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.

9. The Mask Becomes The Man

A/N: Ok, we're back! After our interlude with Ramza and company, it is now time to return to the journey of Izlude after he leaves the Fredericks' farm in Kohlingen Village. Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this story possible; I hope our readers noticed and appreciate our referances to other well-loved Final Fantasy titles as well! ;)

Chapter 9: The Mask Becomes the Man

The reconstruction that followed the War of the Lions, referred to by some romantic souls as the 'Revivification', was an era in Ivalician history which held a special place in the hearts of both those who'd lived through it and those who, in later generations, would read about it with rapt fascination. It was remembered as a tumultuous era, almost as much so as the War of the Lions itself, but also an era that saw other wounds, older and more malignant than those of half a century of war, begin to heal as the newly crowned King Delita Hyral, having established himself as the sole power broker in Ivalice, began to guide his realm on a bold new course...

...and which caused those aware of Delita's true legacy, of the sordid journey he'd taken from his youth as a Beoulve ward to his life as Ivalice's liege, to wonder just how long a man can walk the precipice of achieving righteous ends through reprehensible means until he toppled over the edge.

In the aftermath of the War of the Lions, swords and shields were set aside in favor of plowshares and pickaxes. Though the bloodletting had ceased once the battle horns had, at long last, fallen silent, the kingdom's economic ruin could yet still birth specters of death no less grim than the horrors of war. Thus, before the ink was dry on the treaty which had ended the conflict, people of all descriptions were hard at work, frantically laboring to revive Ivalice's economy. As the flood waters in Gallione receded and rain returned to drought stricken Limberry, the winding roads of Ivalice soon thronged with farmers and merchants eager to sell their wares, as well as once displaced peoples who sought to reclaim their abandoned homes or to raise new ones in pastures newly green. Travelers on these myriad roads, such as the winding path between Fort Besselat and Dorter, would often remark that such a journey took them on a voyage through history, and more than a few of their accounts would be romanticized as poems for later generations. A recurring observation of these travelers, and a recurring theme in these poems, was that, on those well-trod paths, the past and the present had a strange way of intermingling before one's eye.

The land surrounding Fort Besselat, much of which had turned into a marsh after the sluice had been opened, was now dotted with many a reminder of Ivalice's grim past and her still uncertain future. In places along the banks of the newly formed Besselat Marsh, fallen soldiers had been given a modest burial, their final resting places marked solely by a naked sword sheathed in the earth. Conversely, newly built villages had been raised from the muck by people eager to find a brighter future now that the battle horns had fallen silent.

Much of the lands in Limberry had been ravaged by drought, and the aftereffects could be seen in the numerous dead trees that stood amidst vast coronas of withered grass. And yet, precious rain had returned, causing dry ruts to fill with crystalline rivulets of life giving water and, slowly but surely, the breadbasket of eastern Ivalice was turning green once more.

As the realm's coin, already scarce after the disastrous Fifty Years War, had been divided and depleted again when Ivalice turned against herself, poverty and over taxation had sent shock waves across the land that no temblor could manage. Many villages had been abandoned by people who'd had no work and had been bled dry of coin, and these deserted homes still dotted the landscape, forlorn and haunted by the ghosts of brighter days. Yet, just as many of these villages had begun to fill up again, weary Ivalicians mending the long neglect of these once forsaken hamlets and hoping the sweat of their brows would win them a second chance at the futures they'd so nearly lost.

A journey through such a tableau could make even the most lackadaisical of men conscious of their own mortality, of how capricious the river of time can be, not only in its ebb and flow but in who it chooses to drag under and when. It also brought to the fore the knowledge that, from the wealthiest of souls to the most impoverished, each and all can have a great deal which they treasure, but which they seldom appreciate until after it has been lost. Whether it is one's family, one's home, one's friends, one's work, or even such simple things as having a sturdy roof over one's head and a warm bed to sleep in.

Each and all could be retained for a lifetime and taken for granted all the while; but, they could also be lost in an instant and pined after for years.

People who traveled those paths, where grim reminders of bygone days and signs of hopeful future abounded, inevitably found themselves wondering just how easily they could have found themselves anomalously consigned beneath that sod and those down-turned blades.

Such journeys tended to be quiet affairs, the gravity and depth of the moment acting as a voiceless but insistent warning that kept tongues from breaking the almost sacred solemnity of the pilgrimage.

"WARK!"

Well, most tongues, anyway. Chocobos suffering the pangs of hunger tended to overlook such decorum.

Izlude, who'd been deep in the throes of a mental debate over whether he should feel grateful or guilty that his two and a half month coma had spared him from seeing the grimmer side of the living history he beheld, jumped in his stirrups before regaining his composure. He glanced down to see Nelly eyeing him impatiently and, not for the first time, reminding him why he'd given her a name so near to his sister's.

Well, the sister he remembered, anyway. The Meliadoul he'd seen in the vision of Orbonne and in the skirmish at Bervenia seemed vastly different, and Izlude found himself regretting that he hadn't treasured his sister's once vivacious spirit during their youth together.

With a little luck, perhaps the same luck that had allowed him to be rescued after being devoured by the flood at Besselat, he would be able to tell her that.

"Come on, girl, I know you're hungry, but we're almost there; just a little further!" Izlude cooed as he gently prodded his mount onward.

The disguised knight blade and his mount had been traveling for almost a week since they left Kohlingen Village, and the journey had been one which had struck Izlude profoundly. Granted, he had expected that he would be greeting a strange new world after departing the Fredericks' humble farm, but he'd clearly underestimated the gravity of the changes which had been wrought during his two and a half month coma. The kingdom of Ivalice that he remembered - which had been crumbling under the weight of warfare, political intrigue, bitterness, and starvation - seemed to have been washed away by the flames of war just as surely as the flame washes flesh from bone. In its place was a land that was taking its first shaky steps into a strange and uncertain future.

Yet, for all that, he did not catch even a whiff of despair.

As he passed farmers guiding wagons laden with crops bound for the market, he could hear grateful chatter about once fallow fields that were now lush again.

As he passed half built villages, much akin to the one he'd just left, he saw children at play and parents sagging with relief that the shadow of death was receding.

As he guided his agitated mount closer to the gates of Dorter Trade City, he could feel the exuberance of the bustling crowd as once empty markets were brimming over with goods once more.

And, as he entered the gates, he could smell the mouth-watering aroma of cooking meats wafting heavenwards from a hundred chimneys...which, after a week of eating bland trail rations, was simply too tantalizing to ignore.

Though the kind elderly couple who had nursed Izlude back to health had been more than generous in supplying the knight blade with food and water for his journey, and while Izlude was capable of eating and sleeping on the road if need be, he was quite enamored with the notion of eating his meals at a proper table and sleeping in a warm bed. As the knight blade and his mount entered Dorter, he let his gaze roam the city. Located along a valuable artery of Ivalice, Dorter was a hub of commerce with goods and peoples from all over. In better years, the aptly named trade city was littered with stalls and shops selling goods of every description, whether it be weapons, armor, jewelry, artwork, foodstuffs, livestock, clothing, and all manner of items which spanned the range from the rare to the commonplace, from the bizarre to the mundane, and from the priceless to the practical. People would come from all over to sell these wares, and even more people would come to buy them.

Since Dorter was located at a key crossroads of Ivalice - from which there was easy access to the provinces of Gallione, Lesalia, Limberry, and Lionel - the population was as diverse as its commerce. Amidst the babble of voices, a discerning ear could hear the mellifluous and smooth accents which characterized Gallione, the lilting tones and vowel shifts of Lesalia, the precise staccato and curious vowel shifts with which Limberry natives spoke, and the sound of Lionel's slow rising pitch and peculiar consonants. Voices from those provinces which intersected on Dorter's doorstep were the most abundant. However, the thick burr and glottal stops of Favoham and Zeltennia's lyrical tones and lengthened vowels would also echo in ones ear.

The Gallione accent, Izlude reflected, was particularly pleasing to his ear. On the one hand, the smooth and open tones had a unique way of inspiring trust in the listener, much like Gallione's most famous native, Balbanes Beoulve...or, for that matter, its most infamous native, Ramza Beoulve.

And, on the other hand, the Gallione accent also had a sensual undertone which called to mind the woman who Izlude had carried away as a captive, only for the jailer's keys to change hands as he'd become more and more enchanted by her.

He longed with all his heart to see Alma again; and, with Lesalia but a few leagues to the north, it seemed their reunion was drawing near.

Izlude was shaken from his reverie when he heard the patterned tone shifts and even paced words of Murond natives, possibly belonging to those acting on behalf of the Church of Glabados. These he avoided as he made his way through the city, lest they catch wind of the holy relic hidden in his pocket.

Even that near miss, however, could not truly wrench Izlude's attention from the sights he beheld. Much like the lands around it, Dorter was also a place which bore the wounds of the past and where, in places, those wounds were slowly but surely healing.

In good years, Dorter was a remarkable tableau of sights, sounds, smells, and tastes, with innumerable untold stories behind every merchant, customer, product, and transaction.

In good years, Dorter was a place where one could work hard, earn generous wages, and live well upon reaching old age.

The past few years, however, had not been good.

As floods and drought had destroyed crops and left Ivalice's farmers with nothing to harvest, the merchants in Dorter had found themselves with nothing to sell. And, even those who did have goods had only been able to acquire them at such expense and trouble that the price of all goods, especially food, had surged heavenwards. Many would-be buyers could not pay, and more than a few had been driven to desperation by the all too real prospect of starvation.

Some turned to indentured servitude, others to prostitution, and more than a few towards violence.

And, as if that wasn't enough, Dorter's strategic value had not been overlooked during the war. Both the White and Black Lions coveted the inroads which control of Dorter might allow into their rival's lands, and so Dorter became yet another flash point in the war which had nearly undone Ivalice. Armies had laid siege in an effort to starve out the defenders. The walls had been scaled and the gates breached, which caused fighting to spill into the streets. There had been bombardments with magic and siege weapons, sending in hails of arcane and mundane projectiles which crushed buildings and set others afire.

Much of this damage was still in evidence, but it seemed the city was on the mend. Once abandoned stalls were manned again, and offering a modest variety of goods at tolerable prices. Scaffolds encompassed the growing skeletons of new buildings while rubble was cleared away to be used as building material. And, in a trickle that might one day become a flood, goods were arriving from far off places, as were people eager to buy them.

Dorter was a far cry from its former splendor; but, just as surely as Izlude believed that Ramza had prevailed against the Lucavi, he believed that Dorter would, one day, reclaim the glory of bygone days.

As Izlude continued his perusal, he caught sight of a number of people at work in the city. These had the look of former knights who, like himself, were finding their way now that the fires of war had guttered out. When he drew close enough to discern their features, accents, and words, however, he realized that many of these former knights were Nantan and Hokutan. No less startling, several members of both groups were wearing the same uniforms.

Emblazoned on these was a crest which Izlude had never seen before...at least, not in the waking world.

In the strange vision he'd had just before waking from his coma, however, he'd seen one which was eerily similar.

The chief feature was a fanciful but ferocious looking creature whose features boggled the imagination.

Even in a land such as Ivalice, it was most uncommon to see a creature with several mismatched heads.

One of the heads was a lion, whose thick mane featured alternating patterns of ivory white and ebony black and which wore a crown upon its brow. Another was the beaked head of an eagle...or, perhaps, a gryphon. The next was the scaled serpentine head of a wyvern. And the final head was that of a hideous, glaring woman from whose pate sprouted dozens of hissing snakes.

Just like the crest of the armor Ramza was wearing in that dream when he... Izlude mused, unable to finish the thought.

Though he had good cause to believe both Beoulve siblings had survived the final confrontation with the Lucavi, the image of Alma having been corrupted by demonkind, and Ramza killing her, still chilled him to the bone.

Shaking himself back to attention, he continued his study of these strange uniforms. The body from which these myriad heads sprouted was broad and powerfully built, with alternating patterns of glistening scales and tawny fur, which ended in the sharp, barbed tail of a wyvern. The creature had been daubed in flight, a pair of huge eagle's wings spread wide as if the creature were soaring over the battlefield. The forelimbs were well muscled, covered in more fur, and ending in leonine paws with unsheathed claws. The hind limbs were the stumpy scaled legs of a wyvern, ending in grasping claws from which sprouted long, hooked talons.

"You still getting used to it too?" a voice spoke up from behind.

The disguised knight blade gasped and craned his neck in the direction of the sound, his heart thudding in his breast at the intrusion. Perhaps the lingering knowledge that Murond natives were about had eroded his customary reserve, or maybe it was some lingering aftereffect of his various brushes with death. Whatever the reason, he was profoundly relieved when the man who'd spoken only smiled and held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. Izlude bit back a sigh of relief that this man didn't seem hostile, but his relief gave way to surprise when he saw this man was also wearing the same uniform as the former Hokuten and Nanten he'd spied earlier...

...which, considering this man's Lionel accent likely meant he was a Gryphon, was more than a little strange.

"Sorry about that, I didn't mean to startle you," the former Gryphon apologized, tugging at his peculiar garb. "Truth be told, I'm still getting used to them myself."

Izlude must've allowed his perplexity to work its way onto his features, for the former Gryphon regarded him curiously for a moment before he apparently came to some realization.

"You haven't seen these before, have you?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"Well, no," Izlude admitted sheepishly, absently noting that the stone once more gave his voice a Favoham burr.

Seeing that the former Gryphon's eyebrow had arched in curiosity, Izlude mulled over just what to say next. Though Doug knew Izlude had survived the flood at Besselat, he found himself thinking others might find such a tale hard to swallow. And, in any case, it might attract attention that the former knight blade would rather avoid.

"I came from the village of Kohlingen," he began, deciding to use the truth as a startling point and then try to craft it into something innocuous. "The village is only half built, if even, so I've been sowing fields and hammering in nails since before the war ended. This is the first time I've been able to get away in months."

For a long moment, the former Gryphon eyed him curiously, and Izlude found himself perspiring under the scrutiny. Could there have been some flaw in his tale? It seemed doubtful that the former Gryphon had even heard about Kohlingen, let alone knew enough to sniff out what Izlude had really been doing for most of his time there. But still, the former Gryphon's scrutiny caused Izlude to fear he'd made some miscalculation in his story which had piqued the man's interest...

...which, considering Izlude was a 'dead' man living under an assumed identity and carrying around a supposed holy relic, could prove disastrous.

Luckily, after a stretching second, the former Gryphon smiled and nodded.

"Must feel strange being back in civilization after so long in the sticks, eh?" he asked teasingly, and then gesturing to his uniform. "Well, this is the crest of the Order of the Chimera, which King Delita founded not long ago. With so little left of the Hokuten, Nanten, Aegis Knights, Wyverns, and Gryphons, he figured it was better to start from scratch. A number of survivors from the old orders have signed on as officers and new recruits will be coming from everywhere. I myself heard about it a few weeks ago. I'd found my billet in Lionel...unsatisfying after Celebrant Bremondt took over, so I resigned. Might not have been the wisest move, since work was so scarce then, but I was able to earn a place in this new order. Signing on was probably the best decision I ever made."

Partway through his speech, the former Gryphon's voice had taken on a husky tone, as though underlying emotion was bubbling to the surface, while a sad smile crossed his features.

"Surprising, isn't it?" the former Gryphon asked, almost absently. "King Delita, a man born into poverty, rising to become the commander of one of the most powerful knightly orders in Ivalice. Then, almost overnight, he tops that by becoming king. And, one of the first things he does when he gets there is christen a new order and build it using people he's fought with, people he's fought against, and others who passed the war on the sidelines but somehow got bloodied up anyway. When he formed the Order of the Chimera, he said this meant that, from now on, all of Ivalice's fighting men and women were on the same side. Imagine my surprise when that actually worked. If Delita's rise from a serf's son to a storybook prince didn't impress the masses, his success in founding the Chimera surely did."

The former knight blade found himself nodding in mute amazement; not three months ago, these men and women had been killing each other by the thousands. Yet now, they labored side by side, shoulder to shoulder with soldiers and ordinary citizens, working to rebuild what was destroyed during the war. No less remarkable, Izlude could see little to no reproach or hostility passing between the former rivals. Though the knight blade didn't doubt that there were many scars on both sides, he also suspected that, regardless of wartime allegiances, everyone was profoundly relieved the conflict was over and that neither side had been much aggrieved at the deaths of their former lords. It was no secret that both Dukes Larg and Goltana were deeply despised by their own knights and subjects alike, as both of the pretenders to Ivalice's throne had shown no compunction against sacrificing as many people as it took to sate their lust for power. Even though he was a nobleman himself, Izlude had nonetheless felt his hackles rise at the sight of power hungry nobles toying with the lives of innocent people and throwing away the lives of their subjects like so many pawns in a chess game. For that reason, he had hoped that the church's plans to topple the monarchy would end this terrible cycle, and yet he'd instead discovered that the clergy he'd sought to aid had been subverted by an evil far worse than any warmongering noble could equal.

But now, with Delita having seized control of the church's scheme, and seizing the crown along with it, Izlude found himself wondering if the future he'd thought the Knights Templar would build might, indeed, come to pass...

...or, for that matter, whether the man who'd become king through manipulation, deceit, and murder might wreak havoc beyond even what Larg and Goltana's misrules had wrought.

Izlude could not say. What he could say, however, was that Dorter still had some hard times ahead and that restoring the city to its former splendor might take months, if not years.

But, though there must surely be many who shared this realization, nobody seemed daunted by this truth.

There was worry, there was exhaustion, there was relief, there was frustration, there were the signs of cautious optimism, and there were the signs of sleepless nights. But, for all that, there was no despair.

And, perhaps, that was enough for the people of Ivalice to prevail as they sought to reclaim their future.

"So, you're looking for work, I take it?" the former Gryphon asked, once more shocking Izlude back to wakefulness.

"Ah," Izlude replied, blushing a bit at his wandering mind. "Sorry about that. Anyhow, yes, I'm looking for work."

"Well, you picked the right place. People from all over are hiring, and some of them pay very well. I myself plan to stay a knight for some time, but you look like the sort who could stand to learn a trade."

"Well, like you said, this is the place."

"So it is."

The former Gryphon had been about to part company with the knight blade, but Izlude found himself wondering if he ought to ask the man more. If he'd been a man of Lionel, and Alma was living under her assumed identity in Lionel Castle, might this man have seen her there? While he had good cause to believe Alma had escaped her Lucavi captors, some proof that she was still alive and doing well would greatly ease his heart. But, how to ask without arousing the former Gryphon's suspicions? Deciding that he had little to lose by trying, he decided on the direct approach.

"I was wondering one thing, though," he called out, causing the former Gryphon to turn. "You said you came from Lionel, correct?

"That I did," the former Gryphon confirmed.

"I'd heard rumor that the king had appointed a pair of his cousins as the new duke and duchess of the province. Did you, perchance, see them before you left?"

Again, the former Gryphon raised an eyebrow, and Izlude once more found himself wondering if it would've been wiser to pursue a more surreptitious line of questioning. But, after a stretching second, the former Gryphon shook his head.

"I'm afraid not," he admitted. "I had considered transferring back to Lionel Castle, but it might be a while before they can afford to pay me for guarding them. Still, that could change. And, judging by what I've heard about those two, I might enjoy being in their service."

"The rumors I've heard suggest they are fine people," Izlude affirmed, choking down an illicit laugh at the depth of that understatement.

"Well, who knows? If that doesn't work out, I might join the king's delegation when it sails to Romanda to establish new trade agreements. I've been there before, in more peaceful times, and seeing your glossy ebon tresses reminds me of the people I met there and how much I miss it. In the meantime, I'd best be getting back to my duties. Good luck in your search. And, if your search takes you to Lionel, say that Sir Alian LeRoche vouched for you."

"I just might, and thank you."

With that, Sir Alian took his leave and Izlude found himself wondering if they might, indeed, meet again in Lionel after his reunion with Alma.

If so, then the tale of how Izlude had gone from "the sticks" to standing at the side of Duchess 'Catherine Seymour' would make for an...interesting conversation.

Still, that was an eventuality he could concern himself with later.

After letting his eyes wander over the scene before him for a moment longer, the knight blade decided that, whether the stone was good or evil, he was grateful it had allowed him to see this new future unfold. Then, Izlude's mind turned back to the task at hand. It had been a long journey from Kohlingen, and both the former knight blade and his mount were dead on their feet. Yet, weary though he was, Izlude knew he had much to do before he could, finally, pass the night in a proper bed. The first thing he needed to do was book a room at a local inn, rent a stall at the stables for his mount, and make sure Nelly was fed, lest she take it into her beaked head that being hurled from the saddle might make her rider more attentive to her needs. Once that was done, he would need to head back out into town to restock his provisions and look for work. Judging by what Doug had told him, and the bustle in the battered but still lively city, the knight blade suspected he would have no trouble finding a job. Given the immense demand for labor in this time of rebuilding, Izlude didn't doubt for a moment that there would be a multitude of positions available...

...which, considering he wasn't entirely certain of his talents outside of swordsmanship, might prove either an opportunity or a complication.

A knight's son, born and bred, Izlude had first picked up a wooden sword when he was strong enough to pick himself up off the floor and walk and on his own two feet. A metal sword had found its way into his hand but a few short years later, and he'd begun the arduous task of acquainting himself with the weapon's weight and balance, as well as building up his arms so that they might bear the mass of iron that men and women in Ivalice lived and died by. As he grew older, he learned forms, stances, tactics, how to maintain, don, and maneuver in heavy armor, how to read his opponent's moves and eyes to discern what they'd do next, how to ride chocobos, how to fight in the saddle as well as afoot, and many other skills of a knight of Ivalice.

What he hadn't learned was how to mine ore, plow fields, sow and harvest crops, cook anything more elaborate than wild game over a campfire, bake confections that sold fresh from the oven, work cloth and leather into garb fine or practical, how to work metal into tools, weapons, or armor, how to cut gemstones, to manage finances, to keep a shop, to shape wood and stone into buildings, how to recognize and gather medicinal herbs and distill them into potions, or any other trade likely to be in demand now that the war had ended.

Still, during his knightly tutelage, he had acquired great drive, discipline, an agile mind, and the ability to react quickly to sudden and strange shifts in the expected flow of events.

If he had to build his future solely out of his own inner resources, trusting in them to act as a sufficient foundation for whatever future he planned to build during his second life, he believed they would be enough.

Besides, he mused with a stifled laugh, if I really couldn't learn a new trade, I would've been caught during my time as a 'spy' or kicked off the Fredericks' farm for being more trouble than I was worth. Neither of those things happened, so I think I can manage.

Snickering at this own musings, he took a moment to go over the timetable he'd devised during his last night with the Fredericks. He still had a month before the ball in Lesalia, which was a fair bit of time, though he would have to make sure none of it went to waste. A job in Dorter - or, failing that, work anywhere between Dorter and Lesalia - would be ideal, as he would not have to worry about losing too much time traveling back to Dorter once he'd earned the money he needed. From there, he would use his earnings to purchase new clothes for himself, as well as gifts for the new Duchess of Lionel. After that, he would travel to Lesalia to present himself. With luck, the stone would choose that moment to undo his disguise, and he would be reunited with his beloved Alma at long last. Though, after his near-misses with the Fredericks and Sir Alian, he realized that he would also need to craft a plan for how to present himself to her. Even if the stone did shed the mask it had devised for him, Izlude might need to answer some questions about who he was and where he'd come from in the meantime.

He'd been fortunate that neither the Fredericks nor Alian had questioned him at length, otherwise his improvised answers might become entangled and aroused their suspicions.

He would not enjoy such luck when he got to Lesalia, however. Undoubtedly, a man vying for the new duchess's favor would be under considerable scrutiny, and any discrepancies in his tale could prove fatal.

Izlude had been mulling over the content of his 'life story', considering topics likely to arise and how best to answer, when another thought occurred to him.

He'd been going on the assumption that the holy stone would undo his disguise once he'd found Alma.

What if it didn't?

That would raise the question of just how Izlude could alert Alma as to his identity, especially since his new voice and appearance were quite different from that which he'd shed back in Riovanes. Before he could mull over how to approach this latest complication, another thought occurred to him.

What if these new features, this new face he'd been given on the first day of his second life, remained with him until he faced the cold darkness of death for the second and last time?

He didn't know; indeed, he hadn't the faintest notion of how he might find out.

Turning the notion over in his mind, he dismounted Nelly, found the window of an empty storefront, and gazed at the distorted reflection that appeared before him.

Not for the first time, he needed a moment to realize that the face staring back at him was his own.

His features, though decidedly out of place, were not displeasing to look at. However, now that the prospect had occurred to him, Izlude wasn't sure if he relished the idea of having to live under the persona of Damien Mitchel for the rest of his life. Granted, the possibility had been at the back of his mind for some time now, since Izlude Tingel had been officially declared dead by the Church of Glabados and it might raise a lot of questions if the brunette and green-eyed knight blade was discovered to be alive and walking amongst the living. In fact, upon reflection. Izlude realized that would've been the case even if the holy stone could undo its alterations to his features.

He would not get his name back, that much he knew. And, though he had been prepared for the possibility of living under a false name, he wasn't certain if was ready to live under a false face as well.

Yet, now that he thought about it, what alternative was there? After all, if 'Damien Mitchell' presented himself to Catherine Seymour as a man with jet black hair and steel-gray eyes, but was then spotted sometime after with chestnut brown hair and emerald green eyes, someone would surely take notice.

Izlude's introspection was broken when Nelly let out another indignant 'wark', and Izlude came back to himself. Deciding that his weary mind could juggle only so many weighty questions at a time, he thought it best to seek his lodgings and get some rest. Apart from his spinning head, his legs and back were dreadfully sore from spending nearly eight hours in the saddle. Gently tugging on Nelly's reins to lead her onward, Izlude looked around until he spotted a small inn not far away. Since it was still early, he decided it would be best to book a room now before nightfall, lest the inn get filled to capacity with travelers who'd decided that they preferred spending the night rather than journeying home in the dark. Leading Nelly by the reins, Izlude made his way to the inn's stables and left his faithful mount in the care of the stable hands. After paying for the stall, he left a bit more coin as well as instructions that she was to be preened, rubbed down well, and fed choco stew rather than raw greens. That done, he went inside to book a room. The lobby and common room were fairly quiet, as guests were more likely to be checking in during the evening hours. The clerk, a young woman who was going over the inn's ledger with an obvious lack of interest, glanced up as he approached the front desk. At first, the knight blade thought she was simply eager for any distraction from the tedium of tallying up the inn's revenue and expenses but, as he drew closer, Izlude realized that she was staring at him with an expression of mingled perplexity and amazement.

"Is something the matter, Miss?" he asked, valiantly struggling to keep a hint of alarm from seeping into his tone.

As soon as she realized she was staring at the knight blade, the clerk, no doubt fearful that she'd scared off a prospective customer, immediately apologized. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir! I didn't mean to be rude, it's just that I've never seen anyone with hair and eyes like yours before! Where are you from?"

Her words startled Izlude. He'd been so caught up in his plans for reuniting with Alma and his introspection of Dorter's state and the changes he'd witnessed in the few days since he'd set out from Kohlingen, that he had nearly forgotten just how odd his new features must appear. In fact, now that he thought about it, he remembered how the bustle in town would briefly grind to a halt as he'd passed, likely because the people had been taking in his unusual appearance and wondering what to make of such a peculiar specimen. Black hair and grey eyes were, to put it mildly, most uncommon among native Ivalicians, as most people amongst the seven provinces had hair of varying shades of brown and blonde, along with blue, green, and brown eyes. People with red hair were quite scarce, but black hair and grey eyes was an exceedingly rare combination and, since Izlude could not readily explain these oddities, he suddenly found himself wondering if the clerk might seek a second opinion...

...from the local authorities.

Frantically, Izlude tried to think of something, anything that might serve as a believable, and innocuous, cover story. But, as the knight blade had admitted to himself, he had no great gift for spycraft and subterfuge. Then, just as he was entertaining the idea of bolting for the door, he felt a curious warmth emanating from his pocket.

The holy stone.

What it was doing now, he could not say. But, strangely, he felt a childhood memory rise to the forefront of his mind. It was the first time he'd dueled Meliadoul, with steel swords rather than wood. He remembered that he'd been afraid of hurting his older sister, but she'd just laughed that husky laugh of hers and told him that part of being a knight was being able to trust ones brothers and sisters-in-arms, not only in their ability to defeat the enemy but also in their ability to safeguard their own lives.

More than that, however, Meliadoul had told him that he would also need to learn to trust himself rather than allow fear to leech away his strength and scatter his wits.

Why the stone had chosen to echo this memory, and how it had done so, Izlude had no idea. But, now that the quavering in his heart had stilled, another memory sprang to mind; and, with it, a solution.

"Well, who knows? If that doesn't work out, I might join the king's delegation when it sails to Romanda to establish new trade agreements. I've been there before, in more peaceful times, and seeing your glossy ebon tresses reminds me of the people I met there and how much I miss it."

Thinking quickly, the knight blade shook his head as though trying to jolt his thoughts back into motion. "Sorry, Miss, I have been out in the sticks so long that I'm still getting used to being back in civilization again. I am of Romandan descent. My grandparents emigrated from there during the Fifty Years War, not long before Romanda withdrew from the conflict. But, I was actually born and raised in Yardow, before I left and became a knight at Riovanes Castle in the service of the late Duke Barrington."

For a stretching second, the clerk regarded Izlude in thoughtful silence, as if contemplating whether or not to believe his story. And, despite the stone's reassuring weight at his hip, the knight blade could not help but feel a renewed sense of anxiety. Did Doug and Helen also notice his strange hair and eye color, but had been too polite to say anything about them or pry into his background? For that matter, could his recollection of Sir Alian's words about Romanda have been flawed? He had been rather distracted at the time by the sight of the Chimera Knights and the gravity of Delita having successfully built a new knightly order out of people who'd once been at each other's throats. Before he could ponder the matter further, the clerk simply smiled and said "I see. What's your name, sir?"

Remembering his near miss during his first encounter with Doug after he awoke form his coma, Izlude answered without hesitation. "I am Damien Mitchell, former bodyguard of Duke Garreth Barrington and knight of Fovoham's Order of the Wyverns." As he said this, he pulled out his dog tag and showed it to the clerk who eyed it with great interest.

"Former knight? You mean you are not a knight anymore?"

Izlude shook his head. "No. My former employer paid his knights rather poorly, so I left Riovanes to join the Goltana army. I served with them until the war ended and, afterwards, remained in Limberry for a time helping to resettle displaced villagers."

Upon hearing this, the clerk raised an eyebrow. "Really? In that case, you were very lucky. You do know what happened at Riovanes Castle, right? The fact that you're standing in front of me, with both your life and your wits, tells me you probably left before that horrible incident."

"I did. Just days before. I was stunned when I heard the news. But, I didn't dare go back to see to the survivors. I had already signed on with Goltana by then, and if I'd asked his leave to travel to a province that was practically next door to his rivals, he probably would've suspected treachery and have me hung on the spot."

"I see. Anyway, it's nice to meet you, Sir Damien. Here's your key. You'll be staying in room 20, upstairs near the end of the hall."

By the time the clerk had handed over the key, the knight blade was certain that his near misses had left him flushed and perspiring. Relieved that he could pass such off as readjusting to the bustle of a busy city, and grateful that he now had an excuse to leave, Izlude took the key from the clerk. After paying for the room, he hefted his pack and went upstairs. He found his room precisely where the clerk had said and, the moment he was safely inside, the knight blade sagged against the door and breathed a sigh of relief. He still couldn't be sure if the front desk clerk believed him or not, but the brush with disaster Izlude had had with her, as well as Sir Alian and the Fredericks, drove home the point that he would need to get used to presenting himself as Damien to everyone, not just Alma. No less important, he would have to have his cover story in place by the time he reached Lesalia.

Damien Mitchell could not simply be a name Izlude had fished out of a corpse pile. His new-found mask had to become the man.

Izlude Tingel had to become Damien Mitchell; not just in name, but in mien.

If he was going to get near Alma, he would have to devise a background for Damien. He had the bare bones of where Damien was from and the reason for his curious features, but it stood to reason that the people he'd be dealing with in Lesalia would question him at greater length. And, he would need to not only produce answers, but he would need to do so quickly, convincingly, and without any inconsistencies or contradictions that might cause his mask to slip...

...which, considering Izlude had about as much capacity for deception in him as a squirrel, would be no small task.

He weighed his options and decided that, perhaps, he could use some of his time in Dorter to get used to his new persona. Having at least some idea of where to start in terms of crafting his new identity, he could check for flaws in the tale by socializing with strangers while on the hunt for a job, which would have the added benefit of allowing him to gather information as well. While he was fairly confident that the stone would rescue him from potential disaster, as it had done back at the front desk, he thought it unwise to expect it to get him out of every conceivable mishap. Though the stone had disguised his features and voice, as well as protected him and Nelly from drowning during the flooding at Fort Besselat, he still could not be certain of how or why it had done so, or even why it had chosen to undo his death in the first place.

He wasn't keen on finding out if the stone's willingness to aid him had its limits, nor what might ensue if the stone's patience ran out during an awkward moment.

As he mulled over possible facets of Damien's life, he found himself wondering just what he'd do if he encountered someone who knew the real Sir Damien Mitchel. Though the late Wyvern's dog tags suggested that Damien had had no immediate family, Izlude could not be certain if the deceased knight had friends who might chance across his path. He had assumed that all of Damien's intimate friends were amongst the dead of Riovanes and that, even if some had escaped the massacre, they would be too unhinged to recognize their former friend traipsing about in spite of his supposed death.

But, should he encounter someone who had known Damien, who would recognize the knight blade's borrowed face crossed his path, he was at a loss as to how he might negotiate such a potentially explosive confrontation.

Grimly, Izlude realized that such an encounter was best avoided and that, if he spied anyone who seemed to know him or called him by name, but who Izlude did not know, the knight blade would do well to evade them.

At least, he reflected grimly, the prospect of such a course of action would weigh less heavily on his conscience since Damien would have no grieving widow or children for Izlude to blunder into.

Circling back to those encounters he might be able to handle, Izlude realized that, if anyone else commented on his hair and eyes, he would also have to remember to mention 'Damien's' Romandan heritage, as well as his service as a former knight of Riovanes.

With the pounding in his ears having subsided as he set his thoughts in order, Izlude began to mull over what to do next. Although it was still early afternoon, the knight blade was exhausted from his long ride and decided to rest in his room for a few hours before heading back out again. The room's bed was a bit firm for his liking, especially given the stiffness and saddle sores from his long journey, but it was certainly an improvement over bedding down on the cold, hard turf outside. Still, sleep proved elusive for some time. Whether it was the urgency of crafting a convincing persona or the anticipation of reuniting with his beloved Alma, he could not say. What he could say, however, was that this would likely prove to be another in a lengthy succession of restless nights.

After whiling away several hours by working on his new persona, the results of which could best be described as questionable, Izlude saw that the evening was still quite young. With an irate groan, he rose and left the room, deciding that a walk might help to calm his churning thoughts and soothe his taut nerves. He exited the inn, grateful that the clerk he'd met earlier had apparently gone home for the night, and paid a brief visit to the inn's stables to check up on Nelly. After seeing that his faithful mount was as hale and hearty as ever, he headed into town. Even at night, Dorter was a lively place. A favorite trading spot for farmers, craftsmen, merchants, and other agents of commerce from all over Ivalice, hence its reputation as 'The City of Merchants', Dorter was also a city that didn't sleep. Even in the wee hours, businesses that catered to their own clientele - late arriving travelers, fellow merchants eager to spend coin on leisure after a hard day's work, and clients of questionable character - were open and doing a brisk business. By day or by night, Dorter was a place where anything could be found-for a price. By night, these could include such simple pleasures as a round of beers, a candlelight dinner, or a carriage ride by moonlight.

Though, Dorter also had many pleasures of a darker sort to offer.

Even during the best years, the Trade City had a seedy underbelly. In addition to the vast plethora of legal merchandise sold in the city, rumors abounded of illegal goods and activities which flourished in the darker corners of Dorter. Assuming one knew where to look, and had the money, they could delve into a sordid nest of smuggling, drugs, poached animal pelts, poached ivory, forbidden weaponry, stolen jewels, usury, gambling, prostitution, and all manner of twisted decadence which had thrived during the Fifty Years War and the War of the Lions. With flood, drought, over taxation, and the ever growing numbers of the poor and the dead having nearly ruined legitimate commerce, Dorter's seedy underground had flourished, largely unmolested by the warring dukes who, hopelessly deluded by their designs upon the throne, would spare neither the time nor the manpower to ferret out these hives of scum and villainy. Now that a new king had risen and the battlefields of Ivalice were silent, however, the keepers of this sordid underground, and their patrons, had vanished back into the shadows, lest the new king further his reputation by dragging them into the light and having them hung.

For this reason, the knight blade found that evening in Dorter un-despoiled by the proclivities of the depraved and the depredations of those who catered to such disreputable folk. Indeed, the radiance of the full moon lent the partially rebuilt city an almost ethereal glow, reminding Izlude more than a little of the evenings he'd guided Alma through the inner courtyard of Riovanes Castle.

How long ago that seemed, and yet how near at hand with Lesalia but a few leagues distant.

After wandering downtown Dorter for the better part of an hour, Izlude felt the tension in his body ease and was entertaining thoughts of returning to the inn. But, before he could turn around to retrace his steps, the holy stone suddenly began vibrating in his pocket. Remembering that the last time it had reacted like that had led him to discover that Alma was still alive, Izlude stopped dead in his tracks. His drowsiness and his saddle sores forgotten, his eyes darted in all directions. Could he have stumbled across Alma's trail so soon?

For that matter, could Alma herself be nearby?

He was forced to discard the latter notion quickly, as the battered plaza he presently stood in seemed deserted. Dark storefronts, some closed and others vacant, surrounded him on all sides. Yet, strangely, the stone's gyrations did not abate. After letting his gaze roam for a time, and idly wondering if his overwrought mind might be playing tricks on him, he spied a small art shop which seemed to still be open despite the hour. Perplexed, Izlude took an experimental step towards the shop, and his perplexity only grew as the stone hummed all the more insistently. This, the knight blade was forced to admit, left him bemused. Though he did appreciate art, he did not have even a fraction of his late mother's fascination with what skilled hands could form out of paint, clay, cloth, and marble. Indeed, he likely would not have even noticed the shop if not for the stone. Still, the last several times the stone had been roused like this had guided him closer to his beloved, either by nudging him towards somewhere he needed to go or by aiding him in times of danger.

Deciding to trust the holy stone, and to find out what manner of sign it was giving him, Izlude made his way towards the shop. As if confirming his guess, the stone's vibrations continued to grow in intensity and, by the time he was through the door, he half expected it to tear free of his pocket. As soon as he was inside, he spotted a gray haired man with a swaying belly, a thick beard, and a bushy mustache, presumably the owner of the shop.

"Greetings, young man! My name is Claudio Chiapparini, and welcome to my store! Please, feel free to look around and let me know if there is anything that catches your fancy."

Izlude smiled "Thank you, sir, I will." Turning his attention back to the shop, the knight blade found himself thinking his mother would've loved this particular establishment. Though the store itself was small, its walls were dotted with a multitude of paintings and tapestries, of various sizes and subjects, while marble statuary was arranged across the floor and shelves held an assortment of vases, urns, and sculptures made from clay, porcelain, and a variety of gleaming metals, precious and otherwise. Some of the pieces on display looked to have been purchased or traded from other artists, while others were likely the handiwork of the store owner himself. Several pieces looked to have been 'rescued', as his mother would have put it. Some likely from the estates of nobles or wealthy merchants, who had abandoned anything they could not carry while fleeing their enemies during the wars. Others were likely discovered amongst the loot of those crime rings which had been crushed during the new king's campaign to restore order.

These pieces showed varying signs of damage and restoration and sported lengths of red ribbon which, according to the sign on the inside of the shop's door, marked them as not being for sale until after they'd been fully restored. Though the establishment was certainly remarkable, Izlude could see no reason for the stone to have led him here. It was obvious that Alma was not here browsing the merchandise, and he couldn't for the life of him see how a painting was going to help him on his journey. For a moment, he found himself wondering if whatever mind or will crested within the blasted rock might be having a bit of fun at his expense. Grumbling under his breath, he'd been about to leave when he spied something out of the corner of his eye that drew him up short.

Hanging from a wall at the end of the second aisle was a painting of a young woman whose face he knew all too well.

Alma Beoulve.

For a long moment, he simply stared in breathless wonderment. His heart tripped, his breathing became ragged, and his vision seemed to blur as if he were trying to take in the overwhelming majesty of the blazing sun, even as his eyes seared at its radiance.

The trance was broken, at least momentarily, when the stone once more vibrated in his pocket. In his mind's eye, Izlude could see a younger, more vivacious Meliadoul, fresh from her victory during his first less-than-auspicious duel with metal swords. And, much like Meliadoul had said back then, the stone's new pattern of gyrations carried an unmistakable flavor of Told ya so!

That you did... Izlude silently conceded, a smile crossing his face as he gently patted the stone. And, thank you...

"Excuse me, sir?" Izlude called out to the store owner, forcing his tone from one of incredible relief and overwhelming gratitude to one of simple curiosity and mild interest.

"Yes?" Claudio asked from where he'd been studying a marble statue with a hairline crack over one eye.

"This painting… who is the lady in it?"

As he approached Izlude, Claudio followed his gaze and, upon spying the portrait, let out a merry, if rattling, laugh. "Ahh… that, my boy, is the new Duchess of Lionel, Catherine Seymour."

The knight blade supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, but he could swear that he felt his heart lurch in his chest and tears gather at the corners of his eyes at this news. Since he'd woken from his coma, and realized that his indisposition had ruined his original plan to rescue Alma, the only evidence he'd had that Alma Beoulve was still alive, let alone that she and Catherine Seymour were one and the same, was the Fredericks' description and the stone's seeming corroboration.

But now, literally staring back at him with those same sky blue eyes that had bewitched him so long ago, was proof.

Alma was alive and well. With the War of the Lions over and the depredations of demonkind overturned, only a few weeks and a few leagues separated them.

"Really?" Izlude gasped, hardly needing to feign his interest in the lovely young woman whose features graced the canvas. "The duchess herself was here?"

Claudio nodded. "Indeed, young man. And, quite a sight she was...though, I suppose you already figured that out."

You'd be surprised, Izlude mused to himself, recalling the halcyon days of his and Alma's mutual seduction.

"It couldn't have been more than a few days ago," Claudio went on, wrenching Izlude's attention back to the present. "She and three of her bodyguards were here, seeking a few touches to liven up their new home in Lionel Castle. I imagine they sorely needed it, too. I visited Lionel Castle some time ago, when I was commissioned to restore a number of faded tapestries. Even back then, the castle was terribly dreary. Not a mote of color to be seen! I swear, that put more strain on my poor, old heart than climbing all those blasted hills...but, I'm straying from the topic at hand, aren't I?"

Too deep in the throes of restrained elation to mind the older man's rambling, Izlude gave a tolerant smile and asked Claudio to continue.

"As I was saying, the duchess came in with three bodyguards. There was a tall lady with braided reddish-blonde hair. I daresay, she was a regal specimen; tall, straight backed, beautiful, poised, confident, and, if you'll pardon my saying so, shapely! For a minute, I found myself wondering if two duchesses had crossed my doorstep! The other ladies were a pair of younger women with blonde hair. And, if they weren't twins, I'll eat my easel."

That trio of bodyguards, Izlude realized, had to be Agrias Oaks and the Murry twins. And, this latest revelation made him wonder just how many of Ramza's other companions had survived the final confrontation beneath Orbonne.

For that matter, had Ramza himself survived?

Though the duke 'Drake Seymour' certainly seemed likely to be the renegade Beoulve, Izlude did not have proof literally staring back at him. Still, he saw little reason to doubt that a man who could vanquish two Lucavi demons would also prevail against a few more. And had Meliadoul survived as well? He did not know, but a curious warmth emanating from the stone seemed to quell his worry.

"So, they were looking for a painting to decorate the halls of their new home?" Izlude asked, eager for any information that might expedite his reunion with Alma.

"Indeed, young man," Claudio said again. "Duchess Catherine herself was not terribly picky, so she allowed her chief bodyguard to choose a painting. And, I must say, that lady knight is a woman of taste. She chose a painting that I got off another merchant during my travels to Limberry. It was a beautiful piece, showing a phoenix rising from the ashes and soaring towards the heavens! It was painted no more than a few days after the War of the Lions ended, and it did my heart good to see how much love the artist put into it. And, for that matter, how much those four ladies loved it. Ah, they do say beauty brings gladness to a weary heart...but, I'm rambling again, aren't I?"

In ordinary circumstances, Izlude would have neither the good grace nor the patience to deal with elders with a propensity for poetic ramblings.

But, Izlude's present circumstances were anything but ordinary.

Demons had walked the earth; and had been beaten back. War had broken out; and was quelled. Famine, drought, and poverty had birthed death, misery, and chaos; but these storms had passed over.

And, a knight blade had died, but had risen from the grave; a second chance at life and love laid before his feet.

"Well, getting back to what I was saying earlier," Claudio spoke up once more, "they were quite eager to buy the painting. And, I was quite eager to sell it to them. But, they were a bit short of money. Not surprising, sadly. It's hard for a castle to collect taxes when half the province thinks the castle is haunted and the other half thinks it should be torn down. I hadn't the heart to send such lovely ladies away empty handed, so I offered to halve my asking price in exchange for allowing me the honor of painting the duchess."

"So, you were the one to paint her?" Izlude asked, his burgeoning respect for the man becoming admiration.

"Correct, lad. And, a pleasure it was! She's a very lovely woman, and very kind too. I especially admired her fiery hair. An oddity in Ivalice it may be, but it brought out the color of her lips and cheeks wonderfully."

And, indeed, Izlude had to agree. Though he imagined he'd miss Alma's flaxen tresses, he had to admit that her flowing locks looked no less lovely for the new color. Musing over her hair, however, caused a hint of perplexity to creep into his elation.

Had her hair always been that lush?

For that matter, had it always been that long?

He leaned in for a closer look, thankful that his earlier fascination with the painting had given Claudio no reason to find anything untoward with this scrutiny, and saw that he was right. In addition to its new color, Alma's hair was noticeably thicker. Furthermore, where her locks once brushed her lower ribs, they now looked long enough to touch the small of her back. Her tresses were also styled differently. Rather than simple ponytail, her newly dyed hair had been done up in a trio of braids, two of which cascaded over her slender shoulders to frame her breasts...

...which, he knew from...intimate experience, were smaller than the painting would lead one to believe.

Izlude could feel these oddities beginning to sap at his elation, but he took care to keep any hint of such from his features. Still, having seen the discrepancies between the Alma he remembered and the Alma he now beheld, his curiosity was once more prodding him. After his near misses with Sir Alian, however, he found himself wondering if he'd best tamp down on such urges.

But, then again, he mused, I will need to learn how to glean information from people without making them suspicious. Maybe now's a good time to get in some practice.

"I'm curious," he began, the words of his circumspect question coming awkwardly. "How did she like the painting?"

"Oh, she was delighted!" Claudio answered, beaming. "I've done many a portrait, and not one went as smoothly as hers. Why, some years ago, I was commissioned to paint a portrait of the late Queen Ruvelia. Oh, you might say it was an honor. And, you'd almost be right. She was certainly a beautiful woman, but her expression was always so severe. I couldn't find even one source who could, reliably, tell me what she looked like when she smiled. So, I had to improvise. And, all the while, I was running the risk of having my head cut off if she was displeased, especially since the late King Omdolia wasn't likely to spring to my defense. I swear, I probably sweated enough to break the Limberry drought!"

So, I asked a question that wasn't quite a question and got an answer that wasn't really an answer, Izlude mused sourly. Oh, yes. I was made for spycraft!

Valiantly concealing his frustrations, the knight blade mulled over the oddities he'd witnessed. He was certain that there were distinct differences between the Alma he remembered and the Alma he now beheld, but he wasn't certain if they were of importance.

In fact, he couldn't even be sure if they were real.

It was not uncommon for the portraits of nobles to be embellished; certain unflattering traits removed and more desirable aspects of their appearances accentuated. Claudio had certainly believed Alma to be attractive, but perhaps he had sought to enhance her lovely hair and figure?

That was possible; though, after his time with Alma, Izlude could see no need to tamper with perfection.

"That is quite a story," he opined, a bit of mischief seeping into his tone. "Painting Queen Ruvelia certainly explains all that gray hair."

Claudio feigned indignation for a grand total of three seconds before bursting into laughter.

"Good one, young man!" he said, his rattling laugh punctuating his words. "I suppose I should've expected that from a young man who, no doubt, laughs in the face of danger. Me? Nowadays, I laugh at danger behind its back...when it's about fifty leagues distant."

"Well, age really does bring wisdom," Izlude snickered. "In any case, I would like to buy this portrait. In fact, I might possibly like to meet the duchess herself."

"Well, rumor has it that she and her brother will be in Lesalia next month. But, I warn you, you won't be the only one vying for her hand."

Oh, tell me about it, Izlude mused, though he held his tongue. "I see. In any case, I would like this portrait; how much do you want for it?"

"Well, since you seem quite fixated on her, I can let it go for two hundred gil. Fair enough?"

Izlude smiled so broadly, he half expected his face to split open. "Deal."

SSSSSS

After bidding farewell to Claudio, and finding himself thinking he might one day seek one or two gifts for 'Catherine' in the kindly old man's establishment, the knight blade left the art shop and headed back to the inn, the portrait tucked securely in a sturdy leather case which Claudio had provided. Izlude's more rational side told him that he should not be spending what little money he still had on trifles like paintings, especially when he had not yet found a job and needed to scrape together whatever funds he could for his room and the provisions he had yet to shop for. However, that part of Izlude had been heeded little since he'd made the seemingly mad decision of falling in love with the woman who, at the time, was supposed to be his captive. The rest of him, which was overjoyed at this latest proof that Alma was alive and well, considered the portrait to have been worth every gil he'd spent.

His stomach might resent this neglect, but, as Claudio had so eloquently put it, beauty brings gladness to a weary heart.

Besides, if he'd crossed the barrier between life and death for Alma, then missing a few meals in exchange for bringing their reunion closer to hand was a pittance by comparison. However, the night was getting on, so Izlude decided that shopping for provisions could wait until morning. Upon returning to his room and safely tucking Alma's portrait away, the knight blade headed for the inn's tavern. Even at this hour, the establishment had quite a few night owls eager for food and drink. Other patrons were conversing in vivacious, booming tones or engaged in such diversions as darts, dice, and letting their hands wander. Rolling his eyes at these shenanigans, and idly wondering if scoring a few bull's-eyes might give him an opening to ask about possible jobs, he settled onto a bar stool and let his gaze roam the crowd. Before he could glean anything more probative than the fact that beer and darts don't mix, Izlude noticed a young man enter the tavern. He was wiry fellow, dressed in the rough garb of a workman. However, he was also well spoken, with a clipped and educated Lesalian accent. He held a small stack of handbills in one hand which featured a curious insignia Izlude had never seen before. It looked to a pair of burly hands, clasped as if in a gesture of friendship, with the image framed at the corners by small symbols depicting an anvil being struck by a smithing hammer and a boulder being struck by a pick axe. The young man pulled one handbill free, waving in the air like a banner carrier on the field of battle.

"Attention, everyone!" the young man announced. "I am Gilliam Ro, a representative from the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium, based in Gollund. We are looking for strong men to work the mines, foundries, and smithies. Apprenticeships are available, and workers can earn two, even three hundred gil a day!"

Izlude had never heard of such an organization; but, by the look of things, the tavern patrons had. Before Gilliam had even finished his introduction, every eye in the tavern had snapped in his direction. And, by the time he'd finished his announcement, the tavern patrons looked fit to burst with excitement. They rose in a body and swarmed Gilliam who, apparently used to this kind of enthusiasm, smiled broadly and began passing out the handbills as fast as he could. Izlude watched the flurry of activity, his eyebrows shooting right up into his hairline at the wiry man's claims. On the surface, the offer sounded a bit too generous, especially to someone who vividly remembered the Ivalice of the wars. In those all too recent days, a worker could count him or herself lucky to earn two or three hundred gil in a month, let alone a day. And, Izlude remembered only too well the last time he'd been beguiled into embracing what he should've suspected was too good to be true.

After all, when he'd followed the Church of Glabados's plan to create a utopia in Ivalice, he'd found himself unknowingly in the service of a disguised demon and, later, found himself impaled upon the demon's leonine claws.

And yet, though he found the offer's validity questionable, he could not help the curiosity which threatened to overwhelm his skepticism. The offer did sound too good to be true, but what if it was genuine? If so, earning such wages would greatly expedite his plans to reunite with Alma. And, with all these people signing on, he suspected he'd be able to get in quite a bit of practice perfecting his persona as Damien Mitchell.

What's more, the Fredericks did mention that some of the loot from the sundered crime rings was believed to be hidden in Gollund's mines.

Suppose, while working in those dark shafts, he discovered such a trove which he could use to finance his bid for Alma's hand?

What do you think? he silently asked the stone, wondering if it might hear his thoughts and react.

Rather than hum or vibrate, the stone remained quiet. Izlude's brow furrowed, wondering if this might mean that whatever force guided the stone had no opinion on the matter, had too little information to render judgment, or was silently resentful of being treated like a fortune teller's crystal ball. After waiting for a few moments, and deciding the stone would make itself known only when it chose to, Izlude decided to make his way through the crowd to ask Gilliam for a handbill. Seeing how strong and robust Izlude was, the mining company representative was only too happy to oblige.

"You'll have to forgive my ignorance," Izlude spoke up, "but, I've never worked for your organization before. Please, tell me about this job. And, when do I start?"

Though Izlude wasn't laying any coin on his chances, he was hoping that he could get more information out of the mining company representative. The smug grin he wore and the aplomb with which he handled his duties suggested that Gilliam's position was the result of a recent and eagerly sought after promotion, and that he very much enjoyed being the face of his organization. Perhaps being addressed in a deferential tone might loosen Gilliam's lips and, consequently, give Izlude some insight into whether or not this remarkably generous offer was genuine.

"The details will be given when you get there," Gilliam answered smoothly, apparently used to this sort of treatment as well. "Don't worry, though. I'm sure you'll do fine. However, the project starts in a few days, and we can only take so many applicants. If you're serious about signing on, then I suggest you leave here and head to Gollund as soon as possible."

"Will do. Thank you, sir," Izlude said as he accepted the handbill.

As he waded through the crowd of patrons still eager for handbills of their own, Izlude grumbled a bit at his, thus far, laughable progress in the realm of spycraft. Another flipside of being a knight's son was that lies, subterfuge, and surreptitiousness were concepts which, at best, were foreign and which, at worst, were abhorrent. Now, with the Knights Templar corrupted and crushed, and with his former life and former name now lost to him, he'd been forced to make his journey to Alma's side with only his wits and his luck...

...at this point, he was fairly certain that the fact that he was still breathing could only be attributed to the latter. And, to the stone.

Still, from what little he'd seen, it appeared that the world he'd discovered upon waking from his coma was far better than the one he'd involuntarily left behind when he'd been devoured by the flood waters at Besselat.

With each day, there seemed to be more changes he'd have to adjust to, more to learn so that he might avoid attracting unwelcomed attention, and more to do before he finally held Alma in his arms again.

That was a great burden to shoulder. But, like the Ivalicians he'd seen and spoken to, many of whom shouldered burdens no less daunting than his own, he did not despair. If his fumbling allowed him to reach Alma, he'd feel no less overjoyed for the inauspicious moments that marked his journey. So resolved, he continued weaving through the press of bodies until he eventually worked free and seated himself at a table where he could study the handbill at greater length. Before he could begin reading, however, he was nearly jolted out of his seat by the rapport of tankards banging against the table. Glancing around, he saw that, in his preoccupation with Alma, he'd failed to notice that a group of people had also decided to seat themselves at this particular table.

These were a rough-and-tumble group, comprised of some twenty men and women, all with the well-defined muscles and tanned flesh of folk well accustomed to hard labor. They spoke in boisterous, excited tones and, Izlude noticed, they were passing one of Gilliam's handbills back and forth between them.

Once more, Izlude found his curiosity bubbling to the surface. Perhaps these people had worked for this Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium before, and they could tell him more about it.

"Excuse me," he spoke up to the man seated next to him, a burly, grizzled man of middle years with a broad chest and sun bleached hair who'd just finished offering a toast to the assembled laborers. "I see you're also interested in working for the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium."

"Why, that we are, young man!" the grizzled replied in a jolly Zeltennian voice, accentuating his enthusiasm by clapping Izlude on the back hard enough to leave the knight blade gasping. "Though, if you're after the same job, you'll need to be a bit sturdier than that. Still, you're young yet. I'm Georg Diepel. Who are you?"

"Damien Mitchell," Izlude replied, glad that his alias came to his lips more easily this time.

"I've been in the sticks helping resettle displaced villagers, and it looks like things have been moving fast while I've been away. Is there anything you can tell me about the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium? The only thing I really know about them is that they make tempting offers."

"Ah, worried you'll find the grass isn't so green in their pastures? Well, it's good you young people are looking before you leap. Anyhow, I was skeptical too, but my crew and I voted to give it a try during their last project, which was about a month ago. And, we made out like bandits! We got more gil from that one project than we did in our last three jobs combined."

"That does sound tempting. But, could you tell me more about the Consortium? And, what did you mean by your 'crew'?"

"Well, that's thirsty work, young man. And, between that and making a new friend, I say this is an occasion that deserves a drink."

"Father, when have you ever needed an occasion to drink?" a young woman seated across from Georg asked with a snicker.

"You'd best be respecting your elders, Gerde," Georg said in what would've been a scolding tone if not for the rumbles of laughter that punctuated his words. "Don't think just because you served in the Nanten that I can't still take you over my knee."

"The last time you tried that, I flipped you on your back and tied your belt around your ankles."

Georg snorted, turned pointedly to Izlude, and grumbled something unflattering about 'young people'.

His eyes darting warily between the bombastic father and his suddenly fearsome looking daughter, Izlude could only politely reiterate his earlier question. Georg, who apparently didn't need much encouragement when new-found friends and beer were involved, ordered a round for the table and relayed his tale, insisting that Izlude partake of the liquor all the while.

The beer was strong and bit his throat, but being a knight was not possible without a robust constitution. Trusting in his tolerance, he obliged the Zeltennian and urged him to continue.

Apparently, in an effort to revive Ivalice's economy as quickly as possible, Delita had introduced, ostensibly as an emergency measure, a number of hitherto unheard-of changes to the laws governing trade and commerce in Ivalice. Under the feudal system which had governed Ivalice in the past, those with goods to sell, and who weren't nobles themselves, needed permits to sell their wares while in the lands of this noble or that, as well as to rent land from the nobles to set up their shops and to gather raw materials needed to craft their wares. Those merchants, farmers, miners, and craftsman who were in the bad graces of the noble in question often found the fees for permits and the rents on land to be agonizingly high, and that was assuming they weren't refused outright. These same fees and rents could also be used to untowardly influence just what could be sold and to whom, usually with some petty slight or feud being the driving force behind such coercion. In addition, the prospect of moving goods from one province to another, which was no small matter in and of itself, was made all the more stinging by a system of tariffs which dated back to the time when Ivalice's seven provinces had been separate kingdoms in their own right.

With legitimate commerce so stifled, it was no wonder that the seedy underbelly of places like Dorter had flourished over the last half century.

In fact, it was the nobles' obsession with controlling where and to whom every last copper went which had sown the seeds of the High Confessor's machinations.

Seeing that this arrangement would only exacerbate the aftereffects of the wars, Delita had called for these laws to be suspended and new ones drafted for use during the emergency. The tariffs had been lifted, thus allowing goods to move more freely throughout the realm, and merchants of every walk of life were now given a freer hand in terms of how they could go about their business. They could, for instance, negotiate to use the land in exchange for a fixed percentage of their income, thus preventing a landowner with a grudge from charging them rents which were beyond their means. Alternatively, they could now buy the land outright, thus eliminating the need to pay rents, and could then use, rent out, or resell the land again at their discretion. With the ability to devote greater resources to improving the quality, quantity, and distribution of their merchandise, consortiums such as the one Izlude was now learning about had cropped up. These were independent organizations of laborers, craftsmen, porters, and merchants which had, in recent weeks, steadily been given more and more leeway to conduct their various enterprises on their own terms. Thus, each Consortium was competing to outdo its contemporaries by delivering greater quantities of better merchandise at greater speeds and for lower prices.

Georg hadn't said that, as far as he knew, this had never been done before. But, then again, he hadn't needed to.

Izlude had to admit, he was impressed. After a number of anecdotes from Georg, which the Zeltennian had managed to squeeze in between tankards of beer, it seemed as though Delita's plan was working. Not only was the demand for labor offering a way out of poverty for countless Ivalicians, but those same people who had faced starvation when markets like Dorter's stood empty now had menageries of goods offered by various sources, all capable of offering needed goods at a fraction of their once exorbitant cost.

There had, of course, been some skepticism regarding these sweeping changes. Most of these came from those nobles who were of the opinion that commoners could not be trusted to give an honest answer to any question without a generous application of the thumb screws. Interestingly, however, other nobles were latching onto the idea, since many of these had been bankrupted as a consequence of the war and saw these changes as a lifeline they could use to pull themselves free of destitution. Most Ivalicians, however, were quietly hoping that these "emergency measures" would become permanent in later years.

The new king of Ivalice had already rallied his kingdom's disparate fighting men and women to his new banner, forming an order of knights who regarded him with deep respect and total devotion.

And now, he had turned long standing laws of commerce on their head, sowing unorthodox seeds which, to everyone's amazement, were yielding a bountiful crop of prosperity for all.

Again and again, Delita had shown his cunning by winning himself great friends and dividing and sowing confusion amongst his enemies, all with a few bold strokes.

Izlude would've been impressed if it hadn't been for the fact that this same cunning had allowed Delita to win the trust of would-be allies, only to stab them in the back once their usefulness to him had ended.

What might the newly crowned king do with all this burgeoning power?

For that matter, what might all this burgeoning power do to him?

Deciding that the state of Delita's moral compass was beyond his control, Izlude listened as Georg went on to describe his crew, which he'd garishly dubbed the 'Boulder Devils'. Apart from himself and his daughter, there were a number of people with them, several from each province. Like so many other Ivalicians, they'd lost their homes and livelihoods during the war and were swept up in the flood of desperation which deposited hungry refugees in Lesalia like so much flotsam. Yet, whereas many of these destitute folk turned to panhandling, prostitution, or banditry, these people had kept straight backs and banded together to survive. Once the war had ended, and their various talents were actively sought after, the Boulder Devils had taken advantage of the roads between provinces reopening to seek out where the best jobs could be found in the emerging free market. Until they found a place they could set down roots - and, more to the point, find work they'd happily labor at until old age - they journeyed together in chocobo drawn wagons, moving from place to place and job to job, accruing a reputation all the while which, hopefully, would one day secure better lives for themselves and their children.

Izlude had to admit, he found their tale rather heartwarming...or, maybe that was the beer. He had, at Georg's insistence, downed several tankards as he heard the tale.

Ultimately, Georg had decided he'd done enough talking and, unsurprisingly, that called for a drink. At this point, the slightly inebriated Izlude felt the stone vibrate in his pocket. Woozy though he was, the knight blade could glean that this must mean the stone had weighed Georg's words and had given its approval. Truth be told, however, Izlude had already been leaning in that direction. Thus resolved, he'd been about to leave the table when - again, at Georg's insistence - he kept his seat and made idle chatter with the group for a while longer. Though he was getting tired, and he was quite certain he'd imbibed well past his limits, he obliged. Why he did so, he could not say. But, as he listened to the Boulder Devils recount their exploits, heard anecdotes about Gerde's time with the Nanten, and offered some carefully crafted tales of his own about his time in Kohlingen, he found himself warming to this eclectic group. Perhaps he was still in a celebratory mood from the good fortune he'd had in discovering the portrait and this promising job, or maybe he'd enjoyed a respite from the solitude that had characterized much of his journey so far.

Of course, it could just as easily have been him imbibing eight tankards of beer...before he'd lost count, that is.

Whatever the reason, he found himself thinking that, if he did indeed need to build a new life from his porous persona as Damien Mitchell, maybe he could find some new friends as well. The Fredericks, Sir Alian, Claudio, and the Boulder Devils had each given him a taste of companionship which he'd sorely missed since his earlier 'death' had forced him to sever all ties with his former friends in the Knights Templar.

Perhaps, once he was reunited with Alma, he could put down some roots of his own, just as these people sought to do after the loss of their former homes had forced them on their own strange journey.

Perhaps hiding behind the name and face of Damien Mitchell would not be so bleak a prospect if there were other uprooted souls in whom he might find fellowship.

He had to admit, the notion appealed to him.

As Georg led his crew in a tavern ballad, the knight blade considered what he'd learned. The stone vibrating in his pocket certainly suggested that acting upon this unexpected opportunity might allow him to make enough money to cover his expenses for his trip to Lesalia, as well as enough to vie for the hand of the Duchess of Lionel. Although the pay was quite appealing, Izlude also knew that mining was very hard work, even more so than farming. Still, he remembered how, before his soul was evicted by Hashmalum, his father used to say that one never gets something for nothing. Izlude hadn't become the Knights Templar's second-in-command through sloth or ineptitude, but through the same drive, discipline, and quick wittiness with which he sought to build a new future for himself and his beloved. His being Vormav's son had no bearing on his meteoric rise in the ranks of the Knights Templar, and his father would have never given Izlude his position if he had not truly earned it. The same was true of Meliadoul. If he was brave enough to take on a Lucavi demon alone, against hopeless odds, just so his beloved would have a few minutes to escape, then Izlude would have no complaints about toiling in the mines of Gollund for a few days, or even weeks.

Georg called for another tavern ballad; one that, apparently, wove the exploits of the Boulder Devils into song. He also, unsurprisingly, called for more beer.

And, once more at George's insistence, Izlude found himself juggling the strangely complex tasks of draining his tankard and lending his slurred, warbling voice to the song.

Even as he approached the tipping point of being too drunk to keep his seat, he was certain he'd never heard such atrocious lyrics.

SSSSSS

Izlude had learned a great deal from his talk with Georg.

One of these things, unfortunately, had been that the knight blade's estimation of his tolerance for alcohol was somewhat exaggerated.

Still, despite a wobble in his gait and a slur in his speech, he was still coherent enough to make his way back to his room with the handbill from the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium still in hand.

If Georg's glowing appraisal of the Consortium hadn't been enough to convince Izlude, then the stone vibrating in affirmation certainly had.

The next step in his journey apparently revealed, Izlude decided to return to his room before his new-found friends could inebriate him even further. The knight blade would need a good night's sleep and, with all he'd drunk, he'd be exceedingly lucky if he could manage even that, let alone get an early start the next morning. Fortunately, drinking his dinner did have one helpful dividend; his stomach, which had been complaining since he'd left Claudio's shop, no longer rumbled.

More than likely, it was quite busy ensuring what little food he had eaten didn't manage a violent reemergence.

A cool bath helped to ease the aftereffects of matching drinks with the Zeltennian, though Izlude was positive he'd regret availing himself of Georg's generosity come dawn. Once he'd dried off and changed into his night clothes, Izlude decided to take out the portrait of Alma. Slipping it free of its leather case, he settled onto the bed and gazed at it adoringly, admiring how the soft light of the room's lamp cast enticing shadows across the Beoulve girl's features. As Izlude had suspected, Claudio was indeed a talented artist, for he had captured the Beoulve girl's image in exquisite detail. His beer addled mind churned with longing as he beheld her large, luminous blue eyes, her Cupid 's bow lips, her delicate nose, and everything else he remembered of the beautiful young woman who'd captured his heart. However, as he had noticed earlier, there were certain disparities between the girl he remembered and the girl that was staring back at him now. Apart from her red hair, which he already knew of from Doug and Helen, he saw that her tresses were, indeed, longer and lusher than he remembered. Her pale cheeks were also redder, which seemed at odds with her smile...

...or, at least, it would have been if the painting had been depicting her real smile.

During her aborted plan to seduce and kill the captor who would, rather spectacularly, disrupt her plans by falling in love with her, she'd given him a smile just like the one he saw in the portrait. Once she had returned his affections, however, the smile, the genuine smile she'd given him, had been crooked. Yet another oddity was that, when he gave her figure a closer examination, he saw that her breasts were slightly larger, her hips a mite wider, and cheeks a bit fuller.

The knight blade rested the portrait against one of the bedposts, studying it curiously. He had hoped that his surreptitious questioning of Claudio might shed some light on this matter, but he'd come away empty-handed. Still, some possible explanations did occur to him. Claudio had mentioned that 'Duchess Seymour' had been short of coin, likely due to the people of Lionel province being reluctant to pay taxes to a castle they believed was haunted. It was possible that the old artist might've found it distressing for a lovely lady of breeding to be so impoverished. Perhaps, by giving her lusher hair and putting some meat on her bones, he was embellishing her appearance to make her look as he believed she ought to look, or how he suspected she would look once her new-found home was in good order.

That seemed possible, especially since a stranger would find her askew smile quite strange on canvas.

Or, perhaps, these changes had been quite real, but they'd also been Alma's own handiwork.

Izlude was not the only one who had to leave his former name beneath a gravestone, but he had the holy stone to alter his appearance and voice so that none who meant him harm would recognize him. Alma, he imagined, had had to make do with more mundane means of hiding her identity. But, perhaps, she'd made good use of them? Apart from the hair dye, he'd once heard Meliadoul mention certain oils she'd used which, when rubbed into the scalp, caused a woman's hair to grow longer and thicker. By that same token, Alma could have used some makeup to alter her complexion, lending her pale skin a rosier hue. And, to round out her new disguise, literally as well as figuratively, a few extra portions of dessert would give her a fuller figure. Taken together, these would make it quite difficult for Alma to be recognized by her former acquaintances. And, hopefully, any of her pursuers who yet remained would also be fooled.

That too was possible, especially since Alma's efforts to win her freedom from Riovanes showed she had a sharper mind and steadier nerves than her demure appearance would suggest.

After pondering the thought for a while longer, the knight blade shook his head. In the end, it hardly mattered whether the appearance of his love had been altered by the painter's brush or by her own hand. She was still beautiful to his eyes, and the knowledge that she was alive and living in safety and comfort within the walls of Lionel Castle with her brother and friends was more than enough to ease his spirits and firm his resolve. And, if the face staring back at him was truly that of his love, then what did it matter?

If her hair was now red, then so be it. This new color looked truly radiant on her.

If her tresses were longer and lusher, then so be it. He'd have that much more woven silk to tangle his fingers in when he swooped in for a kiss.

If her cheeks were rosier, then so be it. They looked all the more enticing to his hungry lips.

If she was plumper than he remembered, then so be it. Perhaps, if she ever took it into her head to play hard to get, as she sometimes did after they'd confessed their love at Riovanes, then a few extra pounds would make her easier to catch.

It would be worth anything to see her again, her smile properly askew as he held her in his arms once more.

Hoping this resolve would extend to him rising early and arriving in Gollund in time for the job, he carefully stored away Alma's portrait and the handbill he'd gotten from Gilliam and fell into a deep, heavy sleep…

SSSSSS

Darkness.

All about Izlude was darkness. An ebony expanse of gloom, which spanned the horizon and shot off into infinity, was all that greeted the knight blade's still addled senses...

...that and the migraine that had his skull pounding like a gong.

Izlude could swear that a certain young Beoulve and a certain holy knight were presently dancing atop his skull...in full armor. Even in his drunken state, some scintilla of rational thinking informed him that such an image was well and truly absurd, though this did nothing to alleviate the roll of thunder booming between his ears.

As he worked to massage away the invisible pins that rhythmically prodded at his eyeballs, Izlude suddenly noticed the gloom around him…and remembered what sinister images he'd beheld the last time he'd found himself in such a place.

Alma, tainted by the Lucavi, and condemned to an insatiable hunger for innocent blood.

Ramza, a champion of Ivalice, spitting her upon his blade rather than leave her to her enthrallment.

Though he knew that nightmare had not come to pass, his drink addled mind was nonetheless jolted to life by these remembered horrors. Fearing what this darkness might birth next, he straightened and, once more, groped for a sword which was absent from his hip.

But, all this was promptly forgotten when an all too familiar voice rang out of the infinite night.

"My lord…"

Izlude, his pounding skull and thudding heart suddenly falling silent, stood stock still for a long moment, his alarm draining away as astonishment and trepidation flooded in to replace it. Slowly, very slowly, he turned towards the sound of the voice and found himself face to face with someone he knew all too well.

It was a young man with red hair, blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. Like many who had fought at his side and died under his command during his time as his father's right hand amongst the Knights Templar, he wore a suit of magnificent armor that gleamed golden, even in the blackness, over which was draped an exquisite tabard of crimson silk. Many such men and women had drawn swords with him, and he'd consigned more than a few to their final rest after they'd given their lives in service to their church, but this one occupied a special place in the knight blade's heart.

This man had been like the brother he never had...but had lost nonetheless.

For a fatal lapse in judgment had cost this man the life that Izlude himself had, through means he might never understand, been given back.

"Justin? Is that you?" he gasped, barely able to get the words past the lump in his throat.

"Yes, it is I, Sir Izlude," the late Templar answered.

The apparition, illusion, or whatever he beheld spoke with the voice of his old friend, but not quite. In life, Sir Justin's words had forced their way past his lips in fits and starts while his sentences had been known to double back upon themselves when negotiating certain phrases. Now, however, his voice possessed a sharpness and clarity that sent Izlude's eyes pulsing wide.

"You... you're not stuttering!" the knight blade blurted in amazement, nearly stuttering himself in his astonishment.

"Of course not," Justin replied, seeming almost amused by his former superior's reaction. "Have you forgotten? I no longer dwell the realm of the living, and therefore the limitations of my mortal body no longer binds me."

Another quirk, which could only be attributed to his late comrade being well past the fear of being demoted for insolence, manifested itself as Justin's mouth broadened in a mischievous smile.

"If you'd finished off that keg, you might very well find yourself similarly unencumbered," he pointed out.

This barb had likely been meant as a joke, but Izlude nonetheless could not find it in him to laugh…

…indeed, he suddenly found himself unable to meet Justin's bright gaze.

The weight of memory, held in abeyance by days spent planning his journey to Alma's side, now pressed upon him just as surely as boot heel against his throat. He recalled how, while making his exit from the tomb that was Riovanes Castle, he'd lingered before Justin's ravaged corpse. At that time, even he had not been certain why he'd lingered. Perhaps he'd wanted to explain, to apologize, or to thank his friend for his loyalty; but now, faced with Justin's specter in whatever realm he'd found himself in, words failed him…

…just as he had failed his friend.

Seeing the wraith-like form of his friend had served as a painful reminder of whose fault it was that Justin's time amongst the living had been cut so tragically short. The knight blade's gaze drifted towards the bottomless abyss below, guilt bowing his head and leaving him too ashamed to meet the gaze of his loyal subordinate and dear friend, just as had been the case with the aggrieved, dispossessed spirit of his father. In a voice hoarse with emotion, Izlude asked "Do you hate me, Justin?"

"Of course not, my lord," Justin answered, his tone suggesting that, if it were possible for a ghost to feel shock, he did so. "Why would you think that?"

Rather than easing the burden of his guilty conscience, Justin's denial seemed to inflame it. "How could you not? It was because of me that you died. You might have been able to escape Hashmalum if I hadn't ordered you to protect Alma and guard her escape."

"My lord… Izlude… whether you ordered me to guard Lady Alma or not would've made no difference. She was…very dear to me, as are you."

Though Justin no longer retained the speech impediment which had made him a figure of fun in the eyes of some, even death could not wipe away the boyish timidity which Justin had shown when a conversation had wended its way into sensitive territory. Comprehension dawning, the knight blade's head snapped up and he stared at his best friend in shock. And, when Justin's eyes darted away from his own, Izlude's next words came out haltingly. "You… you were in love with her too, weren't you?"

Justin did not answer, but the look in the other knight's eyes told Izlude everything he needed to know.

"I would have protected her with all my strength, and given my life for hers in a heartbeat," Justin affirmed, the conviction and regret in his words lending weight to Izlude's assertion. "Even if you had not ordered me to defend her, I would've done so anyway. If anything, I should beg your forgiveness. You trusted me to protect Lady Alma, as did she, and I have failed both of you."

In the late Templar's words, Izlude heard an echo of the grief he'd heard from his father when he'd faced the dispossessed spirit of the man he'd remembered from his boyhood. He remembered the regret and the self-recrimination in the nearly broken voice of the man whose very soul had been evicted from his body, and this recollection set his ghostly nerves afire.

"No!" he intoned, forcefully enough to startle the specter before him. In a calmer voice, Izlude continued. "You owe me no apology, Justin. If anything, you deserve Alma much more than I do…"

A figure of fun Justin might have been to some, but those who could see past the fits and starts of his speech knew him to be a brave and honorable man. Indeed, such was what had drawn Izlude to him in the first place and why, at some risk to his own standing, he had argued for Justin to included amongst the ranks of the Templar.

Would the strange events of the past few months have unfolded differently if it had been Justin who captured the heart of their lovely captive instead of Izlude?

The knight blade had no idea. In truth, the only thing he was certain of was that Justin would not have taken Alma's maidenhood before giving her a proper wedding bed.

As if sensing this train of thought, the other knight laughed softly. "Do not be so certain, my lord," he cautioned. "Even men of the gods are still men. The spirit may be willing when the flesh is weak, as we've heard often enough at mass. But, I don't blame you for...showing weakness before Alma. She's the sort of woman a man might pine after for a thousand years. And, I think we're both past being concerned with what the Knights Templar would make of such an act."

"Maybe," Izlude conceded, recalling the sick irony that his 'death' was all that spared him from being cast out of the order in disgrace. "But, that does not excuse what I did."

"No? Then, perhaps this will. Never forget, what you did for Alma, even those acts you call into question, had been done out of love. The Lucavi that killed us are incapable of love. The demon who wore your father's face could not even imitate it. Yes, you took her maidenhood before taking her hand in marriage. But, what else did you do as well? You offered her companionship and affection in what, otherwise, would have been a long, waking nightmare. Then, when you heard her out regarding the church's machinations, and realized she was telling the truth, you became an ally, someone she could confide in and rely on, even with all the dreadful events that were unfolding so near at hand. And, ultimately, you gave your life so that she might live."

Here, Justin paused long enough to approach Izlude and lay a strangely substantial hand on the knight blade's shoulder.

"What you took from her, she gave freely. And, after what you gave her in turn, I doubt Alma would regret a minute of it."

Izlude had to admit, unencumbered by his stutter, Justin could say a great deal with only a few words.

"Even so, I'd say you've proved yourself the better man between us," he affirmed, though the self-recrimination was gone from his voice.

"Lady Alma herself would disagree," Justin replied. "She has chosen you, and only you. I've always known that, and I accepted it. "

"And, that's why you never told her how you felt…"

"Yes. But, that no longer matters…"

"Regardless, you and so many other knights have died because of me, because of my ignorance of the Lucavi. It was one thing to give my own life, but yours wasn't mine to give, nor were theirs."

"Have you forgotten what I already said, my lord? Even if you hadn't asked me to protect Lady Alma, I would have done so anyway."

"Maybe, but I still wish it hadn't come to this. When I 'died', all I could think about was the signs I'd seen but didn't recognize. I should have known that father was not the same man after he'd received that blasted stone. I should have acted upon Alma's words sooner. I just...I just have so many regrets, about how I'd failed you and the others, and I wish there was something, anything, I could do to set things to rights. Not just for you, but all of who shouldn't have died that day."

"There is, Izlude. The land that we loved and died for still needs men of courage. The fires of war may have guttered out, but Ivalice's future is still far from secure. Protect and serve this land, and her people, so that people like Larg, Goltana, Ruvelia, and Marcel will not rise again and run her to ruin. And, no less important, live your own life to the fullest. This second chance at life that you've been given? Countless souls have pined for it as they realized, too late, that they'd left so much undone and that time favors no one. Don't agonize over who should've gotten that second chance. Instead, put it use. For Ivalice, for yourself, and for Lady Alma…"

For a stretching second, Izlude could only stare back at Justin in mute awe. Was this the man who, if not for his malformed speech, Izlude would have known in life? The knight blade could not say. What he could say was that the late Templar's wispy eyes held no hint of reproach nor anger, not even much envy that Alma had chosen Izlude instead of him.

All he saw on Justin's face was the same friendship and respect he recalled when they'd both walked the land of the living.

Though Izlude's mind could not gather it in all at once, the realization that Justin begrudged him nothing had struck him profoundly. However, once he allowed that realization to sink it, and he turned it over in his mind, he found the pain which had lingered in his heart at Justin's death had eased.

It was still there, and perhaps it would linger until the day he died for the second and last time, but hearing his friend's kind words had caused the great weight to lift from his heart. In its place was fond memories of the time he'd had with his best friend, and the final promise he must now make, and keep, in honor of his friend's memory.

So resolved, the knight blade smiled as he took Justin in an embrace.

"I will, my friend," Izlude avowed, wiping away misty tears from his ethereal cheeks. "This I promise you."

"Thank you," Justin replied, sounding as though he'd reached some peace himself. "However, I must go now. I can rest easy knowing everything is in good hands. Goodbye, Izlude, my friend. Live well… and be happy…

"I will…goodbye, Justin…

SSSSSS

"Oooohhhh!"

As has been said, Izlude learned a great deal from his talk with Georg.

"Oooooooohhhhhhhh!"

Unfortunately, at the top of that list was that one should never, ever try to match drinks with a Zeltennian miner.

"Oooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Izlude, who was mightily chastened regarding any and all presumptions regarding his tolerance for alcohol, writhed under the onslaught of what felt like the entirety of Ramza's engaged in a folk dance atop his already throbbing head...or, was that what his dream last night had degenerated into after he'd had exchanged his farewells with Justin?

Before his slightly addled wits could decide, his lurching attempt to leave his bed went somewhat awry and ended with him crunching his nose into the floorboards. Jolted from his stupor by the barest degree, Izlude rolled onto his back and spent the next few minutes trying to make sense of the image of the ceiling as it seemed to surge towards him and then draw back.

"Stay up, ceiling," he croaked, suddenly feeling as parched as the Zeklaus Desert. "Good ceiling."

Some part of Izlude, likely the rational part he'd been neglecting since that fateful exchange between him and Alma in the dungeons of Riovanes Castle, was presently railing at him over his decision to drink the night away with the Boulder Devils. And, Izlude almost agreed.

Almost.

Granted, he'd had little experience with the people his former order and former church professed to aid, and very well might have in the years before his father's soul was evicted by Hashmalum, but he'd found his experiences with Georg, Gerde, and the Boulder Devils to be one that he'd not soon forget. Despite their rough manner and hard drinking, he could tell they were honest folk and a tight-knit group, any one of which would gladly hazard him or herself for the benefit of one of their fellows. No less apparent was their grit, by which they had not only survived events which had left many dead or broken, but which had only made them stronger and had allowed them to live long enough to see a world where they might thrive.

They'd kept him up well past he'd intended with their advice about the Consortium and how to do well in their employ, which was useful. They'd kept him for a time after that spinning yarns and drawing from him what anecdotes he could manage under the combined burdens of secrecy and intoxication, and both the practice and the beer had helped him to speak as Damien Mitchell with a steadier nerve.

And, they'd kept him a bit longer than that with their singing...which was a mild form of torture.

Our tools are sharp, our laces, tight, we dance beyond the firelight, Izlude repeated in his head with scathing silent sarcasm as he dragged himself upright. If I hear that damned refrain one more time, someone will die!

Before he'd even finished the thought, his already unsteady legs twisted beneath him and sent him sprawling again. At the same time, his stomach, already roiling after having half a keg of beer in place of dinner, went into the sorts of convulsions which threatened a full blown mutiny.

Probably me, Izlude mentally added as he clawed his way to the chamber pot and retched piteously.

Once there was nothing left to heave, the less-than-cognizant knight blade made a less-than-dignified effort to stand and managed a less-than-steady stride while he willed his eyes to focus. Judging by the strength of the sun, he hadn't slept in quite a late as he'd feared, but he suspected it would be ill-advised of him to press his luck. After dunking his head in the room's wash basin several times, he'd managed to clear his head, and his mouth, enough that he felt he could manage the journey.

He still felt like he'd been trampled by Nelly, twice, and that he'd keel over and die unless he got a mug of water in the next five minutes, but his thoughts wended away from his beer induced agony the moment he lurched over to the holy stone's hiding place.

Was that dream your handiwork? he silently asked the stone, wondering if it could hear and, if so, if and how it might give answer. If so, could you do something about this hangover while you're at it?

The stone gave off a cool, almost admonishing pulse in reply, prompting Izlude to shrug and chalk his present discomfiture up to a learning experience.

Still, the question persisted.

Was his vision of his best friend merely a trick of his overwrought mind, or had the holy stone somehow allowed him to speak with the spirit of the late Sir Justin Timbel through his dreams? Either was certainly possible, and the stone had already proven that whatever powers it possessed reached beyond the realm of the living. After all, the proof was staring Izlude in the face every time he looked in the mirror and saw the face of a hale and hearty man staring back. Regardless, being able to speak with Justin, to come to grips with the guilt he'd felt over his loyal comrade's death and give him a proper farewell, did much to ease the guilt which had gnawed at him since his resurrection.

His own abortive journey beyond the grave notwithstanding, Izlude could not say where Justin's brave soul now resided. But, wherever that might be, he hoped his friend was happy.

Then, he remembered that he'd made a promise to his dearly departed friend and, on the heels of that recollection, came the memory of what Gilliam told him the night before. If this Consortium was as sought after a billet as last night suggested, he had best make haste to Gollund if he wanted that job working the mines. After packing his things, the knight blade checked out of the inn and made his way to the stables to pick up his faithful mount. Nelly, happy to see her master and already her customarily restless self again, nearly bowled over the stable hands as they led her out of her stall, bounded up to Izlude and gave him a playful peck. After tipping the boy, and adding in a small recompense for the near-trampling, Izlude took the reins and left with Nelly in tow. As he arranged his gear in the saddlebags, Izlude also came to a grim realization regarding his money...

...or, rather, what was left of it.

What coin remained to him would need to last and, between that and the need to reach Gollund as quickly as possible, he likely would not pass the night in a bed for at least a few more days. Though he would've happily paid twice Claudio's asking price for the portrait of Alma, his purchase had precluded the possibility of renting a room at another inn. That meant at least several more days where he would have to eat and sleep on the road. And, while he had the money to buy enough food to last him and Nelly until they reached the next city, he would also need to supplement his provisions if the opportunity presented himself. In addition to training him and Meliadoul as knights, Vormav also taught his children useful survival skills - such as hunting, trapping, fishing, and foraging - which Izlude has used and, in turn, taught to his own subordinates for use in the event that their food supplies ran low while in the field.

Izlude felt a sad smile tug at his features as he remembered those days, wondering what had become of his father after Hashalum's destruction, and hoping he remembered his lessons.

After a quick stop at a provisioner's shop and purchasing as much food as he could afford, Izlude mounted Nelly and gave her reins a gentle flick. Hardly needing the encouragement, Nelly gave a mighty 'wark' and, within moments, the pair had left Dorter Trade City behind. As the city receded in the distance, Izlude took one final glance back. Though his eyes were no longer bleary with drink, Nelly's speed prevented him from seeing much, but he could still make out what was important.

Dorter, like Ivalice herself, was battered but unbroken; damaged, but still determined.

Wounded, and yet perseverant.

Though he wished he could have stayed a bit longer, perhaps to take in more of what he had seen and felt as he beheld this revivification, he knew time was of the essence if he was going to secure a place in this new mining project in Gollund. Even though he knew he could find other jobs easily enough, the knight blade was sure that very few would pay as well as this Consortium's mining project. And, between his talk with the Boulder Devils and the stone's corroborating gyrations, he was firm in his decision that Gollund represented his best chance, especially now that the demand for his sword was not nearly as great as during the war. The newly formed Order of the Chimera notwithstanding, many knights had chosen to return home to their families and taken on new professions more in demand now that Ivalice had turned her attention to mending the wounds inflicted upon her by nobility, clergy, bandits, and demons alike. After over half a century of war, Ivalice had a long way to go before she was restored to her former glory. But, from what little he'd seen so far, the knight blade did not doubt that better days lay ahead.

And, however long it took and whatever else awaited him in this second life, he was grateful that his second chance at life had given him the chance to see it.

A/N: Ok, chapter 9 done. Next Izlude will head onto Gollund for his new job and discover just why the pay is so generous so please look forward to it :) Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this story possible :)