knowing that a member of the fallen Sadalfus family had indeed survived, and was now in Delita's custody, was more than enough to unnerve the two.

Now that he was king and had the power to change the old caste system of Ivalice that had caused him and his late sister such misery, Ramza had hoped that would satisfy Delita's desire, not only for revenge but to make sure there were no more Tetas. Surely that would slake his thirst for retribution enough for him to decide against seeking out the innocent kin of his hated enemy in order to retaliate against them for a crime they weren't even involved in.

And, as much as he wanted to believe that his friend wouldn't go so far as to harm an innocent child, since everyone Delita had killed by his own hand arguably deserved their fate, Ramza couldn't ignore the fact that a lot of people who had nothing to do with the tragic loss of his beloved sister also suffered because of his actions. But, before Ramza took action, or decided just what action to take, he needed to verify his sister's claim.

"Are you sure, Alma? Is there any chance Ovelia could have been mistaken?" he asked slowly and carefully.

Alma shook her head. "No. I do not believe she would imagine or make up something like this. Besides…there's actually more. Maybe I'm stepping over the line by revealing this but, Ovelia told me that she slipped into the girl's room to see for herself. She heard Delita coming in, hid, and listened in on them. She heard confirmation, from both their mouths, that Algus was the girl's brother."

Ramza sighed. "I see. Honestly, that's not what I wanted to hear. But, maybe I needed to. And, I appreciate you telling me, Alma."

Here, Ramza paused for a long moment, his brow furrowed in thought as he took another long swig of milk.

"All right," he began again. "Before I go to Delita, I think I should speak to Olan and Balmafula first. It would be unwise of me, even as the king's best friend, to rile him up and make any reckless accusations without knowing all the facts. Besides, making sure your wedding to Izlude happens on schedule is the more immediate concern. Speaking of which, he has told you that he is in possession of the Pieces Stone, correct?"

"Yes," she replied. "He assured me that he has not let it out of his sight since he was revived by it. He also told me how he tried to give it to you, but couldn't."

"I know. And it's not that I don't trust Izlude's word to guard it, but the situation is more complicated than he's likely aware of. Those rumors about Delita? How he hasn't been himself lately? Well, those rumors are true. If anything, they understate the case."

Again, Ramza paused and shared significant looks with Alma and Agrias, seeming to work up the nerve to say something he wished he needn't. "I don't know if the Stone is trying to reach out to him, the way it did Cardinal Draclau, Wiegraf, and the others, but I do think that Delita is more…susceptible to its influence now that he would've been, say, a few weeks ago. And, Holy Stones have an unfortunate ability to make their way into the hands of suitable hosts."

The implication was clear, and Alma could literally feel the blood draining out of her face as it sank in. Seeing her reaction, Ramza quickly raised a hand and tried, without much success, to evince calm in his expression.

"Alma, don't panic," he admonished. Then, noticing Agrias irritably drumming her fingers, he added "Agrias, please don't kill me. Look, the bottom line is that Delita's soul is still his own. He's acting differently, yes, but not in the way Wiegraf or Vormav did after obtaining their Stones. I don't know if there's any connection between the Pisces Stone and Delita taking in this Layla, so I may have to do some investigating. I'll also need to see if I can find out whether the Stone can influence a potential host, even when not in direct possession by them."

Despite her brother's efforts to reassure her, Alma gulped. While she, as well as Ramza and Agrias, was relieved that finding a husband for her was no longer an issue, they still had another problem at hand that may still yet put the kingdom and its people in dire peril.

If Delita did, in fact, succumb to the Stone's influence, then Ivalice would effectively become a province of hell.

"What should I do?" she asked, not quite able to keep her fear from her tone.

"The next time you see Izlude," Ramza said, "tell him to find a safe place where he can hide the Stone when he needs to visit the castle. I don't know how much the Stone can influence Delita, but I think it being carried in and out of his home is too much of a risk. Aside from that, I think there's nothing you can do except to guard yourself and your child. This investigation is something I must do, since watching Delita and the Holy Stones is now my responsibility."

Here, Ramza paused once more and gave a long sigh. When he spoke again, his words were heavy with regret and his tone saturated with self-recrimination. But, beneath both lay a spark of determination that fanned into flame.

"My naivete cost me the Delita I grew up with and left a stranger in his place. I am not going to let that happen again."

"I will assist you," Agrias announced, but Ramza shook his head in refusal.

"No, Agrias, not this time. I need you to keep an eye on Rachel."

His wife frowned, though both Beoulves suspected the knightly discipline alone kept her from being more demonstrative with her displeasure. "Surely you don't expect us to sit back and do nothing when there is a chance that the Lucavi will return if Delita gets possessed by a Holy Stone?"

Ramza sighed and he ran his fingers through his dyed hair. He knew his wife and sister were stubborn and while he was used to dealing with one or the other, he found that persuading both to let him go about his investigation of Delita's true intentions alone might very well prove more than he could handle.

Still, the young Beoulve knew he had to make the attempt nonetheless. His, some might claim unwarranted, faith in Delita notwithstanding, he was well aware that what he was doing could prove dangerous. He had seen Delita laid low by his own conscience, yes, but he'd also seen Delita enthralled by a horrific hallucination which nearly ended in the maddened king taking Ramza's head off. What if, next time Ramza met Delita, he was instead faced with an envoy of hell wearing his old friend's shell after the latter's very soul had been evicted?

It was very possible. In which case, he didn't want Rachel to lose both her parents, or for Alma and his unborn niece or nephew to be lost as well.

He hoped that would be enough to convince his wife and sister to do what he asked. Especially since one of them now had a young child to care for and the other is expecting one soon.

"Look…" Ramza began. "If it makes you feel better, I can get Beowulf and Rad to assist me. The two of them should be more than enough to help if things…go wrong."

Alma and Agrias exchanged concerned, and deeply unhappy, looks for a long moment and then, to Ramza's relief, they agreed to go along with his plan.

"Okay, brother," Alma replied. "Just be careful."

"And don't say or do anything that might make Delita suspicious of you. If his intentions are good, he should have nothing to hide. If not, well, you know what you have to do," Agrias added gravely.

"Yes, I know. I already promised you that, and I always keep my promises. Thank you for going along with my plan. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to speak to Beowulf and Rad. "

"Of course," Agrias replied. "Rachel will likely wake up soon. You should leave while your stay of execution is in effect."

"…that's a euphemism for diaper duty, right?" Ramza asked, sounding nervous. "…right?"

After receiving only a glare in response, Ramza left, and rather hastily. Once he was gone, Alma sagged in her chair, feeling more exhausted now than she had while hauling herself up the stairs. She sighed wearily and patted her belly. As much as she hated not being able to help her brother beyond providing him with information, she knew that Ramza was right. With her advancing pregnancy, she had to take greater care with her physical and mental health. But that didn't mean that she wasn't worried.

On the contrary, she was petrified by what Ramza had revealed.

Her sister-in-law seemed to read her mind and kindly expressed her concern.

"Alma, are you okay? Do you need me to escort you to your room? You must be exhausted climbing up the stairs by yourself to get here."

Normally, Alma hated being a burden to others. But right now, she was only too happy to have Agrias's company to ease her worries for Ramza, Ovelia, Delita, and the kingdom as a whole. Now that she knew that there was a possible threat of a Lucavi return – that the hell-spawn fiends that had caused her fiancé's first death, along with so many others, might rise from their seeming defeat at the Graveyard of Airships – even the idea of standing unassisted seemed too much for her overburdened mind and heavy heart to bear.

"Yes," she answered. "Please. But, not right away. I'd like to spend a few minutes with Rachel, since she'll be up soon, if that's alright."

"Of course," Agrias replied, offering a hand to help her sister-in-law rise.

I wonder what Ovelia has to say about…about all this, Alma wondered to herself.

SSSSSS

Had Ovelia heard Alma's unspoken words, she likely would have responded with something along the lines of "I am an idiot".

A part of her very much felt like one at the moment.

How could it be otherwise, when she had not only allowed the last shreds of her dignity to blow away on the wind by sneaking about what was supposed to be her own home like a common footpad while spying on her husband, all because she'd chanced to overhear some idle gossip?

She wondered why that gossip had propelled her to this act of lunacy. Was it because the possibility that Layla might've been Delita's daughter, that he'd sired the little girl before she had ever met him, or that the little girl might be the object of some perversity of his had simply been one blow too many?

Or, was it because she wanted her dire premonitions to be disproven?

She could not say, and was hesitant to even consider the question at length. But, that hardly mattered right now. Though the situation she'd blundered into was far from resolved, she had managed to dissuade the girl from attacking her.

Whatever abbreviated education Layla Sadalfas might've had had apparently included heraldry, for seeing the Atkascha crest upon Ovelia's royal insignia ring had caused the girl's already too pale features to take on the pallor of a corpse. She had then taken a knee, just barely managing not to send herself sprawling, and bowed her head…

…in much the same way the condemned might bow head before the axe.

More than a few of Ovelia's predecessors would've made that grim imagery into a reality and lost nary a wink of sleep over it. But, in more ways than one, Ovelia was different.

Grasping the little girl's trembling shoulder with one hand, and noting with alarm both how she felt little more than bone beneath her fingers and how Layla gasped at the contact, Ovelia mustered her nerve and reiterated her earlier words:

"I'm not going to hurt you."

She found herself wondering if capricious fate would seek to make a liar out of her. From what she knew about House Sadalfas's catastrophic fall from grace, not to mention the many who'd lost friends and loved ones when the girl's grandfather betrayed the kingdom to save his own life, even a queen might be hard pressed to make sure Layla's head stayed upon her shoulders. The myriad excesses of Lesalia were known to include some downright barbaric forms of criminal justice, after all.

Ovelia shook the thought away and turned her attention to the here and now. And, here and now, Layla was out of bed when she was clearly in no condition to be moving about. So, she'd start with rectifying that. Carefully, well aware of the fragile state Layla had been left in by hunger and Consumption, the young queen gently scooped her up and carried her back to the bed. Having seen the treatment of the sick at Orbonne, and having had to mend worse in her time, it was simplicity itself to tuck the little girl in securely and arrange the various compresses about her small form.

For good measure, she snatched up the stuffed tiger – Tiggy, if she was not mistaken – and handed him to Layla.

As she did so, however, something very peculiar happened. Were she asked about it, Ovelia would be hard pressed to say why she said what she did next. Perhaps she was still concerned about Layla's emotional and mental state after her near-miss and wanted to try to put the little girl at ease with a bit of humor. Maybe Ovelia, still confused about why Layla was here and what Delita's odd change of heart might signify, was hoping the little girl might prove informative if Ovelia presented herself as someone she could trust. But, then again, perhaps all the anxiety over the past few days, and the strain of the last few years since her abduction from Orbonne half a lifetime ago, had left her wits quite addled.

Whatever the reason, what Ovelia said next left her wrestling down the urge to facepalm.

"I hope Tiggy will keep a civil tongue this time."

When Layla blinked in stupefaction, Ovelia promptly reiterated her unspoken declaration that the Queen of Ivalice was an idiot. By letting that slip, she had both confirmed that she had been spying on Layla and brought that fact back to the little girl's attention when, rattled as she had been, she might've either overlooked it or forced herself to ignore it.

Now, however, a somewhat calmer and more coherent Layla was regarding her with wide eyed curiosity.

Ovelia supposed she should have ordered Layla to keep silent about the queen's presence, and this wish likely would've been obeyed; but, for some reason, Ovelia simply didn't want to do that.

Was it because Delita might react badly if he caught wind of Ovelia visiting Layla behind his back? Possibly. Was it because Layla might accidentally blurt out word of the queen's visit to her caretakers, which might send the Lesalian gossipmongers into a true frenzy? Maybe.

Or, perhaps it was something far simpler. It might've been because, much like Layla, Ovelia didn't have anyone else to talk to.

Oh, granted, she still had Alma and Agrias, but both women had lives of their own. Alma would be married in a matter of days, and would have her baby soon thereafter, hopefully with no one finding the timing suspect. Agrias had been married mere weeks and was already a mother, though Ovelia had faith that her sister in all but blood was more than equal to the task.

Their visits would be few and far between, and Ovelia had no one else with whom she could speak the truth. The truth behind the pretty lies, which were so artfully told. The truth about the husband she could not trust and instead feared after seeing how he had claimed the bloody crown of Ivalice after ascending a mountain of corpses.

The truth about the man who had killed Layla's brother and, in so doing, condemned her to ignominy and destitution, if not death.

But, then again, recalling what she had seen of Delita earlier – the anguish on his face, the weight of melancholy in his words, the desolation in his eyes – had Ovelia wondering just what was going through her husband's mind. Was what she saw just another scheme of his? Or, now that the liquor of glory and retribution had run dry, did sobriety truly cause his conscience to at last emerge from its long dormancy?

She didn't know and, despite a jaded inner voice pointing out that it was irrelevant, she wanted to know. Perhaps Layla could help her to find out? Another part of her recoiled at the idea of exploiting a girl barely more than a toddler, especially while she was so weak from illness and malnourished that just getting up and walking about posed a risk to her fragile health.

After all, Delita had gotten to where he was by learning from the very best how to exploit others, and then becoming the very best at it.

Yet, there was something else that tugged her in the other direction. Something simple. Something gil could not buy.

Ovelia was lonely. And, clearly, Layla was as well, since her propensity to have "conversations" with Tiggy spoke volumes about what she had by way of friends.

Aside from her caretaker and her mother, Layla likely hadn't had anyone to talk to in years. And, that was assuming her caretaker was still alive…which, Ovelia feared, might be doubtful.

This introspection came to a halt when Layla, apparently finding amusement in Ovelia's words, chuckled and squeezed Tiggy hard on the nose.

"Maybe that will get him to stop talking about how I smell," she remarked. "He just loves stirring up trouble."

"Oh, I know the type," Ovelia added, settling into the chair at Layla's bedside which Delita had vacated not long ago and trying not to overthink her likening herself and/or Alma to a stuffed animal. "While we were at Orbonne, Lady Catherine would often talk me into playing pranks on our caretaker."

That got a giggle out of the little girl, and Ovelia found her lips tugging upwards. The motion seemed unfamiliar after the past few years, but she found herself liking it. And, though recalling the late Father Simon, the truth about her own sequestration at the monastery, and the ancient cloister having been lost in that bizarre accident did recall to her the tarnish of those innocent days, she still found herself missing them.

The memories of those times weren't the same, admittedly, but simply having them nonetheless gave her some small comfort.

And, Layla seemed to enjoy them as well, for the young queen found herself sharing some of her and "Lady Catherine's" less-than-becoming spates of mischievousness, all of which sent the little girl in a fit of giggles until racking coughs forced the pair to stop. Quickly fetching Layla some water, Ovelia carefully guided the soothing liquid down her throat until, after a few experimental inhalations, the little girl signed that she was feeling better.

Ovelia considered leaving then, lest Layla's caretakers notice anything untoward or, worse, barge in and discover this odd scene, but she was brought up short when the little girl posed a question.

"Why were you at the monastery instead of here in the castle?"

Because I'm a double and needed to be groomed for the part, Ovelia's mind replied.

Ovelia's mouth, however, said something else.

"I was sequestered there," she said. "Although King Omdoria's son was considered the probable heir to the throne, he was born after I had already been adopted by the king and named his successor, as I was his half-sister. By then, the king's health was failing and neither I nor the prince were ready to assume the throne, so I was sent to Orbonne Monastery for my own safety."

Feeling the all too familiar sensation of her lips drooping, Ovelia gave a heavy sigh.

"I saw very little of the royal family, and hadn't even visited this city at all until after the war," she went on. "Sometimes I wonder what the point of it all was, since the war my exile was supposed to prevent happened anyway."

Again, she sensed that these words were too burdensome for a little girl who had certainly never asked to be the queen's confidante, but Layla showed no hint of protest. In fact, since there was likely no small amount of secrecy in her own upbringing, she seemed to understand. Despite Ovelia's concerns and occasional interruptions when she'd firmly tell the girl to stop and have a sip of water, Layla had told the queen about her nanny, Maria. While these tales were likely embellished by childhood's eyes, Ovelia could tell that Maria was a tiger of a woman, who had kept her charge safe at great peril to her own life.

Troublingly, Maria had yet to visit Layla. And, given that she had had a great deal of contact with the little girl when the latter had been suffering from the Consumption, that had deeply troubling implications.

Startling both of them, Ovelia found herself promising to make inquiries; though whether she did so to spare the little girl the torment of not knowing or whether because she didn't trust Delita to do so, she couldn't say.

All she was sure of was that Layla's answering smile, weary and tremulous though it was, made her keen to honor this pledge.

Hopefully, for once, Ovelia would find something she didn't regret discovering.

Despite the convenient excuse to leave and sort through her thoughts, Ovelia was brought up short when Layla asked her how she and Delita had first met. Startled at the question, and recalling it nonetheless causing the memory to burn at the back of the young queen's throat, she forced the sensation down and swept her face clean of anything that might betray her inner tumult. Layla understood that Delita was in a troubled state, and had heard him admit that, for all intents and purposes, his machinations had cost him his marriage.

So, why would she ask that?

Was it simple curiosity? Had she taken a leaf out of the books of Lesalia's infamous gossipmongers and developed a downright loose interpretation of other peoples' privacy? Or, maybe she DID know, DID understand, the state that Delita and Ovelia's marriage was in and she misliked it?

That was certainly possible. It had been made quite clear that Layla was growing attached to Delita, even after hearing a rather candid tale of just how he had risen to power and how his journey had started with the death of her brother. Whatever else she might be now, or might become, Layla did not have either her brother's bitterness or her benefactor's vindictiveness.

And, Ovelia found herself hoping it'd stay that way.

Half of her wanted to end, or at least redirect, the conversation then and there for that particular reason. But, another part of her sensed that Layla had asked this for a reason. An important reason.

And, due to some impulse that she would never be able to define, Ovelia chose to answer, inexplicably certain that she would regret refusing far more than whatever risk was entailed by taking the gamble.

So, she told Layla of that fateful, rainy night at Orbonne. Of how Duke Larg and Queen Ruvelia had conspired to have her assassinated and to frame Duke Goltana for the deed, thus removing him as a candidate for the seat of regent. Of how Delita had caught wind of the scheme and, after plowing his fist into her gut hard enough that she passed out from the pain, had spirited her away.

"Not quite what the public had in mind when they say he must've "swept the queen off her feet"," she said, bitterness finally escaping into her tone. Seeing Layla's pursed lips and furrowed brow, the young queen gave a sad sigh and moderated the remainder of her words. "I'm sorry, I should not have spoken like that. Still, even if he did save my life at that time, I can't say I appreciated his…methods."

A deaf man who'd had his skull cracked one too many times could discern the double meaning behind her words, and the contemplative expression on Layla's face made it clear that she had discerned it as well.

"So, if he wasn't there to kill you, why was he there?" she asked.

"He wanted to save me," Ovelia admitted, forcibly keeping the bitter irony of the words from her tone. "Or, at least, he wanted Larg's plot thwarted. And, Larg didn't give up easily. Aside from the men who attacked the Monastery, had made sure some of the Hokuten were waiting to intercept us. Even back then, Delita was a formidable warrior, but I feared our time was over when the Hokuten had us corned at Zirekile Falls. And, we might have, if…if Drake, Agrias, and their companions hadn't arrived when they did."

"Drake? The same Duke Drake that His Majesty told me about?"

"Yes, that's him. At the time, he was serving as a mercenary alongside the Fell Knight Goffard Gaffgarion. When they caught up with us, I recognized Drake. And, of course, I could not fail to recognize Agrias, as she's been one of the few friends I'd had. But, when Gaffgarion revealed that he had been hired to aid in the assassination, I thought we were done for. But, to my surprise, Drake, his companions, and even Gaffgarion's subordinate, Sir Rad, joined our side."

Her words trailed off as she recalled that day. The terror of men she had never met, much less wronged, seeking her death. Only a perfect stranger, who clearly had no compunction against leveraging her cooperation with violence, for protection. Suddenly being out in the world which, beforehand, she'd only ever seen framed in the stone of the Monastery. More strangers, but these seeking to save her life, appearing in such numbers. And then the sickening horror of watching people kill each other.

More than once, she'd had nightmares about that battle ending differently, and sometimes wondered if she might've been better off if she had been slain that day.

But, curiously, she found that reliving it in her dreams, without embellishment, was more than nightmare enough.

Compassionate and empathetic by her very nature, the then-Princess of Ivalice had been horrified when the haze of panic had lifted and she had seen the carnage that those harrowing minutes had wrought. The coppery stickiness of the blood that wetted the rocks. The terrible stillness of the bodies that lay sprawled in death. In particular, she remembered one of the Hokuten, who was still alive even as crimson poured from a gash in his throat. He had reached out, almost beseechingly, and apparently past the point of caring from whom salvation came. But, his mute plea went unanswered and, with a sigh that still sent shivers down Ovelia's spine, his outstretched hand fell limply to the rocks and he died.

Dignity, and no small amount of numbness that had crept in to preserve her wits in the face of such senseless barbarity, had prevented her from retching her guts out. Or fainting. Or both.

The Queen of Ivalice recalled Layla's earlier wish to be a knight, so that she might rectify the failings of her brother and grandfather, and she suddenly found herself hoping the little girl might be persuaded otherwise.

"After the battle was over," she went on, "Delita decided to let me stay with Agrias and Drake. I was relived, if only because I knew Agrias and had faith that she would know what to do."

A guarded smile crossing her lips as Ovelia recalled Agrias.

"I think you'd enjoy meeting Agrias," she told Layla, wondering if she was saying this because a woman who had seen battle firsthand might be better equipped to guide Layla away from her chosen course or whether, if Layla could not be persuaded, then it would be best if she had a better mentor then Delita. "She's likely one of the best knights I've ever met, and definitely the strongest woman I've ever known. She can be a bit stern at times, but she was never unkind."

"Do you think I could meet Lady Agrias?" Layla asked, not even trying to hide her excitement at the prospect. "It sounds like I could learn a lot from her."

"Possibly," Ovelia said, deciding not to speak for her sister in all but blood without the latter's consent. "It'd be her decision, of course, but I hope it happens. You might also like meeting her daughter, Rachel. But, that'll have to wait until you're well. Rachel is still a baby, and babies are fragile."

That simple observation recalled that Layla herself was at least as fragile as any babe-in-arms, if not more so, and Ovelia considered whether she ought to excuse herself and let the girl get some rest. But, she was brought up short when Layla asked another question.

"Why did His Majesty leave you with Lord Drake? Weren't you still in danger?"

Yes, and in more ways than one, Ovelia silently replied.

Out loud, however, she said "Yes, but Delita knew what he was doing. He wanted to impress upon me that he, and he alone, could keep me safe and that, if I didn't work with him, I'd wear a noose instead of a crown. So, since he knew Agrias and Drake would be able to keep me safe just long enough, he let me go so I could learn that I needed him, whether I liked it or not." Again, bitterness seeped into her words. "He always was a schemer. The sort of man who could plan nine moves ahead and have you checkmated before you even knew the game was turning against you. After all, that's how he became king."

The two were silent for a long moment after that. And, though Ovelia didn't notice, Layla's brow had furrowed deeply as she considered what she had heard. The Queen of Ivalice, meanwhile, spent long moments lost in unhappy introspection. Her own words had harkened her back to just how gifted Delita was in beguiling others to his whims, and how those others rarely lived longer than he considered them useful. She still could not refute the notion that Delita taking in Layla was simply another plot that he was enacting, even if she was at a loss as to what he had to gain from it, but part of her still wanted to disprove it.

She wanted to believe that the long nightmare might end.

She was jolted back to wakefulness when she felt something grasp her hand. She glanced down and saw that, while she had been lost in dire thoughts, Layla had painstakingly scooted over and clasped her hand with her own.

Though it was every bit as wasted as the rest of the little girl's ravaged form, the hand was warm.

"Sorry," Layla said in a very soft, very self-conscious tone. "You looked like you needed that."

"I think I did," Ovelia admitted. "Thank you."

Perhaps sensing that this was not the time for overly probing questions, Layla guided their conversation to such harmless topics as other pranks Ovelia and "Catherine" had carried out and what Agrias was like, both as a knight and as a new mother. The little girl, perhaps sensing that these lighter anecdotes were helping the queen's mood, kept at it gamely for some time before her eyelids began to droop and yawns punctuated her sentences. At that point, the Queen of Ivalice decided that the little girl had had quite enough for one day.

"Will I see you again?" Layla asked, sensing what was coming.

To her surprise, Ovelia found herself nodding. As she reached for the door, however, she paused. Aside from how it would surely raise awkward questions, not to mention more damnable gossip, if she were seen exiting this room, it was quite possible that her troubled expression would, in itself, send tongues a-wagging. So, before she opened the door, she spent several moments drawing in deep breaths, forcing her tangled emotions and unhappy thoughts to quiet themselves for a time.

The best way for a queen to avoid shoveling fresh coal on the ever-burning bonfires of Lesalian gossip was for her to look calm, collected, and poised. In other words, just the way she was supposed to look and, ergo, quite uninteresting to those sniffing about for scandal, intrigue, and other vicious bits of tittle-tattle.

The effect of her self-induced trance was briefly broken when she noticed Layla gazing at her, her expression seeming concerned.

"Is something wrong?" the Queen of Ivalice asked, perplexed.

Layla seemed to consider the notion for a long moment before she shook her head.

"It can wait," she said, and Ovelia wondered if there might be some hidden meaning to that. "And, I'm sure you're busy. Thank you again for speaking with me, Your Majesty. I would be honored if we could do it again sometime."

Whatever small education the girl had received before her life was overturned and set afire, her courtesy did her much credit. Giving the little girl a smile that she hoped looked more genuine than it felt, Ovelia gave Layla's hand a reassuring squeeze of her own and, after a quick peek to make sure the corridor beyond was deserted, went out the door.

Ovelia still wasn't sure what game Delita was playing here, or if there even WAS a game this time, but she wanted to find out.

SSSSSS

Though Lesalia was undoubtedly the most beautiful and cultured city in Ivalice, whose illustrious visage haunted the wanderlust-stricken dreams of rich and poor alike, not to mention the go-to destination for the young artist and working man keen to ply his trade in the greenest of pastures, it was not a perfect place.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

More than a few would find the seemingly bottomless well of decadence to grate upon one's nerves. Given time, and/or excess, sumptuous food could turn to ash in the mouth, lavish drink cease to satisfy, and extravagant clothes and jewelry lose its luster. For others, the incessant gossip that changed hands in Lesalia the way coin did in a marketplace could become unbearable. Tittle-tattle about who was having an affair with whom, or which investment was more likely to pay off than its contemporaries, or who was in debt to whom piled up fast and, after a time, anxiety over a tidbit that did catch one's interest would wear away to indifference as the sheer volume of hearsay exceeded what one could keep track of or even care about. For others still, they might find that they came to Lesalia to ply their trade or art of choice, only to discover that they'd bitten off than they could chew.

Patrons in the city were generous to those who impressed them, but such favor was hard to come by and was easily lost. What's more, the old adage "If you don't deliver, someone else will" held doubly true. When a patron beheld a painting, a sculpture, a tapestry, a piece of jewelry, a piece of literature, a piece of theater, or such, and came away disappointed, then there were dozens if not hundreds of others keen to try and succeed where their contemporary had failed. And, when a disappointed patron left, it was doubtful that patron would return. Not all who believed themselves strong enough for such travails were accurate in that assessment, and not all who found their talent lacking, and their purse lacking soon thereafter, could withstand such a blow.

For Charlotte, however, what caused her childish wonderment towards Lesalia to wither was not the city's culture of excess, nor the tidal waves of gossip, nor the constant drumbeat of artistic criticism. In later years, she would admit that it was something she should have let roll off her back as an inevitability of life. But, as a ten-year-old girl whose ego had taken no small amount of flaying in her young life and only recently found relief and acceptance, a reminder of how she'd been treated not so long ago had been enough to cause tender wounds to bleed afresh.

Charlotte had long known that – young and, until recently, neglected as she had been – she wasn't much to look at. Some would disagree, would likely claim that time and proper care for herself would see her blossom into a lovely young woman. Those who made those claims likely believed them, and might even be proven right. But now, recalling her unpleasant time spent in front of the seamstress's mirror, Charlotte could not agree with this optimistic appraisal.

The seamstress who had been tasked with preparing her for Duchess Catherine's wedding was not the kindly old Annie. She, those aware of the duchess's pregnancy knew, was being kept free to work on the duchess herself, not only because she had already proven that she could be trusted with that rather explosive secret but also because she knew how to weave a dress that hid the telltale signs from prying eyes. As such, the other women who would be attending the wedding had been referred to Annie's various apprentices. Charlotte had been assigned to one, a woman in her early twenties who had barely half of the kindly Annie's years.

And barely a thousandth of the older woman's kindness.

Charlotte wasn't sure whether the younger woman had gleaned that she had a peasant for a client or whether it was one of the, in the little girl's opinion, numerous failings in her appearance that had sparked the apprentice's disdain, but it was soon apparent that this session would be pleasant for neither of them. Especially not Charlotte.

And, indeed, it wasn't.

Despite her best efforts and days of self-training, Charlotte could never seem to stand up straight enough to suit the woman. Whenever Charlotte ventured an opinion, usually to say this color or that was especially pretty, the woman would scowl, snatch the fabric away, and irritably go hunting for a different bolt of fabric. And, when the pair, finally, agreed on color and material, it came time to take measurements.

For Charlotte, fragile of ego and overly self-conscious, it had been a little piece of hell.

None-too-gently stripped to her underthings, she'd had to take stock of how much she had changed since her inauspicious crossing of Lady Catherine's doorstep. At the time, having lived on the streets for days, maybe weeks, she had looked every bit the part of an impoverished street waif. Filthy, little more than skin and bones, and not long for this world. But, after her unexpected, and deeply ironic, good fortune of finding a room over her head and food on her plate, not to mention a paid position as Lionel Castle's unofficial cook, she had changed.

Drastically.

Gone was the muck and grime of the uncaring streets. Gone were the rags and putrid aroma. Gone was the weariness and hopelessness in her face. Gone were the visible ribs and sunken eyes.

For that, she was thankful every day, especially since Lady Catherine could've easily given her a hanging instead of a second chance at life. But, though Charlotte had worked every bit as hard as the other orphans who'd been added to Lionel Castle's unlikely staff, she'd also enjoyed her newfound salary as much as any three of them put together.

The emaciated street waif was gone, and had been replaced by a girl who could easily be mistaken for a spoiled nobleman's daughter whose meals were never complete without a generous portion of cake.

She was obviously, undeniably, and, in her opinion, sickeningly, fat.

Her once wasted frame was now banded with a generous layer of flab, much of which sagged over her waistline to bounce languidly whenever she shifted, either in answer to the less-than-kindly woman or in the vain hope that a shift in angle might make her look less porcine.

It didn't.

She looked as round as a catapult stone, at least as wide, and probably just as heavy. Her short stature seemed to magnify her girth and made her being too young to have those "breasts" the boys seemed so fond of all the more chafing. And, speaking of chafing, she noted with burning shame that her thighs were smooshed together like two loaves of unbaked bread placed too close together in too small an oven. Seeing her, much, fuller cheeks and what looked like a second chin almost proved overwhelming.

Almost.

The sight before her was revolting, but she would not break down in front of this unkind stranger. Back in the workhouse, after the adults had decided they'd rather abandon a building full of orphans than work without pay, and the older children had taken over, Charlotte had quickly learned that breaking down invited trouble. A beating, perhaps her portion of the scavenged or stolen food being reduced, or some awful chore, sometimes for old men who looked at her in ways that made her deeply afraid.

It wasn't until Lady Catherine had taken her in that she felt she'd found someone, besides Manon, that she could cry in front of without fear of being punished. But, this woman was nothing like Lady Catherine, so tears could wait. Besides, Charlotte was otherwise occupied with the apprentice seamstress's efforts to fit her…

…try to fit her, anyway.

The woman, finding that none of the ready-made dresses of the chosen material and color which she had on hand would fit, announced, in biting tones, that she would need to sew one from scratch. She quickly double-checked her measurements, producing a set of numbers that made Charlotte's heart sink, and then gave an irate sniff. Through most of this, Charlotte had remained as quiet as a mouse, deciding that silence would make this embarrassment go by faster but, when the woman had made a remark about Lady Catherine, intimating that she was too indulgent and soft if her "wards" were so "lazy" and "spoiled", the "mouse" finally sprouted teeth and bit back.

Though the moments blurred past, Charlotte was well aware that she'd gone on at considerable length, and in less-than-ladylike tones, that Lady Catherine was one of the most beneficent and forgiving souls she had ever met and, more to the point, she was not blind to her wards' faults and had been urging Charlotte to better herself. Here, Charlotte wavered and, in a quieter tone, admitted that she just hadn't done a good enough job listening.

The apprentice seamstress gave a disparaging glance at Charlotte's paunch and then gave it a contemptuous slap, causing the fat to wobble like gelatin. She then dryly said that she'd noticed and then went right back to work, leaving Charlotte to fall back in sullen silence.

Once the girl was done and redressed, she'd marched out of the dressing room, mortification clinging to her like a layer of filth that no amount of soap could scrub away. Still, though she'd felt a drop of pleasure in defending Lady Catherine, that had fizzled since her own words had driven home the point that she had only herself to blame for getting so fat.

Even before she and Manon had fled the workhouse, food had been scarce, and rarely appetizing. Bread that was partially moldy and riddled with weevils. Rancid meat. Cheese which, where it wasn't outright spoiled, was so tough that sewing needles couldn't have pierced it. The occasional rat. And other things she desperately wished to forget. The small plate of confections the Lady Catherine had been enjoying, and which she and Manon had tried to steal from her, was a lavish banquet by comparison.

And, from there, more gastronomical delights awaited. Once she had tried her hand at cooking for her unexpected new household, and discovered that she had quite the talent for it, she promptly fell into the habit of cooking a little extra, which she divided between Lady Catherine and herself, as well as making sure anything she deemed unsuitable for Lady Catherine's plate went onto hers instead.

Once Charlotte learned, to her further amazement, that she was also getting paidfor her work, and got her money, she had been quick to spend it on whatever set her mouth to watering.

The first thing she'd bought (after cleaner clothes, that is) was a plate of the same pastries she'd tried to steal from Lady Catherine, viewing the act as vicariously making up for her almost act of theft. When she had emerged from the rapture the sweets had sent her into, she discovered, to her amazement, that she had finished the plate. To her further astonishment, she also found she had enough money left over for further purchases.

Suffice to say, she put that money to use.

Though more presentable clothes, better shoes, and a number of lovely pins for her hair found their way into her room over time, she still used a portion of her pay to purchase whatever treats attracted her eyes. And nose. Later, as she considered learning her way around the kitchen to repay Lady Catherine's kindness, this took a different slant. She would try to riddle out the flavors and textures of what passed her lips and, after several attempts, eventually learned to recreate it for Lionel Castle's dinner table. This went on for some time, with Charlotte making sure anything too sour, too overcooked, too under-cooked, and/or too unsightly to pass Lady Catherine's lips passed Charlotte's instead. By that same token, at least half her pay went to sweets of all sorts, whether purchase for academic purposes or for pleasure, which traced a similar path.

At times, she very much enjoyed not only the quantity and variety of the food she could not only buy, as well as having the money to actually buy it with, but also the gratification of learning she was quite good at cooking it. Baking proved more of a challenge, as it was a far less forgiving process, so she later set aside part of her pay to buy flour, raw chocolate, sugar, and other staples, as well as books for how to make confections, and then began trying to recreate the sweets she saw peddled in Lionel's market. After a few false starts, which she disposed of much like any other creation she wasn't pleased with, she eventually got the hang of it and began baking for the castle regularly.

At other times, however, she felt a strange desperation to get what morsels she could, as though some indefinable voice warned her against assuming her good fortune would prove lasting. Why that was, Charlotte wasn't quite sure. Did some part of her believe that, one day, Lady Catherine would tire of having a former ragamuffin in her service and tell her to leave? Charlotte knew this to be absurd, especially since Lady Catherine had practically hired half the orphans in Lionel and seemed quite pleased with both their work and that she could do something to improve their lives. Was Charlotte, used to having scant portions, which could easily be snatched away by someone bigger and meaner than her, simply wolfing hers down for fear it might be taken from her? Again, absurd. For all her gentility, Lady Catherine had been quick to riddle out how to lay down the law with her…wards? Stepchildren? Charlotte wasn't sure, and sometimes suspected that Lady Catherine wasn't sure either. Regardless, though it had taken a while to sink in, she knew she didn't have to fear going hungry in Lady Catherine's house.

Whatever the reason, it seemed that whenever Charlotte wasn't working with much dedication to ensure that Lady Catherine was served well, she was stuffing her face with equal fervor. More than once, it had made her sick, and Lady Catherine was there at her bedside to make sure it was nothing serious and to wait for the overstuffed girl to doze off regardless.

Though Charlotte was kept busy as the highly unofficial head chef of Lionel Castle, she did have some free time; yet another luxury she'd lacked back in the defunct workhouse and wasn't always sure what to do with. As she had always enjoyed reading the few books that had been left at the workhouse, and since the new printing press meant books were much more affordable, she quickly grabbed a pair of biographies. One about the famed Knight Gallant, Lord Balbanes Beoulve, and another about the rise, fall, and ultimate vindication of Count Cidolfas Orlandu, better known as "Thunder God Cid". She had caught snatches of conversation about the pair from the adults in the castle and, curious, had decided to read about them.

Suffice to say, she was not disappointed.

In fact, she suggested to Sir Beowulf that adding the tomes to Manon's training might help. A knight was expected to be educated while Manon, though a promising student, could barely read. And, the would-be squire would likely learn a great deal from the exploits of two such heroic men. Sir Beowulf agreed immediately, as did Lady Reis who, smiling slyly, suggested that Charlotte help Manon riddle out the words between Sir Beowulf's lessons.

Something in Lady Reis's smile had made Charlotte's cheeks heat up, and she promptly smothered the sensation by whipping up, and imbibing, a parfait.

Snacking while she was reading quickly became routine. And, as Manon gradually got a firmer grasp of reading, prompting her to listen as he read aloud and intervene only when he faltered, she also began having a plate ready for the wait. Partly to pass the time and partly so she had something to distract her from how tones Manon's arms were becoming.

More than once, Lady Catherine had warned Charlotte that these habits of hers were unhealthy, and that spending all her money in one place again and again was unwise, but Charlotte had no sooner resolved to listen than temptation reared its head once more. Thus, here she was, a porcine pauper princess who was liable to react to baked goods the way a pig reacted to a full trough.

Mortification threatening to drive her to tears, Charlotte hastened to…well, anywhere she thought she might find privacy. Lady Catherine was occupied being fitted for her own dress, and there weren't many others she trusted well enough to see her cry without looking down upon her. Her room was quite a distance, but surely a castle this big had to have an empty corner or two somewhere closer, right?

Trying to ignore the chaffing of her thighs rubbing together and the way her flaccid blubber bounced with every motion, and not succeeding on either count, she soon spotted a door, standing ajar at the end of an out of the way corridor. A quick glance revealed it to be another fitting room, though one very different than the one Charlotte had just vacated. Rather than tailored suits and fine gowns, this one included racks laded with ceremonial armor, the padded jerkins worn beneath, and a variety of weapons much too ostentatious for the battlefield. Thinking this might offer the blessed privacy she craved, she made her way inside, but skidded to a halt when she saw it was occupied by two teenaged girls.

Two very attractive teenaged girls.

One was clad in the armor of a squire and had what was likely a practice sword sheathed at her hip, though her imperious bearing suggested that she viewed her time before being dubbed a knight as a mere formality. She had smooth, olive skin, high cheekbones, deep brown eyes, and jet-black hair, the latter of which was being tied into a functional bun at the back of her head.

Charlotte was very much of the opinion that Lady Agrias's braids were a better way to tie back a lady knight's hair, but was feeling too self-conscious to speak the words.

Still, while the squire was pretty, it was obvious that she was no dainty lady. What Charlotte could see of her form was lithe and toned, likely from both her training and dedicated exercise beforehand. But, what twisted the knife in even harder was the squire's chest.

Either she'd managed to strap a pair of cantaloupes under her armor, or her "growth spurt", as Charlotte had heard it dubbed, had been… impressive.

It made the feeling that had persisted in Charlotte, of being the lesser specimen, feel all the more acute.

And, this wasn't helped when she noticed the girl's companion. This girl was very different than the lady squire, though she was also quite pretty. Much shorter and not nearly as muscled, she was clad in a violet gown that gently enfolded her supple form. Less curvaceous than her companion, but her olive skin and brown eyes, similar enough to those of her companion to suggest they were related, nonetheless looked smooth as velvet and struck a lovely contrast to her burgundy locks which curved in ringlets low enough to brush her shoulders. Her own chest was downright unremarkable compared to her companion's, but that gave Charlotte little comfort as her chest was even less impressive.

The two girls gave no hint of having noticed Charlotte, as both had their gazes fixed upon a large mirror. The squire was watching the latter coil her hair while the one with the burgundy ringlets, who balanced upon a stool behind the taller girl, was winding the ebon tresses with a deft hand and a look of concentration that some might've found comically out of proportion to the task.

Why she lingered, she wasn't sure. But, when the two girls began speaking, she found the barest spark of curiosity urging her to linger a moment.

"Well, Steph', what do you think?" the girl with the burgundy ringlets asked.

"I think you overdid it, Claudine," Steph' – Stephanie, perhaps? – replied. "That's a lot of work when it'll likely come undone the minute I pull off my helm."

"Well, nothing but the best for my sis!" Claudine insisted, smiling. "Besides, you could use that! Picture this: you stand before a brother-in-arms, fair featured and of impressive stature. He's just saved your life on the field of battle….no, strike that, you saved him. He gives a gracious bow, asks how he might repay this debt of honor. You take off your helm, your bun comes undone, and your tresses spill out, leaving him speechless!"

"I can see where you're going with this. You've been trying to find me a man ever since I was accepted into the academy. And, you've been trying even harder after I was appointed to the security detail for Lady Catherine's wedding."

"Well, can you blame me?! This is the wedding between the King's cousin and the Ghostbuster of Gollund! To be guarding it, at your age? That's amazing! But, I guess I shouldn't be surprised my big sis got recognition for being so awesome!"

Stephanie reached back, caught one of Claudine's hands, and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

"Well, you gave me plenty of practice when we were kids," she commented with a chuckle. "I swear, I sometimes think you got in trouble all those times on purpose so I could get some practice saving people."

"How do you know I didn't do all that on purpose?" Claudine asked cheekily.

"So, you scared Baroness Victoria's cat up a tree, on purpose, riled up Count Clive's dog, also on purpose, got chased around the garden by the dog, still on purpose, climbed up the same tree as the cat, again on purpose, and then ended up dangling from one of the branches by your bodice when the cat attacked you, once more on purpose?" Stephanie asked, and Charlotte couldn't tell if her tone was disbelieving or not.

"Commitment to the bit!" Claudine cheered, punching the air with a sense of triumph that made even less sense than her scheme did. "Hey, it worked, didn't it?"

Stephanie opened her mouth to say something but, after a long pause, she simply shook her head and gave a low chuckle.

"You really are a handful," she admitted. "Still, it was fun. And, I certainly got in the practice. Did you see how I wiped the floor with that cadet this morning?"

"Oh, you better believe I did! I was so proud! And, I always did love seeing you in action. And, the look on that fop's face when you had him on his belly with your knee in his back? PRICELESS!"

After that point, the remainder of the two girls' words became a low buzzing in Charlotte's ears. Aside from the realization that her oasis of privacy had already been claimed, and was unlikely to become vacant again anytime soon, seeing these two beautiful specimens had caused her sense of inferiority to become all the more caustic. Aside from how the pair were far more appealing than she was likely to ever be, there had been the, downright copious, reminders that the two sisters had always been able to rely on one another.

Charlotte had only stumbled upon such a treasure recently, in the form of Manon saving her from a fate she dared not contemplate and later in the form of Lady Catherine's accepting her as a ward and even, dare she say, a friend.

Having someone in whom one could have unflinching trust practically from the cradle, though? That was very different. And, very enviable.

Charlotte hadn't even had that from the parents whom she would not know if they came up and spoke to her this very moment.

And, though the pair looked quite different from one another – Stephanie being have the well-muscled form and grounded grace of a natural fighter and Claudine being a dainty, silk-clad flower – few could dispute that each girl was very attractive. More than that, each practically oozed poise, confidence, and refinement from every pore, lending each an unshakable sense of self-possession and a well-founded belief that acceptance from their peers was merely a question of time.

Charlotte, on the other hand?

Feeling very much the ugly duckling, after it'd been fattened for slaughter, her gaze dipped towards the floor. And, when her line of sight was instead filled with the sight of the dome of fat that her freewheeling indulgence had created, she gave an anguished sigh.

That turned out to be a mistake.

The two girls, too caught up in their conversation to have noticed the intruder beforehand, gasped and whirled in Charlotte's direction. And, she noticed both pairs of eyes narrowing in displeasure. Thinking quickly, Charlotte pasted on an apologetic expression and dipped into a curtsey.

Tried to, anyway.

Her girth had increased to the point where shifting her stance was a bit of a chore, and she misliked how her wideness was on such embarrassing display, especially before a pair of strangers whose ire she'd likely raised already. Still, once she'd forced herself back upright, she injected an all too real note of contrite modesty into her tone.

"Your pardon, my ladies," she said, pointedly avoiding their eyes. "I didn't realize this room was occupied until it was too late. My apologies."

There was a long pause after those words during which, having read in her books that making direct eye contact with one above her station was a sign of disrespect, Charlotte had kept the two girls' mouths on the fringe of her vision.

The sly smirks she saw there were not reassuring.

Neither was Stephanie's rather insistently directing Charlotte to come closer.

Anxiety now drowning out her self-consciousness, Charlotte did as she was bade and then stood stock-still as the two girls, who now circled her in a fashion much too akin to vultures for her peace of mind, seemed to size her up.

What they were looking for, Charlotte could not say. Aside from her rather mortifying size, she was humbly dressed and could easily be mistaken for a servant girl. Possibly one who, having been caught intruding, was due for a reprimand. Or, maybe her voice, despite her training in how to speak like a proper maidservant, gave her away as a onetime ragamuffin, whose company these two would likely consider undesirable. Eventually, she tired of trying to guess and just wished it would be over.

Her wish for someplace where she could cry without fear of being judged and/or punished for it was rapidly becoming more acute.

She almost missed it when Claudine finally spoke.

"Aren't you one of Lady Catherine's…," her words trailed off, her expression taking on a look of mocking curiosity. "Servants?"

"Yes, milady," Charlotte answered, hoping this conversation might be heading towards less ominous waters. "Amongst other things, I cook for her household."

Again, the two ladies regarded her in silence, and Charlotte feared the proverbial waters might be growing choppy.

"And, why aren't you with her now?" The question sounded almost accusatory.

"I was being fitted for a gown, as milady wished for me to attend her wedding," Charlotte answered, feeling her cheeks redden despite having done no wrong. "Lady Catherine is still being fitted, so I was awaiting her return."

Charlotte did not like the looks the two girls exchanged, not the smallest reason being she'd seen looks like those before. And, they'd always meant trouble.

"Bit tardy, aren't you?" Stephanie remarked, and her tone rankled. "But, then again, the seamstress probably had her hands full with you."

"In more ways than one!" Claudine smoothly added.

Again, Charlotte's face took on a reddish hue. But, whether from her self-grooming as a demurely respectful budding maidservant or the meekness that had been, literally, beaten into her by her former wardmates, she remained unmoving as the two girls amused themselves at her expense.

She had hoped that her newfound tormentors would soon grow bored and dismiss her, but then they decided to escalate the torture. Claudine, having slipped behind her while she was busy wishing this moment would end, bent down and had grasped hold of Charlotte's blubber. The younger girl gave a yelp of surprise, followed by a stifled moan of anguish as the older girl began to knead her fat like a baker would uncooked dough.

"These rolls lack only a dallop of butter!" Claudine intoned with vicious amusement. "If this one is the cook, I'm surprised Lionel Castle isn't populated with scarecrows."

Stephanie, not to be outdone, moved in front of Charlotte, took a knee, and reached under the younger girl's skirt to grab a handful of her thighs. Charlotte swallowed a scream, both at the intrusion at how this brought back memories of her final hours at the workhouse.

Very, VERY bad memories.

Francine had wanted to make sure she was "untouched" before sending her to a client. Charlotte still wasn't sure what she had meant by "untouched", and frankly didn't want to know

She also, most certainly, did NOT want to revisit the experience.

"I see what you mean, Claudine," Stephanie remarked. "The service must be quite slow if this one also waits the tables. With legs like these, she must waddle like a bird!"

That blow to Charlotte's already battered and bleeding ego had barely landed when the pair struck again.

Literally.

Charlotte felt a hard, stinging slap to her backside. Before she could even turn around, Stephanie delivered another to her belly. The two older girls kept this up for long, agonizing minutes, noting with amusement how Charlotte seemed to literally jiggle under each blow.

"What was that old rhyme Uncle Mortimer was fond of?" Stephanie mused aloud before snapping her fingers. "Oh, yes! "Some greedy folks from sleeping, and no sooner they get up-""

""Then hand is in the aumbre, and nose is in the cup!"" Claudine promptly finished.

Several other remarks were made, some regarding why she would be the castle's cook when she seemed the only one who truly enjoyed her own creations and that a cack-handed peasant was likely taken on purely from charity, in much the same way as a stray dog or cat. These verbal cruelties were readily complimented by those done with the hands, as the two continued slapping and groping Charlotte's portly build all the while.

"I just thought of something," Claudine chimed in. "Steph', you've had plenty of practice rescuing fair maidens, but how are you at thrashing churls who've run off and then dragging them back to their masters? Besides, she couldn't put up a worse fight than those fops you were sparring with."

A direct hit from a Biizzaja spell could not have chilled Charlotte more. She'd had more than a few beatings back at the workhouse, but Stephanie looked like her training in combat would make this one vastly worse.

"Not a bad idea," Stephanie remarked, and Charlotte's grip on her composure wavered dangerously. "I never did approve of slumming it when it came to hiring, and that a king's cousin would never did sit right with me. And, if nothing else, it always helps to have a bigger target."

Charlotte felt despair burn at the back of her throat. For a terrible, terrible moment, she was back in the workhouse at Lionel and, rather than Stephanie, she was facing down Francine. The would-be madame, having struck upon the idea of escaping poverty by prostituting her fellow girls, had dealt out beatings to those who were too resistant to her designs. Charlotte had been about to receive such a beating, one which would have undoubtedly bruised the spirit even more than the body, and had only been spared when Manon had barged in and intervened.

Usually, that memory had brought her some comfort, knowing that, lacking though she might be, she hadn't been left to her fate. But, this time, there was no solace to be found.

After all, how could she believe she'd get that lucky twice?

So, one can imagine her amazement when the door creaked open and an all too familiar voice shouted "What's going on here?!"

Stunned, Charlotte's gaze snapped in the direction of the door, and, to her amazement, Manon stood in the open portal. He was clad in the garb of a squire, which she recalled saying made him look quite handsome, and had a training sword on his belt. But, whereas there'd been hints of boyish nervousness on his face at the time, now she saw shock and anger at the spectacle before him.

After a moment's stupefaction, he noticed her terrified expression and his own hardened with anger as he regarded the two girls. They, in turn, looked less than pleased at the interruption.

"Oh, another of Lady Catherine's pet peasants," Stephanie remarked dryly.

"At least the armorer must've had less trouble fitting that one," Claudine remarked, accentuating her point by dragging Charlotte in close and giving her doughy belly a contemptuous slap.

Charlotte barely noticed, amazed that Manon had come and more than a bit alarmed at the livid anger she saw on his face.

"That's no way to treat a lady," he intoned, his expression hardening into a glare.

"Pshaw!" Claudine was visibly unimpressed by his words, shoving Charlotte aside and then rising to her feet. "That is a churl in a borrowed wardrobe, not a lady. A lady stands before you."

Claudine stood full in front of Manon, back erect and hands on hips in an imperious pose meant to impress upon him his inferiority. Charlotte could readily admit that it was effective, as seeing the older girl's supple frame and alluring features was more than enough to make her spirits sag without the need for posturing. But, when she looked at Manon, she saw something she did not expect.

Was it her imagination, or did he look…amused?

"I stand before a lady?" he asked, sounding surprised.

He then drew closer to Claudine, causing three brows to furrow in perplexity, and then leaned in towards her chest, giving an exaggerated squint. Claudine, liking neither his scrutiny nor his proximity, drew back a pace, covering her chest and looking decidedly less confident than she had moments before. Manon gave a sharkish grin and intoned "I'll have to take your word for it."

Charlotte could practically hear Claudine's blood boiling at this remark. And, unsurprisingly, Stephanie's expression of shock promptly turned into one of anger so intense it verged on hatred.

"What did you just say?!" she hissed, her fist clenched.

"Surely those delicate ears could not have failed to hear," Manon answered, his tone bordering on flirtatious and most unamusing to all three of his small audience.

Charlotte, despite the gravity of the situation, had to force herself not to laugh. Sir Beowulf's lessons to the budding young squire had included more refined speech and, during some of his "practice sessions", Manon could be downright hammy. But, that small twinge of amusement was choked away when she noticed that an adversarial gleam was twinkling in Manon's eye.

Surely he wasn't planning to pick a fight?

Stephanie, the least amused of the trio, promptly drew back one leather clad fist and drove it into Manon's jaw. Charlotte winced, but had seen, and been subjected to, enough beatings to know that Manon wasn't badly hurt. In fact, as he regarded Stephanie again, he almost looked pleased at having been struck.

Boys are weird, she promptly concluded.

"I've taken worse," Manon remarked, to which both older girls voiced derisive agreement.

"I don't doubt it," Claudine remarked, still looking quite incredulous despite the earlier insult having come from someone she assuredly viewed as unimportant. "Now, get out!"

"No, can't do that."

Stephanie drew back her fist again, but this time, Manon dodged out of the way with a lightness of foot that surprised all three girls. Stephanie, unable to arrest her momentum, overbalanced and went sprawling. Claudine gave a gasp of, surprisingly genuine, alarm and raced to her sister's side. Stephanie waved off this concern, rose to her feet, and glared at Manon with undisguised loathing.

Charlotte, by contrast, regarded the scene with undisguised bewilderment.

What was Manon doing?! People of the lower classes, such as he, could, and usually did, lose their heads behaving so to a pair of nobly born girls. And, even if he was doing it in her defense, and even if she could not deny that the notion warmed her heart, this picture of recklessness threatened to turn into a horror story. One which filled her with more terror than days spent being beaten by these haughty girls could inflict.

A word from them could have her best friend, who'd been her only friend during those harsh times after the pair had fled the workhouse, taken from her forever.

So, why was Manon looking so blithe about it all?!

Her alarm deepened when Stephanie pulled out her sword. Being a squire, she was allowed only a blade with meticulously rounded edges which looked like they couldn't slice butter.

Caving in an impertinent peasant's skull, on the other hand…

Again, Manon seemed the very opposite of alarmed as he drew his own, similarly blunt, sword which he hefted in a two-handed grip. Then, in a transparent farce of shock at himself, he suddenly straightened and snapped his fingers.

"I almost forgot!" he blurted out, then faked a self-deprecating chuckle before tugging off on of his gauntlets and throwing it at Stephanie's feet. "Okay, everything in order now, squire?"

He put a biting emphasis on the last word, reminding Stephanie, not to mention Claudine and Charlotte, that, for all their differences, they nonetheless wore the same uniform now. And, when two of the people who wore that uniform had a…disagreement, this was how they settled it.

No ands, ifs, buts, maybes, or exceptions.

At that, Charlotte realized just why Manon had been riling up the pair. He wanted to duel Stephanie. And, based on what she'd gleaned from the books about knighthood which he'd been given to study, and which she sometimes helped him read, a duel could only take place after "sufficient insult" had been given.

Stephanie and Claudine's treatment of her was plenty for Manon in that regard, and Charlotte felt her cheeks color at that realization.

And, Manon had certainly reciprocated. Going up to a girl who was clearly prideful about her looks, leaning towards her bosom until his nose was practically brushing against it, and then calling her flat?

Manon could not have insulted the two girls more scathingly if he'd tried!

Sir Beowulf, regardless of how he felt about squires acting like imperious bullies, would never, ever have approved. Charlotte, by contrast, thought this haughty pair deserved worse.

Hopefully, Manon's decision to rescue her a second time wouldn't cost him his home, like it did last time.

Manon unknowingly echoed the thoughts of a certain, deeply troubled queen at that moment.

I'm an idiot!

Granted, he would never even consider leaving Charlotte in the hands of a pair of miserable bullies like these. But, challenging another squire to a duel? When he'd known the basic forms of swordplay for the better part of two weeks?

He'd heard older people say that boys turned into idiots when they started paying attention to girls but, like most good advice, he hadn't appreciated it at the time.

He shook himself back to attention as he took stock of his situation. Charlotte had managed to dart away from her other tormentor and, clever girl, had positioned herself near the door so that she could get out and raise the alarm if things got out of hand. The other girl, nearly tripping over her skirts – whether on purpose of for dramatic effect, as some ladies reportedly tried – got into his opponent's corner and promptly began belting out enough encouraging words, and loudly enough, to make herself sound like a cheering section that was a dozen strong.

Maybe it was a sign of his becoming a teenager, and why so many parents dreaded such an occurrence, but Manon still found a degree of amusement in how her being so flat made the other girl, despite clearly being older than him, look like she'd never hit puberty.

His opponent, by contrast, had hit puberty. She had then proceeded to mug puberty and left it to die in a dark alley.

More to the point, being older than he and having been groomed to become a squire much sooner, she likely had the advantage of longer training, and probably considerable strength as well. She was only marginally taller than him, but he had to assume she had, and would use, the advantage of height and reach as well.

As for Manon's advantages…well, he didn't have many. His own training had barely started, and his swordsmanship was only developing. But, he did have one thing this, comparatively, pampered girl never would.

He knew what it was like to have his life constantly on the line, and having to fight every day to survive.

She had her training, but he had his tenacity and a fighting spirit honed on the uncaring streets, where he had survived when most would die in the gutter.

Hopefully, that would be enough.

He was about to see if he could toy with the girl's ego, possibly by quipping "Ladies first", but she beat him to the punch. In more ways than one. Bringing her training blade over her shoulder for an angled slash, she launched herself at him. Manon, caught by surprise, ducked as the dull metal whistled over his head and hopped backwards to gain room before sending a thrust at her torso. She slapped it aside one a one-handed slice, holding his blade at bay while regarding him with a sharkish grin.

"Skimping on practice, or are you new at this?" she asked in derisive tones.

Manon offered no reply, he was too busy struggling against the older girl's blade. Either she wanted to force it to such an angle that it'd go flying from his hands or to create an opening for her to deliver a punch or a headbutt. Though the latter were frowned upon in proper duels, which this might not be, that wouldn't help him if she managed to stun him enough to deliver a solid blow with her weapon.

But, rules and training were one thing. Survival instinct was another.

He gave ground, slowly, as their locked blades revolved up and around until, at the last minute, she subtly shifted the angle of his weapon. Then, rather than grinding against it as the girl tried to force it away, her blade slid along his, causing her to lose her balance and freeing him from her trap. Drawing back a pace, he quickly couched his blade and thrust forward. This time, she had no time to knock it aside and took the blunt point full in the stomach, sending her toppling over backwards.

"First point," Manon intoned, trying (unsuccessfully) to sound blithely confident.

Thankfully, Charlotte's sigh of relief drowned out his own.

"STEPH'!" the other girl, the flat one, screeched, horrified. "Are you alright?!"

The other girl, Stephanie, waved aside these words and clambered to her feet. The glare she fixed on Manon could've blistered paint, but Manon sensed that she would not underestimate him a second time.

And, she didn't.

This time, she instead assumed a defensive stance, expertly balanced and with her blade held in a two-handed grip across her torso to deflect incoming blows with an economy of motion. Not an easy tactic to counter, but Manon decided to try anyway. Lunging forward, he brought his blade across from his left side. She caught it with a ringing impact, along with the next three he sent her way. He kept up his assault, making sure to keep on changing the angle of his attack and swinging as hard and as fast as he could, hoping to tire her out to the point where he could get score the next blow when she'd react just a crucial moment too slowly.

In hindsight, he should've noted the subtle, sly grin she gave him. She was on to this tactic, and was using it against him.

Keeping her blows only just fast enough and only just strong enough, no more and no less, she managed to weather the torrent and, ultimately, strike back. Rather than knocking aside what felt like the hundredth blow, she instead shoved against it, sending vibrations up the blade and into Manon's whole body as she delivered a stinging blow to the side of his neck.

"First point," she intoned mockingly.

Manon barely heard her over the horrified gasp from Charlotte, and he was quick to give her a reassuring wave. The two combatants drew back, Manon trying not to overthink that, had this been a real battle, Stephanie's blow might've taken his head off. By that same token, the blow he'd scored earlier might've impaled her if his sword hadn't been as dull as a spoon.

He suddenly found himself hoping that, if he did become a knight, he'd be fighting goblins, undead, and malboros instead of other people.

He didn't have time to pursue that line of thought further, however, as Stephanie was all over him.

This time, taking advantage of both her lighter build and how Manon had foolishly tired himself out against her defenses earlier, she opted for a swift and powerful assault. Favoring heavier blows this time, she drew her sword over her shoulder or across her torso, using the windup to build momentum, and then swung with all her, admittedly considerable, might. Trying to block her first blow caused Manon's sword, and teeth, to rattle, and he knew he was in trouble.

Having overreached in trying to batter his way through Stephanie's defenses earlier, he would not outlast her if he tried to use her own technique against her. Which meant, he needed to try something else.

With Stephanie darting in and out, swinging and then skittering away, he studied her movements, looking for some flaw he could exploit and trying to shove aside the notion that he was living on borrowed time as he did so. It was harder than one might think, for he knew he was tired and on the back foot, and being too slow would spell disaster.

It would also mean letting Charlotte down, which stung all the more.

But, sure enough, he struck upon something. With that large windup, surely the follow-through would be just as great.

Without his blade to arrest her momentum, she'd likely go flying.

The time to test that theory came sooner than he'd expected, and sooner than he was ready. While he managed to sidestep a sweeping slash from Stephanie's left shoulder, he was in too close to bring his sword to bear. And, judging by how the girl's eyes widened in realization, she would not make that mistake again.

But, Manon had been a scrappy street waif before he was a squire, so he fought as a scrappy street waif would.

He drew back one fist and drove it into Stephanie's face as hard as he could.

Part of him, recalling the sight of her treatment of Charlotte, felt no small amount of satisfaction when he felt her nose practically flatten under the blow and heard her shriek from the pain.

The rest of him, for some strange reason, felt differently.

He couldn't put into words why that was. After all, this wasn't the first time he'd punched out a bully, nor was this the first time that bully had been a girl. When he'd found out that Francine had been poised to start prostituting the younger girls at the workhouse, he hadn't lost a wink of sleep when he'd knocked her flat and staged a jailbreak. So, why did it feel different now?

He had no idea, and he idly wondered if Sir Beowulf might help clear that up, but that would have to wait. With Stephanie still shrieking in pain, and the other girl shrieking much more loudly, he swung his blade against her neck in a blow that was markedly less enthusiastic than her would-be attempt at beheading him.

"Second point," he intoned, his tone flat and sullen sounding.

He'd barely finished the sentence when Stephanie, her broken nose bleeding like a ruptured sluice and her eyes livid, grabbed a fistful of his tunic. Before Manon could react, the girl slammed the pommel of her blade into Manon's nose.

Having taken such an injury before at the hands of the more vicious of his former wardmates, Manon managed to bite down the scream of pain that boiled in his throat. Barely.

Charlotte's scream of horror more than made up for it, not that she could be blamed for being afraid for him.

The pain was excruciating!

And, Stephanie was quick to follow up when she drew back her blade and thrust with all her might at Manon's torso. The blow doubled him over and knocked the breath from his lungs, though he managed to keep his feet. Through his eyes were too blurred with tears to see Stephanie, he did hear her spit the words "Second point".

One more point, for either combatant, would decide the duel, under the traditional rules of such a contest.

But, it was not to be.

"What's going on here?!" a new voice roared from the doorway.

Four pairs of eyes snapped in the direction of the portal and then widened in fear: King Delita Hyral the First had discovered this impromptu contest. And, he did not look pleased.

To add insult to injury, he was not the sole member of this duel's unexpected audience. Three knights, two castle servants, and what looked like an older noblewoman had also managed to get into the room to gawk without any of the four youngsters realizing it.

Manon felt his cheeks color with mortification as he bowed low.

His embarrassment was worsened when he noticed the rather copious amount of blood he was getting on the floor.

He was dimly aware of Stephanie bowing as well, as was customary of a knight while dressed for battle, while Charlotte and the other girl had dipped into hasty curtsies.

"Arise," Delita intoned sharply. "Arise and meet my gaze."

Manon snapped back to an upright position, as much from astonishment as from obeisance. It was well known that the act of meeting the gaze of one above your station was considered an affront, and one that usually resulted in flogging, and yet the king had ordered them to do precisely that? The others in the duel's unexpected audience were similarly shocked. So much so, in fact that, when they turned to King Delita to gawk in disbelief, they unwittingly met his gaze as well.

The older noblewoman swooned, though whether this was from the small cultural upheaval the king had caused or whether because he was an exceedingly handsome man, none could say.

"None of you have answered my question," the king pointed out. "What is going on here?"

At that point, all four youngsters began talking at once. Just how much of their jumbled words the king was able to hear, much less piece together, Manon had no idea, but he wisely fell silent when he saw King Delita's glare harden.

"Thomas," he said, and one of the two servants came forward. "Are either of these two squires slated for duty at my cousin's wedding?"

Manon could swear he heard Stephanie let out a horrified gasp.

"Yes, sire," the servant, Thomas, replied. "Squire Stephanie of House Lockhart was recently appointed to act as part of the security detail for the wedding. And, according to this, Squire Manon of Lionel Castle was personally requested by your cousin and her fiancé to act as ringbearer."

Now, Manon understood why Stephanie seemed so horrified. Indeed, he felt the same.

The king was clearly displeased with both of them, and would likely rescind both of their posts at the wedding. The notion of it caused Manon's eyes to tear up again at the prospect of letting down Lady Catherine, not to mention Sir Beowulf and Sir Damien. Her participation in this little stunt would likely cost Stephanie her place in the security detail as well and, despite how livid he still was at her for mistreating Charlotte, the thought of the blow this would deal her excessive ego brought him little comfort.

But, at that moment, King Delita astonished them once again.

"If you please, Thomas, make a note: once the wedding is over, both of them will joining in cleanup duty."

Despite how disagreeable that sounded, an ember of hope crackled to life in Manon's breast. Lady Catherine would still be displeased with him, surely, but he had been bracing himself for worse. Much, much worse.

Stephanie grumbled something under her breath at the prospect of an evening spent scrubbing the floor, but a pointed inquiry from King Delita stopped her complaints cold.

"Yes, Sire," Thomas answered, any astonishment he felt at this unexpected punishment deftly concealed. "Anything else, sire?"

"Yes, actually," the king replied. "But first, Sir Bruno and Sir Pierre? You will escort Countess Daphne to the castle library and wait there for my arrival. Rodrigo, you will see to the countess' needs while she waits. Sir Rolf and Thomas, you will stay here for the time being, as will these children."

Manon's ember of hope dimmed a bit as he suddenly wondered if his good fortune might prove fleeting after all.

Once the room was less crowded, King Delita spent a long moment pacing back and forth before the quartet of youngsters, studying them through narrowed eyes. If his intent was to intimidate or to impress upon them how displeased he was, it was working. And working quite well, in fact.

"I won't bother saying how disappointed I am with this display," he began. "After all, you should already know better. I mislike the notion of two would-be Knights of the Chimera brawling like drunken ruffians, and I like the idea of them molesting the common folk even less."

To their credit, Stephanie and the other girl blushed with embarrassment at this reprimand.

"I expect my knights, before and after they've been dubbed, to conduct themselves in a manner befitting their rank and duties," the king continued, and Manon's jaw tightened at the words. "I also expect them to have one another's backs, not to be plunging knives into them."

"Hear, hear!" Sir Rolf roared approvingly, though King Delita raised a hand to forestall the man.

"So, I am going to make sure you learn these lessons," he went on. "Thomas, another note, if you please. Send word to Professor Daravon. When these two cadets start their academy training, they are to be part of the same brigade. Just in case you youngsters are unaware, that means when either of you engages in misconduct, such as a repeat of this little fracas or mistreats one of the people you are supposed to be protecting, your brigade's score will suffer for it. Rest assured, cadets have failed to graduate over such things, and you will too if you don't shape up. And, once you have graduated, assuming you do, both of you will be expected to participate, jointly, in training my ward. I expect her to learn how to be a knight from you two, and I will not be pleased if your instruction turns out to be…lacking. Have I made myself clear?"

Not trusting himself to speak without sounding like he'd been partway through the act of swallowing a frog, Manon nodded. The redness at the fringes of his vision and the blood which began pounding in his ears concealed Stephanie's reply.

"Very well, then," the king said with finality. "For now, both of you get those injuries looked at. Afterward, you will be confined to the barracks until this time tomorrow. Sir Rolf, I trust you can see to that?"

"Of course, sire," Sir Rolf affirmed.

"Good. Now, you lot are dismissed."

Trying to make himself as unnoticeable as he could, Manon slinked his way out the door and tried to remember just where he should go to have his broken nose looked at before the king's marble was soaked in his blood. He dimly noted that the other girl was guiding Stephanie out of the room, fussing over her like a mother hen and nearly as teary eyed as either of the teenagers whose proboscis was flattened and gushing redness. He heard Stephanie refer to her as "Claudine" while reassuring the girl that it wasn't as bad as it looked.

As for Manon, he was joined by Charlotte who promptly gave him a hug and whispered the phrase "Thank you" into his rumpled tunic.

Manon was forced to admit, that made him feel a bit better. He may have embarrassed himself in front of the king, even if he'd gotten off easier than he'd expected, and his showing against Stephanie left a lot to be desired. But, for all that, he couldn't just turn a blind eye when Charlotte was in trouble.

She…meant a lot to him. And, he had the impression that the feeling was mutual.

Eventually, she shifted her grip so that he could lean on her if needed, and he wasn't quite prideful enough to refuse. His first duel, aside from being quite inauspicious, had been brutal. Between his nose and his ribs, he wasn't sure which hurt more. And, his burgeoning muscles were aflame with his exertions. So, he was only too glad for the help getting to where his hurts could be tended.

This he silently conveyed by hugging Charlotte's shoulder and, when she turned to look at him, trying to give her a handsome smile.

Judging by her worried expression, he probably should've done that after his face no longer looked like it'd been tenderized by the local butcher.

After several minutes of limping along, however, he recalled something which brought him up short.

"Wait a minute," he blurted out. "The king said Stephanie and I would be helping to train his ward. But, since when does King Delita have a ward?"

Charlotte opened her mouth to answer, but another voice beat her to the punch.

"King Delita has a ward?!" a woman's voice gushed, as though she'd stumbled upon a gold nugget amidst a pile of refuse she'd been cleaning…which, given Lesalia's status as the gossip capital of Ivalice, wasn't too far off the mark.

The two children whirled to see a woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, dressed in the livery of a maid. She had been polishing a vase, but had stopped cold upon hearing this bit of, admittedly interesting, hearsay. Giving a squeal that one might expect from a woman half her age, she scampered off towards what Manon suspected was the servants' quarters.

His experience in Lesalia told him that most of the castle would know about this in an hour or so.

"Well, now I'm in for it," he grumbled.

Not having much else to offer, Charlotte gave him a supportive hug and whispered that it would be alright.

It wasn't much but, for some reason he couldn't quite explain, it seemed like enough.