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.

13. A Throne of Bayonets

A/N: And now the spotlight falls on the new King of Ivalice, Delita Hyral the First and his inner struggles. Will be vulnerable to the Lucavi as Ramza has feared? You make the call! ;)

Chapter 12: A Throne of Bayonets

Whether speculations and conjectures are bandied about amidst the glittering streets of Lesalia or the slums of Sar Ghidos, whether they pass between the lips of the high or the lowly, and no matter just what tale is being uttered, repeated, exaggerated, or dismissed, one constant unfailingly holds firm.

The truth is more complicated.

Especially when it involves Delita Hyral.

As he lingered atop the battlements of Lesalia Castle, one might suspect that the newly crowned king was surveying his realm, or was on the lookout for trouble that might yet despoil the hopeful horizon, or even simply acquainting himself with the glittering streets and marble walls so far removed from the rickety farmhouse of his humble birth.

In truth, it was all of these...and yet none.

For though he had looked out at the city for a time, he was well past gaping and gawking at the splendor of the alabaster island that was Lesalia. Indeed, the reinventing of himself had placed particular emphasis on suppressing the distraction of such gaudy glitter and glamor as he saw parading below him...

...or, perhaps, the part of him that would have run like the wind to soak up every sight he could in this city of splendors had been burned away in the fires of Fort Zeikden.

Quite a bit else had, that was certain.

He still remembered the heat on his skin as the kegs of gunpowder erupted into coronas of flame, the clouds of stinging smoke, and the taste of ashes in his mouth. Yet, each and all paled compared to the memory of Teta lying dead at his feet.

And, they paled all the further compared to the memory of Teta, who'd yet had the spark of life in her, using her last breath to hurl herself atop him, shielding him from the final cacophony of thunder and flames when he was too numb by grief to even want his life, let alone seek to save it.

Perhaps it was her second, and final, death that had burned away much of what Delita had been before. Or, maybe the fires of Zeikden had been akin to the fires of rebirth from the legends of the phoenix, which immolated itself and then rose renewed from the ashes.

Whatever the reason, Delita the would-be squire had been shed and a very different Delita had limped away after burying what was left of his sister's savaged corpse.

The first change he had made was to discard his aborted tutelage in the ways of the knighthood...at least, beneath the surface. After all, Dycedarg and Zalbag had been knights, chivalrous and valorous, whose words spoke only truth and whose blades protected the helpless.

Yet, this hadn't stopped Dycedarg from falsely claiming that the rescue of Teta from the Corpse Brigade would be his foremost concern, nor did it stop Zalbag from allowing the helpless to be cut down so that the foe shielded behind them could be reached.

Whether the chivalric code the two elder Beoulves had professed to follow had died with their father, or whether it had never existed in the first place, Delita neither knew nor cared. He knew only that, when denial and grief over Teta's death had given way to grim resignation and acceptance, he had found himself impressed by the power of the elder Beoulves' deceit. Even after Algus' spiteful warning had spurred Ramza and Delita's mad dash to the Corpse Brigade's final redoubt, hindsight told Delita that he had believed Dycedarg and Zalbag's claims right up to the moment Teta's breast had sprouted that crossbow quarrel.

Right up until that terrible moment, in spite of the grain of doubt Algus had sown, Delita had believed that the elder scions of his adopted family would honor their word and save their lowborn surrogate sister when, in truth, they had been lying to his face from the start.

More than his history with the two brothers had nurtured this false belief, however. What made the soil of his naiveté richer still was their sheer weight of presence, their force of personality, and the conviction with which they had given voice to such lies. Perhaps they'd sensed that Ramza and Delita's interference would complicate their position in Ivalice's convoluted society and that a half brother and his common-born playmate were comparatively expendable. Or, maybe they'd decided that the youngest Beoulve and his unlikely cohort needed a harsh lesson in what they regarded as the truths of life.

Whatever the reason, both men had played upon the younger pair's wishes and fears in order to blind them to truth, to maintain the illusion that both men walked freely rather than dancing on puppet's strings.

That, Delita had realized as he stumbled away from Teta's humble grave, was true power. Not swords, nor spells, nor wealth, nor birth, nor any other manner of weapon or leverage. As he looked into himself, commanding his reluctant eye to see his own tragedy with the dispassionate air of one far removed from the tale and the characters therein, he forced himself to study every moment, from his first battle in Gallione to Teta's dying breath, with the cold logic with which one might study a long ago chess match or calculate the likely returns of a paltry investment.

Much to his surprise, the picture came through clearly and with surprising speed.

In short, the answer was that true power came from the ability to bend another to one's will, but with the subservient never realizing it...until it was too late.

That had been the power that had kept Delita enthralled to people he believed cared for him and his sister, and which had blinded him to their hidden beliefs that he and his sister were no more than chattel, meant to be used and then discarded once their usefulness had ended or when they became inconvenient. And, Delita would use this power to avenge not only his sister, but all the others of low birth who had lived and died dancing on puppet's strings they could neither see nor touch as well.

A few years ago, Delita would have found such a thing repugnant, to be avoided as surely as poison. Yet, as illusions crinkled away in the fires, Delita looked upon that which had guided him so near to death and saw a weapon with which he could strike back at those who'd robbed him of that which he'd held dearest.

And, not just the elder Beoulves, but all those who, like them, saw their birth as an excuse to exploit and then discard those who were born of more humble sires.

Much to his surprise, Delita had found that he'd had quite a talent for using his new weapon.

And, more importantly, his hard-won wisdom about taking the claims of men at face value had allowed him to discern that, though there were few he could trust, there were plenty he could chivvy this way and that like so many pieces on a chessboard to serve his ends.

That, in turn, led to the second change he had undergone after his rebirth in flames of Zeikden. In order to guide events to their proper course, a certain detachment was needed. People would need to die in order for Ivalice to break her centuries old chains and more than a few who would die deserved life. But, Delita knew that prices of greater blood had been paid for less noble ends, and so decided that those innocents who died would rest easier of their blood purchased a better future for those left behind.

And, that was why Delita had meticulously ingratiated himself to Duke Goltana, holding his tongue even as the delusional man bled his own people dry with over-taxation while Delita had steadily made himself more and more valuable to - and, therefore, more and more trusted by - the Duke of Zeltennia.

Delita had learned well the lesson of just how easily trust could be made into a weapon, and he'd demonstrated this when he, at long last, paired that weapon with one wrought of steel and plunged it into Goltana's chest.

The shock, the disbelief, and the impotent incredulity that one lowly born would dare strike at his supposed betters had been nearly as sweet as the sense that, somewhere behind the veil separating the realms of the living from those of the dead, those who'd lost their lives to Goltana's ambitions were now at peace with their suffering having been avenged.

Would it have been better if those whom Goltana wounded but who'd yet survived been able to witness Delita's judgment, perhaps with the act even garbed in the trappings of so-called 'proper justice'? Would it have been more chivalrous, or more romantic, or some other notion from those days before Ziekden turned such things to ash if Delita had offered the duke a sword and bested him in true combat?

Perhaps, and Delita did not doubt that either Balbanes or Ramza would've attempted one or the other. But, Delita had long since discarded his qualms about how the chains were broken and the cell doors were thrown wide. And, more to the point, Goltana deserved no chance to defend himself after having taking so much from those who were defenseless themselves simply to fuel his own ambitions and greed.

And thus did the third change come into play, namely that nothing must be taken for granted.

The church which had discovered Delita not long after he'd made these revelations had been quite a boon, Delita had to admit that. Though the notion of chivalry and honor had long since been reduced to sick parodies and cruel jokes in his mind, his skill with the blade and his strength of conviction had apparently been enough to call down pillars of ice from the sky and to unravel the minds of the wicked with blasts of holy energy.

That this power came from God was, by then, one more thing Delita no longer took for granted, as was the possibility that one might be speaking truly when they professed their cause to be good and just.

To be fair, however, this revelation had not been purely the product of Delita's newfound insight.

Another holy knight, one Sir Avelyn Wells, had as much as said this when the two had met during Delita's training.

I don't presume to know how God thinks or what He wants us to do, just that He knows who does and doesn't deserve a cozy afterlife. Those people who say they know rather than believe? They're the ones you ought to be wary of.

Sir Avelyn saying this, and his other criticisms of the institution which had given him his sword and training, had struck a chord with Delita since it partially echoed his own assessment of the Beoulve brothers and how he'd taken them at their word when he should've seen through the deceit.

But, Delita also discovered that telegraphing this wisdom was unwise, for Sir Avelyn's propensity for doing so went a long way towards explaining his tragic 'accident' while acting as an honor guard for the late King Omdoria's funeral procession.

Delita supposed he should've seen that coming, given his own experiences. But, he knew the cynical knight's warnings would provide needed insight. And, as for his death, Delita suspected Sir Avelyn would be mollified by the knowledge that the clergy who'd placed their egos above the life of a loyal servant had paid the price for their hubris.

And, indeed, the hubris of Marcel and his fellows could readily match those of Larg and Goltana. The High Confessor had professed to his co-conspirators, and to Delita personally as the then-Blackram Knight had proven himself more and more valuable, that, with the bloody deeds done, the church would broker peace between the White and Black Lions. But, the echoes of Sir Avelyn had helped Delita to sniff out the lies behind the soft-spoken words.

In truth, the 'peace' the church offered was, as Ramza had said back in Zeltennia, a surrender.

And, he knew that to allow the church to place a puppet upon the throne would mean that Ivalice would merely trade one yoke for another.

Furthermore, as he had said to Ramza before, he was no hound heeling at the church's skirts.

The Church of Glabados, however, was a beast as deadly as either duke, if not more so. Apart from the influence they'd had amongst those Ivalicians who were ill content with the crown and the nobility, whose numbers seemed to grow by the hour, the church also commanded the formidable Knights Templar and an impressive network of spies and informants. And, all this was made all the more deadly by the leadership of High Confessor Marcel, who had no compunction against putting the seeming righteousness of his cause above any commandment against the act of coveting, bearing false witness, or murder.

Even after his ascension to the throne, Delita knew that to try and attack the church openly would achieve nothing save him running a close second to Ramza in the annals of Ivalice's most infamous heretics.

And so, he had been prepared to play the long game, as it were. He knew Marcel would not be fooled as easily as Goltana, but he also knew that Ramza, his best friend from another life and perhaps even in this new life as well, would prove an invaluable asset in the, he'd once presumed, bloodless but dangerous campaign. So long as the former Beoulve remained an envenomed thorn in the church's side, ever present and eternally dangerous, the church could not bring their full weight to bear against their agent in the Black Lion's camp. And, so long as Delita was largely unencumbered by their oversight, he was free to subtly guide events and maneuver people so that, ultimately, the church would find their pieces on the board subverted and Delita's offer of a partnership in Ivalice's governance their only chance of staying the many ruinous revelations which the new king could unleash.

At times, the fact that he was essentially dangling his closest, if not only, friend before the beast's jaws to accomplish this gnawed at him. Yet, Delita also knew that Ramza provided simply too valuable a distraction for Delita's rivals, present and future. And, Delita was all too aware of just how many opportunities Ramza had had to return to his brothers in Igros or even to flee the country and start anew on foreign soil.

That the former Beoulve had done neither, and had instead fought bravely in defense of a land and a people who cursed his name with every breath, sometimes made Delita think that the chivalric code of Balbanes yet survived after all.

And, thus resolved, he had settled in for a lengthy game of political chess with Marcel.

Yet, before the board had even been set, news reached him that the High Confessor was dead.

No less fortuitous, with the church's senior leadership all but destroyed, the only candidate to replace the late Marcel was the Cardinal Ryker.

A lame goblin who'd been dropped on its head one too many times during infancy would've proven a stouter foe.

And, thus, the crown landed upon Delita's brow and, with a suddenness that left even him amazed, the last of the puppet strings about him were cut, finally and forever.

For a time, as sometimes is the case for newly freed captives, Delita had found himself very nearly daunted by how his newfound freedom had caused the world to seemingly yawn wide before him, possibilities beyond counting seeming to flood the horizon, and he'd been almost daunted by the prospect of taking his first step of this new course.

Almost.

Marcel's death, which all the world seemed to lay at Ramza's feet, had left the once mighty Church of Glabados floundering as its failed attempt to install a puppet monarchy was effectively abandoned in favor of a frantic effort to replenish its ranks and to find a new course in the suddenly churning seas of history. With his supposed masters chasing their tails, Delita's plans could now be accelerated beyond expectation. And, with all of his would-be foes amongst the nobility either dead, destitute, imprisoned, or exiled, the culmination of his dream to build a world where they would be no more Tetas callously discarded by the highborn seemed close enough at hand for him to taste.

Not so long ago, he might've found it disappointing that his war had ended so anticlimactically. There were times he had entertained fantasies of having Queen Ruvelia and Prince Orinas publically sentenced to death for the era of carnage, terror, and misery they'd ushered in practically from the moment King Omdoria's frail heart had finally failed him. Another part of him had even privately relished the notion of a long contest of wits subtlety waged against Marcel, and the sweet image of the old High Confessor realizing, very probably on his deathbed, that his puppet had long ago become the master. He had wanted not only to best them, but to make sure they'd know iwho/i had bested them.

Not a noble, nor a prince, nor even a knight, but Delita. Delita, a son of impoverished farmers who had discovered the means to breaks the chains of his birth and forge his own destiny. He had enjoyed such a pleasure during the war when his Blackram Knights had bested a unit of the Hokuten, led by none other than Zalbag Beoulve himself.

Zalbag had recognized Delita instantly, and that had brought Delita a sense of pleasure nearly as sweet as that which he'd enjoyed after winning the battle. It was a moment he privately re-lived every time he passed the portrait of Zalbag, which he had 'magnanimously' commissioned to be painted by a masterful artist from Dorter named Claudio Chiapparini, which now hung with the other portraits that peppered the walls of the castle.

It hadn't taken long for Delita to see why 'Catherine Seymour' swore by the man's talent.

Even as he studied the strong features and spade beard of the late Hokuten commander, Delita could not help but let his mind's eye repaint the image. His imagination, heady with remembered glory and the promises of greater glory yet to come, twisted the severe expression into one of recognition for his small audience. Eyes pulsed wide and jaws parted as surprise and disbelief warred for dominance as, Delita imagined, he recognized the peasant born knight who stood against the keenest of the White Lion's claws. Then, Delita imagined the portrait's face becoming tinged red with anger at the realization that, not only was Delita standing firm against his former master, but was winning.

He was nearly turgid with exaltation as he concluded his imaginings by envisioning Zalbag spluttering in helpless fury, sounding the retreat, and fleeing the battle.

Delita could swear in that moment that he heard his fellow Blackrams, after a moment's disbelief at their victory, letting out a cheer that shook the very stone beneath him.

Envisioning the prospect of repeating the experience with Zalbag - and perhaps Dycedarg, Ruvelia, Larg, and Marcel - had been one of the few indulgences he'd allowed himself during his years of disciplined adherence to his designs. And, he had to admit, being deprived of the chance to make such fantasies real had stirred the anger which he had, otherwise, arduously shackled and pacified.

The tales that had reached him of Dycedarg and Zalbag's deaths were confused and witnesses were scarce, but there seemed to be no shortage of people eager to blame Ramza and, despite some bizarre accounts which Delita had attributed to shock and stress undoing their wits, all the supposed witnesses agreed that the former Beoulve had been present at both scenes. Ruvelia's death, by contrast, had been a fluke, even if Ramza had played an indirect role in it. It was but happenstance, and irony, that the former queen had bribed her way out of her cell in Fort Besselat just in time to be swept away by the floodwaters Ramza had unleashed to prevent the armies of the White and Black Lions from tearing each other apart. Orinas' disappearance had also been a curious whimsy of fate, and speculation on his whereabouts would likely be making the rounds in Lesalia's vast circles of gossip for years to come.

Still, whatever disappointment he'd felt at these occurrences had been brief and, in hindsight, he supposed he should be grateful that he had an unwitting ally so eager to soil his own hands to keep Delita's clean. With the church's leadership in chaos, and with the White Lion's figureheads either slain or missing, what little opposition remained to him had no one they could rally behind. And, with Goltana dead, along with a man who could pass for Orlandu's twin, there was no one else to lead the Black Lion but Goltana's newest and dearest confidant...who, unknown to all, had been the culprit of the two murders.

Everything was going according to plan.

Everything was going according to plan.

And, he reflected as he gazed once more upon the city below him, his travails had certainly been quite climactic enough for the people who now entrusted him with their futures.

He could almost feel their admiring gazes upon him, and he remembered all too well how they had rallied to him seemingly within minutes after his arrival in Lesalia.

Anyone could make the promises he'd made, and some could even deliver on them. But, the true power lay in being able to convince the people that those promises were attainable, to see into their despairing hearts and discern what shaft of light would pierce the gloom, to intermingle just the right amount of the fantastical with the possible to leave the people fascinated with the implications of what he was offering, and, above all, to make them believe that he, and he alone, could make these wonders happen.

And, happen they did.

With a rapidity that astonished even himself, the dark days of poverty and hunger were giving way to bright dawns of prosperity. Once barren fields now yielded bumper crops. Schools for the children of the peasantry, once a notion as mythical as airships, were not only becoming a reality, but becoming commonplace. The demand for labor had allowed legions of Ivalicians to regain their livelihoods and, with them, their homes and their futures.

Everyone knew that it had been Delita had been the one to bring about this succession of miracles.

And, Delita would be taking certain pains to make sure they never, ever forgot.

That was why he had made certain that rebuilding the gates of Lesalia, which had always kept the real world away from this ensconced pearl of decadence, fell ever lower on the list of priorities for the rebuilding of the kingdom. It was also why he'd allowed the shanty towns to remain, for they reminded everyone of those darkest days...and of who had ended them.

They also reminded Delita that, not so very long ago, he had been huddled in such a shack with Teta, penniless and half-starved, and longing for a better life.

Now, for so many, those days of longing were done and the better lives they'd dreamed of were either at hand or drawing nearer with each passing day.

And all it had costed was the life of a queen, a few dukes, and a few clergymen - all of whom were likely to be killed by their own hubris and delusions of grandeur anyway - as well as the reputation of an old general who'd had his fill of war, and the name of a flaxen-haired Beoulve who, like Delita himself, had been quite eager to cut his own branch free of that tarnished family tree.

Delita hardly needed to be an entrepreneur to decide that that was a bargain.

Well, that is enough introspection for tonight, Delita mused, turning to reenter the castle. Now, there's one last bit of business to attend to.

As was his custom as he made his way through the halls of Lesalia Castle, Delita spared only a passing glance at the room's copious, if cunningly arranged, finery, instead focusing his attention on those whose paths he crossed. Man and maidservants, guards, cooks, servitors, and other humble folk who kept this mass of marble aglitter stopped, dropped what they were doing - sometimes literally - and bowed, curtsied, or saluted him as he passed. Whereas most of noble or royal blood would've ignored the gesture of respect, considering such as natural and as expected a reaction as the sky brightening as the sun rose, he favored them with a smile, a nod, and acknowledged them by name. For those he'd come to know more intimately since his arrival, he dovetailed the gesture by asking about how their families were doing, whether some tidbit of news which they'd been awaiting had arrived, or even such idle pleasantries as how this evening found them.

It was, he had to admit, a supremely paltry act, for he'd long since been accustomed to exchanging pleasantries with his fellows. However, such a simple act coming from one bearing the trappings of royalty had added yet another layer of mystique to Delita. Undoubtedly, tales of the king who deigned to make such a gesture to those reportedly as far below him as worms were below eagles would twist and turn their way all through the many tangled branches of Lesalian gossip.

After all, if clothes made the man, then such trappings made the exchange of idle pleasantries with those 'below' him transform from a gesture of common courtesy into something far deeper.

By hearing from those who had resided at the bottom of Ivalice's convoluted society, Delita remembered how, through all the myriad plots and counterplots he'd woven, just who he had been fighting for. By hearing that their lot in life had improved, he affirmed that the course he'd plotted to a throne that should've as far out of his reach as the moon had been the right one.

And, more to the point, it subtly reinforced Delita's unspoken and yet thunderous message that he was a different beast entirely from his predecessors and that, as he himself had said, this new era he was ushering in was for all Ivalicians, high and lowly alike.

All had some import in the new king's eyes, all had a role to play, and, more to the point, all could be made to serve Delita's ends.

After opining on the news of those castle inhabitants he knew well and learning the names of those he'd newly met on his short journey, the latter punctuated by a kindly chuckle in response to their stammering, he arrived at the office of his newly appointed chancellor.

Olan Durai, adopted son of the 'late' Count Cidolfas Orlandu.

That had been an irony that ranked right up there with Delita's routing of Zalbag, for there had been more than a few in Zeltennia who'd argued that Olan should share the supposed fate of his allegedly treasonous step-father. And, in the old Ivalice, the monarch thus petitioned would've lost no time obliging.

But, the old Ivalice was gone, and Delita sat benevolently in its place.

And, more to the point, despite being a witness to Delita's less-than-auspicious actions and the chancellor having little love for the new king, Olan had a sharp political mind which was simply too valuable an asset to discard casually.

Besides, Delita doubted Olan would object to his latest assignment, for it involved aiding one to whom both king and chancellor owed their very lives.

Bringing up one fist, Delita rapped at the door. It was well past midnight by then, and he didn't doubt that Olan would be within, wide awake and knowing of only one person would come to see him at this late hour.

"Come in!" a somewhat strained voice called out in reply.

Brushing off the less-than-joyous tone, Delita pulled open the door to Olan's office. Within, behind a stout oak desk, sat the former astrologer, now chancellor, who watched with unblinking eyes as the new King of Ivalice casually strolled in.

The barest flicker of disappointment flitted across Delita's mind at the wary and suspicious manner in which Olan regarded him, but it withered quickly. Nearly every reign in Ivalice was festooned with marriages of convenience, as many being figurative as literal, and Delita supposed he should count himself fortunate that he had but one advisor who nursed ill feelings towards him.

And, in fact, tonight might see even that change just as so much else had in Ivalice.

Standing up from his desk, but pointedly keeping the stout barrier between himself and Delita, Olan gave a perfunctory and overly stiff bow, taking care not to let his eyes stray from those of the king. "Good evening, Your Majesty. How may I be of service?"

Delita smiled briefly, finding the subtle frankness of Olan's gestures somewhat refreshing, before getting to the point. "Thank you, Olan. How are the documents coming along?"

"I'm actually done, just finished before you came in."

"Can you read them to me, please?" Though Delita knew better than to expect Olan to be enchanted by common courtesy dispensed from on high, he also knew that it was to his advantage to continue to ensure that his subjects liked and respected him as much in the future as they did now. Even though the chancellor was not likely to ever fawn over Delita as so many Ivalicians now did, the young king had found the novelty of Olan's continuing skepticism to be wearing thin and he had decided that it would be to his benefit if, at long last, Olan's subdued hostility was cooled.

Permanently.

"Of course, Sire," Olan replied, shaking Delita back to attention. "The first two documents are for the Beoulve siblings. "Drake Seymour, born year 980 in the village of Nibelheim to Galvin and Elizabeth Seymour. Served four years as a mercenary under Gofford Gaffgarion and two years under Blackram Commander, Baron Grimms. Appointed Duke of Lionel, year 1004, by His Royal Majesty, King Delita Hyral the First."

Even before Olan had finished reading, Delita was nodding his approval. Weakened though it was, Delita could not afford to provoke the Church of Glabados by openly pardoning one of the most infamous heretics of the last century. However, the part of Delita who still remembered his childhood friendship with the young Ramza, and even the Delita who had seen the more mature Ramza as the perfect decoy for his church overseers, found that the state of his onetime friend's uncertain and meager future had left a bad taste in his mouth.

So too, he was forced to admit, had Ramza's obvious displeasure towards the Delita who now sat upon the throne and the trail he'd blazed to reach it. Strangely, though the smoldering condemnation in Ramza's gaze had birthed more than a few sparks of the newly crowned king's ire, something had stopped Delita from simply turning away and leaving his old - and, perhaps, former - friend to his own devices. What it was, he could not say, but he had nonetheless resolved to put the broad powers of his kingship, and the even broader powers of his cunning mind, to work in finding some second chance for his old friend and his newfound family.

In truth, Delita could've achieved the same end with less effort and risk on his part, and he was sometimes perplexed by what had driven him to go to such lengths for Ramza and his friends. Perhaps it was a sense of loyalty to their old friendship. Or, maybe it had seemed a fitting tribute to one who had effectively lost his life in service of a land that reviled him with one voice. Or, possibly, Delita had felt there had been enough lives lost in the war and he'd wanted to give a few back.

Whatever the reason, whereas he could've just as easily let Ramza slip away to some foreign shore or simply had this lifeline delivered via one of the many proxies that populated his network of information, Delita had chosen to personally meet Ramza, alone, and offer the supposed heretic a new name and a new life.

Though he and Ramza had employed very different methods to bring about justice in Ivalice, their goals had ever been the same, and Delita could not suppress the desire to reward his old friend's remarkable courage.

After a moment of introspection, the king nodded his approval, and Olan went on to the second document.

"Catherine Seymour, born year 981 in the village of Nibelheim to Galvin and Elizabeth Seymour. Studied white magic at Jerome Monastery, graduated year 999. Appointed Duchess of Lionel, year 1004, by His Royal Majesty, King Delita Hyral the First."

Hearing Alma's new name had also driven home another reason he had kept Olan around, despite the man's subtle hostility. It had, after all, been Olan who had discovered that Ramza and Alma were alive following their reported deaths. Not much surprised Delita nowadays, but that Ramza had outlasted his myriad enemies and that Alma had survived her captivity at the hands of the Knights Templar had achieved that seemingly impossible feat. And, embarrassing though it was to admit, his notions of letting Ramza and the church continue their game of cat and mouse had withered when Ovelia learned of this news and entreated him to aid the fugitive Beoulves and their companions. So, their purposes finding unlikely alignment, Delita and Olan had joined their respective talents in order to find a way to help the remnants of the fallen House Beoulve.

Even after this had been done, the next task for the unlikely partners, whose number would soon include Ramza himself, yet lay ahead.

During one of the missives that had secretly passed from Ramza to his fellows, the disseminating and reporting of which being another joint venture with Olan, Delita had been informed of Alma's pregnancy and of Ramza's entreaty for help finding a husband for his sister. Ovelia had lost no time urging Delita to lend his aid and, in truth, Delita had chosen to do so even before hearing her entreaty. After all, as Teta had often told him, Alma had been very nearly his late sister's only friend as the farmer's daughter had tried vainly to find acceptance in a school meant for highborn ladies. Delita did not doubt for a moment that, had Teta lived, she would want Alma's kindness repaid in her hour of need.

Another part of Delita, however, had to acknowledge the simmering pleasure at the irony that Ramza - noblest of nobles, a knight and commander to match his father, and he who had been the last man standing when seemingly half the world had tried to kill him - was asking someone like Delita for help.

But, then again, Alma isn't the only Beoulve to be having children out of wedlock he mused, only barely suppressing a snicker at the incongruous image of Agrias Oaks, who would've looked perfectly ferocious had she not been nearly eight months pregnant and looked ready to burst out of her armor.

"Does this meet with your approval, Sire?" Olan asked after he had finished reading the documents he had forged for Ramza and Alma. "If there are any changes you want me to make, please let me know right away."

Delita could not help but notice that Olan's tone had shifted as he'd asked, the stiff and blandly polite quality of his voice giving way to a barely perceptible hint of eagerness, tempered by a trace of grudging admiration. And, it was not difficult to trace the source of this aberration in Olan's typical air of smothered disapproval. Though he had often found himself at odds with the new Ivalician king and his sometimes questionable methods, Delita could tell that Olan was forced to admit, if only to himself, that the new king's plan was ingenious. After all, what better way to protect the Beoulve siblings from the church than to have them hide in plain sight and right under the noses of the Ivalician people as the new Duke and Duchess of Lionel? As king, it was within Delita's power to simply give Ramza and Alma back their original home, but all parties involved in the deception had rejected the notion. And, in truth, Delita could not blame them. Even for him, an outsider amongst the once prestigious Beoulve family, Igros Castle was much too full of memories.

The carefree days of play with Ramza, Alma, and Teta, while all four had been living under the veil that shielded them from the encroachment of harsh truths that had later upended their lives.

Watching Balbanes Beoulve, his benefactor and a father he'd loved nearly as much as the one who'd given him life, waste away from an illness which, he'd learned belatedly, had been the handiwork of his unscrupulous eldest son.

Dueling with Ramza with wooden swords as they fantasized about becoming knights and serving a country which, unbeknownst to them, was all but rotten with corruption, and how they'd looked forward to upholding a chivalric code which few of its supposed adherents even gave lip service.

Teta greeting her brother, newly graduated with highest honors from the Gariland Royal Academy, so filled with delight and pride it was a wonder she didn't burst.

Was it nostalgia that had Delita's eyes threatening to mist at those recollections, or regret at the impending tragedies his naiveté had blinded him to? He did not know. But, regardless, they agreed further that it would have looked far too suspicious to have a young brother and sister the exact same age as the Beoulve siblings move into Igros, especially now that the castle also bore a stamp of infamy on the same order as Riovanes. Nobody wanted the home of an alleged heretic, especially with the discovery of mossfungus toadstools sprouting on Balbanes' grave and the supposed ill omen therein. Of course, enterprising outlaws could just as easily see the value of a deserted castle of such disrepute. Such a fortress would seem as a perfect warren of villainy and wickedness, had it not been taken by the crown.

Delita shook his head, as much to dispel the notion of a reunion with his would-be siblings in their onetime home of Igros as to convey that he found no fault in Olan's work. "No, that is perfect. Thank you, Olan. I'm glad you agree with my plan. And, I know Ovelia is too."

The chancellor nodded.

"I see. And, since you are satisfied with the Seymour records, would you like to hear the pardons I wrote for the others before you sign them?"

"Yes, please."

Since this was going to take some time, Delita pulled out a chair from across Olan's desk and gestured for him to proceed.

Setting aside the documents he had forged for the Beoulve siblings, Olan went on to read the official pardons he wrote up for the rest of Ramza's known companions, starting with the former Knight Templar, Beowulf Kadmus.

"I, King Delita Hyral the First, officially grant a full pardon to Beowulf Kadmus, former Captain of the Gryphon Knights of Lionel, expunging from him the brand of heresy placed upon him by Celebrant Bremondt Freitberg."

Olan paused and Delita nodded his approval, gesturing for him to read the rest of the pardons for Ramza's other known companions. The numerous eyes and ears of the church, more than a few of which Delita had later subverted, had told him quite a few tales about the motley crew Ramza had rallied to his seemingly doomed cause and, Delita had to admit, some of the tales had impressed him. Furthermore, he was uniquely aware that, even with the church weakened, the mark of heresy held with it a promise of death no less certain than imbibing the mossfungus with which Dycedarg had laced his late father's meals. Such a mark upon figures as his and Ramza's former classmates from the Hokuten Academy, as well as Agrias, Meliadoul, Mustadio, and Rad, as well as the Galthana and Murry twins, was enough to upend lives, turning the guilty and the innocent alike into pariahs who might find a blade waiting to pierce their heart lurking in every shadow.

Fortunately, Agrias and Ramza's other companions' alleged heresy was not nearly as well known as that of Ramza himself and, between the former Beoulve's propensity for leaving few if any witnesses and Delita having High Confessor Ryker leveraged to the hilt, it had been easy enough to sow the seeds of reasonable doubt with regard to the guilt of Ramza's fellow outcasts.

Ironically, the only person Delita could not pardon was Ramza himself. Even though he did not have to answer to the High Confessor - indeed, the reverse was closer to the truth these days - Delita was wise enough to know that he still needed the support of the church to maintain order in Ivalice. And, though he knew enough of the late Marcel's sinister secrets to keep his successor meek and compliant, even such a mouse of a man could be made to grow a spine and fight back if prodded too much. Expunging a few alleged heretics where proof of their guilt was scarce was one thing, but pardoning one of the most infamous heretics of the last century, feared and despised by nearly every Ivalician from Igros to Zeltennia, would be enough to unravel Delita's efforts to set Ivalice on a course towards a brighter future. Indeed, he feared that truly absolving Ramza of the false charges levied against him might not be possible in their lifetime. And, even if it was, it could take years or even decades.

An outright pardon would herald a new battle, while Ivalice was still battered and bleeding and which her people could ill afford. And, given the trust the people had in the church after decades of broken promises and abuses by the crown and the nobility, that battle was one Delita did not believe he could win.

At least, not yet.

In any case, giving the Beoulve siblings new identities and a new home was the best he could do under the circumstances. And, considering the alternatives and just what their names had brought them since Balbanes' passing, he doubted either 'Seymour' would object.

After Olan had read the rest of the pardons, he placed them on his desk. "If these meet with your approval, Sire, I will have them sent to you to sign in the morning."

"Yes, they are flawless. Thank you, Olan, that will be all."

With that, Delita rose and turned towards the door. However, he kept his stride short and his pace leisurely, pausing once or twice to brush away some imagined wrinkle in his stately garments.

Behind him, he could almost feel Olan's tense gaze boring into his back and the tension in his very sinew as the chancellor grappled with another of the myriad aftereffects of the War of the Lions...

...one which Delita had had a hand in, and which the new king yet had the power to undo.

At least, vicariously.

Giving a new life to a man supposedly dead was one of the few things genuinely beyond Delita's powers, since it would raise a whole host of awkward questions whose answers would imperil the new king's designs.

Altering just how that supposedly dead man was remembered, however, was a different matter.

Three... two... Delita silently counted down, very nearly able to hear Olan's tongue straining against the bonds of his mind.

"Sire!" Olan called out, a bit more forcefully than what was considered acceptable when addressing a king. "About...my request."

Through some feat of willpower, honed over this long and grim quest to the throne, Delita managed to keep either a smirk of vindication from crossing his features or a snicker from passing his lips.

"Ah, yes!" he intoned, snapping his fingers as though the matter had been buried under the detritus of a monarch's daily cares and he'd been struggling to unearth it.

Even if Olan wasn't likely to be fooled by the display, it served to shovel still more coal on the flames of the chancellor's eagerness to see his 'request' fulfilled.

"That is a matter of some...sensitivity," Delita warned, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "It would be best if it did not spread beyond these walls. So, let us...whisper."

Nodding grimly, and understanding the subtext underlying to quip, Olan readied a spell. As the garbled tongue of magic passed his lips and his gesticulating fingers traced runes in the air, the walls and floor of the room began to shimmer with a luminance remarkably akin to that of the moon which waxed in the dark skies above. This was a spell Delita was familiar with, for they'd made judicious use of it during their unlikely collaboration to aid Ramza and his friends. It was a ward which, simply put, rendered it impossible for any sound from within the room to escape.

Once the luminance had faded, save for the pale glow about Olan's hands, which signified that the ward was in place and would hold for the remainder of the night, Delita plucked the office's key from the desk and used it to lock the door from the inside.

Now, none from the outside would be able to hear their plans and, even if someone tried to enter for whatever reason, the door would not budge.

This meant that the king and the chancellor were now free to discuss unraveling one of the more sordid falsehoods of the War of the Lions.

Of course, it also meant that, if Delita choose this moment to rid himself of Olan and the threat posed by the chancellor's knowledge of the king's sordid deeds, then Olan would have no way to escape or to call for help.

Yet, though surely Olan knew this, and was more akin to a wizard and a politician than a knight, he was still a knight's son and raised by a man whose chivalry and bravery readily matched that of Balbanes himself. Olan saw Delita, knew what he was capable of and that he had effectively locked himself in the lion's den, but he was not afraid. Indeed, he squared his shoulders and leveled his gaze at Delita, not a trace of fear or even a hint of anxiety marring the stony features of a man who was a knight in all but name facing the capricious hand of fate with his head held high.

Considering just how much of Delita's sordid past Olan was privy to, the king found himself impressed by this quiet and yet resonating display of courage.

Impressed enough, in fact, to honor the chancellor's request.

"As you may know," he began, pointedly keeping his voice low despite the sound nullifying wards to convey the sensitivity of the information, "I have an understanding with High Confessor Ryker. In our dealings, I have found him to be very...amenable."

Unbecoming of his office it might be, but Delita could not blame Olan for the derisive snort with which he responded to this pronouncement. Indeed, Delita shared the sentiment. As old and infirm as Marcel had been, and for all his hypocrisy, he had at least been a capable leader and an accomplished tactician. He'd been an ambitious and devious man, unbending in his purpose and who'd come within an arm's length of his goal in turning clergymen into kings of the corrupt land of Ivalice. But, Ryker?

Delita and Olan had seen wet clay less malleable.

"I have...suggested," Delita continued, somehow keeping the corners of his mouth obediently flat at that phrase, "that he issues a statement, announcing that the documents presented to Goltana as evidence against your stepfather were forgeries."

Olan's stoic facade cracked a bit at this pronouncement, and Delita could not help a shiver of delight. Though the 'late' Count Orlandu was very much alive, and surely cared little for his name with his days drawing to a close, his being disgraced by false charges of treason had left a sour taste in Delita's mouth. He had fought alongside Orlandu in several skirmishes and, unlike many other generals on either side of the conflict, Orlandu respected those under his command, valued their lives, and disdained the act of throwing away lives in battles which could not be won. No less impressive, Orlandu's sharply worded assessment of the crumbling situation in Ivalice and his efforts to dissuade Goltana from his ruinous over taxation had shown him to be a man of insight and forethought amongst men who could see nothing beyond the scope of their own petty egos.

That, very likely, had influenced Marcel's orders for Delita to assassinate the count.

It simply would not do if Orlandu had managed to prevail upon the Duke of Zeltennia to treat to peace, and Orlandu had also been conducting his own investigation into the church and its designs. And so, that chivalrous knight had to be toppled.

To that end, Marcel had penned a most contrite missive to Goltana, claiming that he'd discovered a number of Orinias-aligned clergy had been conspiring with Orlandu to oust Goltana from his seat. This had cleared the way for Delita to assume command of the Nanten and take his place as Goltana's new right-hand man...and, eventually, his executioner.

Delita found himself wondering if he would've been able to execute Orlandu if the count had not been rescued by Ramza. Even if he could've bested Orlandu in battle - a prospect, he had to admit, seemed dubious - even contemplating the notion had left a sour taste in his mouth and he'd found killing Orlandu's docile lookalike far more palatable.

Although Orlandu was still alive and had apparently found some peaceful corner of the world to spend his final years, it did nothing to change the fact that he'd been effectively painted as a traitor to his liege lord, first by conspiring against him and then by killing him.

Olan had been disgusted by this turn and had even risked life and limb to clear his stepfather's name, not even quailing when he'd believed his efforts would soon be rewarded by the kiss of Delita's blade. Ovelia, who had heard Olan's tale and regarded Orlandu much like a favorite uncle, had pleaded with Delita to wipe away the false stain upon the count's honor.

And, once again, Delita found himself bowing before Ovelia's heartfelt entreaty.

Besides, as it turned out, the matter was simple enough to rectify.

Orlandu's name had been besmirched by Marcel's 'discovery' of documents accusing the count of treason against Goltana, but an official statement claiming that these had been forgeries would turn the narrative of Orlandu's death on its head. Soon, as was the wont of Lesalian gossip, this new revelation would be spread by thousands and thousands of mouths and be dissected by thousands and thousands of minds, as each and all pondered just how the story of Orlandu changed in light of this new discovery.

As for just how it would change, Delita could think of three likely possibilities.

First, Orlandu had broken out of his cell not to kill the duke but in to plead his case, fearful that only deception or madness could cause Goltana to take at face value an accusation of treason levied against one who'd served him faithfully for over twenty years. This peaceful overture, sadly, had tragically degenerated into violence and cost the lives of both men.

Second, Orlandu, in a fit of righteous anger at being thus insulted by a man who would've lost the war in a matter of weeks if not for Orlandu's leadership and the sacrifices of his troops, broke out of his cell to avenge this affront. The two former comrades had meet, drawn blades, and died following a duel of proportions that would likely grow grander with each telling.

And, third, Orlandu had realized that Goltana was deep in the throes of a madness which, if left unchecked, would run the Black Lion to ruin and the only way to prevent this was to kill Goltana and seize control of eastern Ivalice. Following an escape from the dungeon and a confrontation with Goltana, both of which likely to grow grander with each telling, the deranged duke had been slain, but the tragically heroic count had also died in his valiant effort to spare his people the yoke of Goltana's mad ambitions.

Delita was especially fond of that third possibility, for it appealed to the romantic in him and would likely do the same with the Ivalician people.

And, more to the point, it was the most conducive to his designs.

After all, what else could come next in the story than the peasant born knight who would later become king, discovering the aftereffects of Orlandu's ill-fated gallantry and, in equal parts humility and grief, vowing to honor the count's sacrifice through service to the people for whom he'd given his life.

Olan had surely been following a similar train of thought, for an expected flicker of displeasure crossed his face before giving way to the relief that, given time for the new tale to spread, his stepfather would be remembered as the man of honor he had always been.

And, though Delita once more had to force away any illicit curve of his lip, he also knew that this act would secure Olan's obedience.

Even for a knight's son who was more a wizard and politician, a debt of honor was no less binding than the roots which anchored the mountains into the earth.

With obvious reluctance, Olan bowed once more, less stiffly this time, and Delita knew the gesture to be one of sincere obeisance before the power which would right his stepfather's tarnished legacy just as surely as it would right Ivalice's future.

"Thank you, Sire," Olan intoned, more than a hint of relief seeping into the formal intonation.

"Not at all," Delita replied in a magnanimous tone. "If anything, I should be thanking you for aiding in my plans. I know all too well that you...disapprove of what I've done in order to secure my throne."

"That is true, Sire," Olan replied, though Delita took this admission without so much blinking. "But, if I've learned anything from my time with Goltana, it's that sometimes the best option is the one you dislike the least. Even if my father and I disapprove of what you've done, I can only hope that he, and Ramza and his friends, will rest a bit easier knowing I'm here to keep you honest."

Despite what some might consider to be a veiled threat lurking behind those frank words, Delita gave only a nod of understanding. Indeed, he welcomed Olan's forthrightness and how the former astrologer was resistant enough to Delita's capacity to be charming or frightening as need dictated, as well as how having an ally within the castle walls could help mollify the lingering suspicion Ramza and his friends held towards the new king.

If some occasional harsh words were the price of undiluted counsel and a line of secure communication between Delita and the friends he hoped to win back, then it was a bargain.

"We may not always agree," Olan admitted, and both men were aware of the sheer breadth and depth of the understatement, "but I feel we can still work well together and, I believe we must, for the people's sake as well as the Beoulves."

"Indeed," Delita affirmed, "I will send my...suggestion to Ryker first thing in the morning. For now, I must take my leave of you. The queen is waiting for me."

The chancellor bowed once more to his king. "Good night then, Your Majesty. And…thank you again."

"You're welcome," Delita replied simply as he unlocked the door, returned the key and strode out of the room. "Have a good night, Olan."

"And you as well, Sire."

Once the door was securely shut, Delita allowed his iron resolve to rest and his lips mutinously curved upwards into a broad smirk of vindication.

One of his more recent revelations, and one of the few bits of wisdom worth harvesting from the late Duke Goltana, was that there was a grand difference between an advisor and a sycophant. A dozen of the latter could be bought with but one gil, whereas a true advisor, one who was unafraid to speak his or her mind when a monarch was poised to act upon some ill-considered notion, was worth half a royal treasury.

Olan was, if anything, even more valuable than that.

However, the subtle hostility of the former astrologer had worn thin of late, and Delita had found himself wondering if having any man privy to so many of the new king's secrets was too great a risk to his designs. Though Delita had identified many such people during his quest for the throne, and had dealt with them accordingly, the besmirching of Orlandu and the possible need to eliminate Olan had been amongst the few which truly sat ill upon his shoulders and, surprising himself in the act, he had decided to rectify the situation.

Though leveraging High Confessor Ryker into making a statement which would cast doubt on Orlandu's seeming guilt was a simple enough matter, it posed considerable risks. What if this prodding induced the meek clergyman to grow a spine and actively fight the new king? For that matter, what if word of this manipulation somehow got out and people began to wonder just why their king was pressuring their church to rewrite the story of Orlandu's death? And, on top of all that, there was the possibility that Olan, and Ramza and company, would be unimpressed by the gesture and they would be as leery and suspicious of Delita as ever they were.

Yet, the subtle shift in Olan's stance and tone had been as much a giveaway as if he'd fallen to his knees and begun sobbing in happiness.

Olan would very soon have his stepfather's guilt called into question and, perhaps not long after, his stepfather's name would be cleared.

This, in turn, meant that Olan now owed Delita a debt of honor and, with it, firm obedience to the new king's aims to make sure Ivalice became a land where the tragedy of Teta - and, by extension, Orlandu, Ramza, and their fellow outcasts - would never happen again. Ramza and his friends, in turn, would also owe Delita the chance to prove his word and his worth in fulfilling that promise and all the others he'd made when he first arrived in this once tarnished city of splendors.

He had given his word, and he was looking forward to keeping it.

There was something wonderfully...refreshing about it.

SSSSSS

After he had left Olan, Delita made his way towards the royal apartments, a collection of luxurious chambers used all but exclusively by the royal family, their relations, and personal guests. Situated at the uppermost levels of the castle and festooned with half a dozen balconies from which past monarchs would wave down at the populace - and, Delita considered with equal parts amusement and derision, both parties had to squint to even see each other - they offered a view of Lesalia and the surrounding countryside that could impress even the stoic young king.

But, he still preferred to gaze upon his newfound realm from the most intimate perspective offered by his customary place on the battlements, for he was keenly aware of the difference between viewing and truly seeing.

After all, the former power brokers of Ivalice had viewed much. The fallow fields, the empty markets, the endless line of dead bodies returning from the front, the seething masses of humanity fleeing the war, and the humble Blackram Knight who'd stood faithfully and humbly alongside his liege lord...

...all of them viewed much, their eyes so dazzled by their hunger for glory and power that they saw nothing, especially not the humble son of poor farmers who would topple them.

Delita, by contrast, saw everything. And, when he gazed down at the populace from the comparatively humble perch of the battlements, he saw each and every Ivalician that smiled up at him just as surely as he smiled in reply, honored and humbled by their adulation...

...and watching for any whose cheers seemed a bit too subdued or their postures a mite too tense.

Delita knew all too well how people could be beguiled by a sibilant tongue and some cunning words, for he had been on both ends of that particular blade.

And, whereas past rulers had simply viewed the crowds who assembled before them with eyes either alight with false pride when the crowds were docile but silently seething, or with incredulity and incomprehension at their anger, he saw clearly those who assembled before him in gratitude for guiding Ivalice in a new direction, just as surely as he let them see that he would always be there to watch over them...

...and to spy out any potential troublemakers in their midst.

But, the notion of sizing up a crowd and picking out any false well-wishers had vanished from his mind just as the sun had vanished beneath the horizon. And, in this chamber at this moment, there was only one he wanted to view or see. And, the anticipation of seeing his queen was enough to allow his still young heart to slip its leash and thunder against his ribs. Arriving at the door, an ornate affair with lengths of gold that wriggled and twisted in intricate patterns, he gently rapped upon it with his knuckles.

"Ovelia, may I come in?" he asked, unable to keep a playful undertone from his voice.

"Yes, of course, my king," his wife answered from the other side, though her voice was slightly muffled and Delita could not help but notice that his playful undertone had not been reciprocated.

His brow furrowed for a moment at this, but then he waved it aside. He was uniquely aware of just how much Ovelia had on her mind.

Such as, for instance, how she might not be Ovelia at all.

Granted, Delita had never been able to confirm Vormav's claims that the true Princess Ovelia was long dead and that the girl he'd spirited away from Orbonne Monastery was merely a double, but it hadn't taken long for Delita to realize that Ovelia herself believed the late Templar's claims and that she'd been shocked to her very core.

And, that was before her rather spectacular breakdown in the ruins of the Zeltennia church.

He had chanced upon her as she huddled within the rubble of her oasis from the ever deepening horrors of the war and the 'protection' of Duke Goltana, and, in an ill-considered attempt at levity, he'd given a mocking bow and several teasing honorifics.

It still surprised him how her outburst, and the misery which had burst forth from her lips after, had shaken him.

In fact, as the implications of Vormav's claims continued to tease at the back of his mind, he could not help but be reminded of Teta. His beloved sister, not unlike Ovelia, had unexpectedly found herself spirited across the gulf that separated the high and the lowly in Ivalice and, the kindness of Balbanes Beoulve and his younger children notwithstanding, she'd found little welcome on the far side. In some of her letters, probably the only thing that had kept Delita sane amidst the relentless scorn he'd received at the Gariland Royal Academy, she'd even confessed that, as grateful as she was to Balbanes and as much as she loved Alma, she still felt like an outcast in her new home and missed the humble farm of their birth.

Ovelia's story, if anything, had struck even closer to the bone. After all, even if they have nothing else, an outcast still had the memory of where they came from and what they'd left behind.

Ovelia didn't even have that much.

This, the young king had to admit, had caused him to regard her as the perfect pawn. Sequestered almost since birth at one monastery or another, she had been woefully ignorant of the world she'd only seen framed in the stark stone windows, and her only companions in that lonely fastness of prayer and contemplation had been Father Simon and the other monks, all of whom had about as much malice or deceit in them as a terrier. Between this long isolation and her naiveté, not to mention how Vormav's claim had left her questioning her entire life, she was confused, angry, lonely, vulnerable, and desperate for someone she could trust and who could lend an ear to her sorrows.

She was, in a word, susceptible.

That susceptibility, and how it could make this mewling pawn of other men into the queen on the chessboard of his ambitions, had done much to inspire the impassioned speech he'd given about rewriting the cruel truths of the world and bringing about a kingdom worthy of her. A platitude it might've been at the time, but, as he considered how such a world might've seen Teta still alive and at his side, as well as the countless, nameless others who'd have also been spared much suffering in such a world, he found himself seduced by his own designs...

...though, ultimately, Ovelia herself seduced him far more deeply.

She was an incredibly beautiful woman, possessed of such a kindness as he'd once believed had died with Teta, and her melodious voice had haunted his thoughts even when she was screaming at him to unhand her on that rainy night at Orbonne so long ago.

Even after Delita had realized that he was becoming more and more enchanted by the gentle woman, and realizing that such might give him a vulnerability his designs could ill afford, he also realized that her conquest of his heart was a thing swift and certain.

Now, he'd not only wanted to create the world he'd spoken of to Ovelia, he'd wanted her to be at his side through the labors, the tribulations, and the triumphs of creating that world.

And so, seemingly a heartbeat after the signing of the treaty which ended the War of the Lions at long last, he had taken a knee and asked for her hand.

After dispelling a rather lurid recollection of their wedding night, he shouldered his way through the door, recalling the image of her at her coronation and reflecting that she'd looked every inch the queen she was. He had no doubt that her radiance was no less a sight to behold now.

Assuming, of course, I can actually see her in this blasted menagerie, he mused, the barest hint of frustration intruding upon his fountaining desire.

The royal bedchamber, reportedly the very place of Ovelia's birth as well as that of several of her supposed forefathers, had always occupied the pinnacle of decadence in the bejeweled crown that was Lesalia Castle, adorned with the finest ornamentation of every description. Purveyors of pelts, portraits, ornamental suits of armor, furnishings, tapestries, paintings, sculptures, ornamental weapons, vases, flowering plants, golden and gilded ornamentation, and every other beauteous trifle considered it a mark of pride that would have them smiling unto the grave if one of their pieces was considered worthy of a place in this chamber, and it had been testing the thin line between heart-stopping magnificence and stomach turning excess even at the best of times.

Yet, not long after Ovelia had moved in, she had taken the already lavish chamber and transformed it into a masterpiece of confusion.

Where once the various decorations had been nearing the point of excess, albeit cunningly arranged as to bedazzle rather than repulse, so many new sculptures, freestanding paintings, pedestals holding aloft flowering plants, and even tapestries hanging from the rafters rather than the walls had found their way into the chamber that it seemed more akin to a forest of profligacy, so thick that it was literally impossible to travel from one end of the room to the other in a perfectly straight line.

I don't envy whoever's has to dust all this... Delita snickered, a smirk forcing away what otherwise might've become a disdainful curl of the lip.

A great many people deserved Delita's disdain, and many of them had discovered just how deadly it was to raise his ire, but he would never show even a hint of that to his beloved queen.

And, if growing up amidst the stark and colorless stone of monasteries had given her a desire to witness and experience all the beautiful and the colorful things she'd been deprived of by her un-chosen life of poverty and piety, then he'd happily let her turn the entire tower into her personal gallery.

I might have to if she keeps this up... he mused with self-deprecating humor as he brushed aside a tapestry hanging in the middle of the room and narrowly avoided getting it caught on a halberd held in the iron grip of an ornamental suit of armor.

Eventually, he managed to wade through the menagerie and, as he had expected, found his wife and queen standing on the balcony, the doors linking the stone perch to their chambers thrown open to admit the cool evening air. Her back was to him as he approached, her gaze fixed upon the stars as whisperings which escaped his ears passed her lips.

Another prayer for those for whom a better life after war's end still proved elusive, he supposed. Again, it was no surprise, for she had been in the proverbial thick of it when he'd arrived in Lesalia, lending her healing magic to the wounded and offering what comforts she could to those who were in their final hours when Delita had arrived. The young king had found it truly remarkable that, for all her troubles, not one of her many prayers were for herself, but always for the wounded, the lonely, the outcasts, and the poor in spirit.

Not so long ago, she had qualified as all four; but Delita would ensure that she never suffered such anguish again.

Her kingdom, their kingdom, was coming to life before their eyes and, given time, it, and she, would outshine the sun.

Everything was going according to plan.

Taking off his red robe and somehow managing to toss it on the bed without knocking over a dozen or so intervening ornaments, the new king quietly approached and embraced his lovely young wife from behind.

"It's done," he said. "I have made the proper arrangements to protect Ramza, Alma, and their friends."

It might've been Delita's imagination, but he could've sworn that her whisperings, though still unintelligible, had begun to tumble from her lips much more rapidly. But, again, he waved away the oddity for, as he gently turned her to face him, his senses were overwhelmed by the sensation of her breasts swelling against his chest.

"I know…," Ovelia said quietly, and Delita could not help but notice the sag in her slender shoulders.

"My love, what is wrong?" Delita asked, his customary reserve nearly undone by her apparent displeasure.

"It's just...," Ovelia trailed off, and Delita could swear he'd drawn in a breath and held it as he awaited her word. "I don't understand why you did not just simply pardon Ramza. You told me you can leverage the new High Confessor into claiming that the documents implicating Count Orlandu were forgeries."

"And, so I shall. In fact, I just spoke to Olan and we have agreed to put that plan into action tomorrow."

A smile, but one lacking its customary luster, tugged at the corners of Ovelia's mouth, causing Delita's mouth to compress into a thin grim line as perplexity threatened to lay low his previously high spirits. Something was wrong, that much was obvious, but just what that might be proved elusive.

Ovelia's would-be jailers, the duke and queen who'd sought her death as well as the duke and high confessor who'd sought to put her on the throne as their puppet, were all dead. Orinias, her only true rival for the throne had vanished. The years of war, hunger, poverty, and chaos in Ivalice had ended and were giving way to a dawn of peace and prosperity. Lowborn children - amongst whom Ovelia herself might very well be counted - now had the previously unheard-of chance to learn to read, write, work numbers, and other skills that would allow them to escape their once nigh-predetermined destinies of impoverished drudgery. His brokering of settlements between those displaced by the war and those who'd suffered from the arrival of the huddled masses on already overcrowded shores had brought about reconciliation where once there'd been only violence. He had even undertaken a potentially hazardous gamble simply to exonerate several people she loved and who'd been falsely accused of heresy and treason, not to mention helping to find a husband for a friend of hers who'd fallen pregnant out of wedlock.

He had done this for her. He had done all of this for her! Everything he had done had been for her!

What lacked?

"If you could force the High Confessor to recant a statement from his own office, and issue pardons for so many alleged accomplices of a heretic, then why not pardon the heretic himself?" Ovelia asked, her words taking on a note of unadulterated pleading. "Why not do that instead of setting up a façade for him as the new Duke of Lionel, and with Alma as Duchess? For that matter, why maintain the illusion that Alma is dead? It's no secret that coffin under her grave is empty."

Delita sighed. He would've happily traveled to Ordalia armed with no more than his disarming smile or ransacked the Burgosa Sea for pearls if she had but asked him. Yet, she had to beg the one thing that truly lay beyond his power...

...at least, for the moment.

"My love, if it was that easy, I would have already done it," he admitted, his gaze drifting away from hers. "Leveraging Ryker was a simple enough matter; a lame goblin who'd been dropped on its head one too many times in infancy would have proven a stouter foe. And besides, Marcel was a man whose word most would simply take as gospel."

Given that what remained of Ovelia's tattered faith had been one of the few pillars that kept her standing following Vormav's revealing her supposedly fraudulent bloodline, Delita instantly regretted his irreverent choice of words even before he saw her eyes narrow into daggers.

"Forgive me, I spoke thoughtlessly. But, as I was saying, Marcel was overconfident in the weight of his words and took little pains to fabricate evidence of Orlandu's guilt. I need only pressure Ryker to 'discover' some inconsistencies as he took stock of his new office and its affairs. What's more, few reliable witnesses can, or will, testify to the guilt of Agrias and Ramza's other companions. Ramza, sadly, is another story entirely. His alleged crimes are simply too well known, and you know how badly his reputation has been tarnished. Even I can only do so much to help him, and it might be a long time before that changes. Yes, I can leverage Ryker to make him cooperate with us, but it would not do if I pushed him too far and he, or his successor, grew a spine and decided to oppose us. Even if we came away victorious from such a schism, it would be a grave setback to everything we've achieved and plan to achieve in the future. What's more, news of Alma's being taken in for 'questioning' at Riovanes has leaked out, and no one sincerely believes she could've survived the Horror. Her turning up, unharmed, would raise too many awkward questions."

This was the truth, for Delita had already explored all other options that were open to him or likely to be in the near future, and none could see Ramza getting his old life back soon, if ever. But, that did not stop Ovelia's eyes from misting, nor did it still the strangely incongruous wringing of her hands. His already wavering spirits beginning to sink, and his patience taxed by this cool response to his carefully executed labors, Delita, in an uncharacteristic show of rashness, grasped both of her shoulders.

Ovelia stiffened in his grip, a gasp tearing free of her mouth and her eyes going wide.

Delita's hands sprung away as if the pure alabaster of her skin had burned them.

The new king regarded his new queen for a long moment, the perplexity which had been swirling between his ears threatening to build into a full-fledged storm. With an effort, he told himself that Ovelia was merely overwrought from all that had happened and she'd merely been startled by his boldness...

...except, he remembered taking far greater liberties with her without such a reaction.

When he'd feigned being severely inebriated so that they might adjourn to their wedding bed all the sooner, her incredulity at tricking their guests in such a manner had been decidedly short-lived.

"Don't you think having him and his sister living under new identities is better than them having to flee to a foreign land, and having to live in hiding for the rest of their lives?" he asked rhetorically, struggling to regain his mental equilibrium, and he could see Ovelia's brow furrow as she weighed that prospect. "Even if they found a quiet corner on some foreign shore, would you wish for them to live as outcasts, always having to hide their identities and cut off from what few friends they have left? More to the point, would you want Alma's child to live like that? Always alone, and with all the wonders of the wide world so tantalizingly close and yet so far away? At least this way, they can stay in Ivalice and live in peace, right under the people's noses. And besides, don't you want to see Alma again? You did say you two were very close and you haven't seen her in such a long time. "

The queen's expression turned pensive as she mulled over what he had said, in particular how the bleak image he'd painted echoed her own life of solitude and isolation prior to their less-than-auspicious meeting. After a long pause, she gave a resigned nod of assent.

"Perhaps you are right," she admitted, so softly that he barely heard her.

"Believe me, I like this no more than you," he replied, a heavy sigh coming unbidden at the depth and breadth those few, small words could not hope to encompass. "But, at least this will give Alma a chance to find a husband to help raise her child. And, I don't doubt for a moment that you want to see Agrias again, and meet her and Ramza's child as well."

This, finally, brought a bell-clear laugh to Ovelia's lips and, as surely as if he'd discovered an oasis after being lost for days in the Zeklaus Desert, he drank deeply of that sound and felt his spirits rising once more.

"Indeed," Ovelia snickered, smiling at long last. "I still can't believe she and Ramza fell in love. Oh, I suspected he liked her; you should've seen the way his gaze always lingered on her when he thought no one was looking. But, I never would've imagined her liking him back. She was always very kind to me, but so distant with everyone else. It does my heart good to think how she must've changed since then."

"I still don't understand how you didn't notice she was with child when she visited you in Zeltennia," Delita quipped, unable to bite back a burst of hearty laughter. "With the way she looked, I half expected her to be carrying twins. Maybe triplets."

"Well, maybe I did notice how much she was showing. But, unlike some people, I considered it poor form to point it out."

Given how rare a sight a pregnant woman would be in the remote monasteries where Ovelia had spent her childhood, Delita had certain doubts; but he refrained from voicing them. Still, he could sense that his words had eased his wife's concerns, at least for a time. Come morning, some new matter might arise to intrude upon their bliss, forcing still more sacrifices for them to make upon the altar of duty as they tended to the country and the people whom both hoped to guide to a better future.

But, for now, Delita was eager to put what hours he had alone with his wife to good use.

"I am glad you understand," he intoned, his voice turning husky with desire. "And, even if I can't exonerate Ramza now, maybe I'll find a way in the future. Please, just trust me."

Delita knew his grasp on Ramza's trust was fragile, and he had been more than a bit shaken at the venom in Ramza's words and the strange desperation with which Delita had pled his case to his old friend.

Even the notion of similar venom passing Ovelia's lips was enough to make his heart lurch.

Ovelia nodded as she turned to her husband. "I do," she replied, though her voice wavered slightly. "And, you're right. I understand if this is truly the best you can do for them."

"That might yet change," Delita affirmed, surprised at the feeling of relief which accompanied his words. "But, that's a matter for tomorrow. Right now, my mind's on tonight."

If his husky undertone hadn't been enough of a hint, the naked desire in his eyes certainly had. Looking for all the world more like a shy maiden than a queen, Ovelia gulped audibly, her cheeks turning scarlet as Delita, his breath going short and hard, began to tug at the yards of fabric that enshrouded her form. His mind clouding with desire, he found the intricate laces and straps too confounding and had been ready to tear them off. The ever-burning flame of his hunger for revenge against his would-be puppet masters and the ecstasy of watching their lives crash down around them had become a pale flame compared to the conflagration of passion that roared to life as his recollection of the first time they'd made love came back to him.

Though it might tarnish his image if it became widely known, Ramza and Alma were not the only ones to have bedded their respective loves without observing the ceremonies first.

Not long after he'd made his vow to build Ovelia's kingdom, and when he'd realized that his fascination with her was becoming an obsession which sent his heart racing and set his blood afire, he'd found himself passing a restless night spent contemplating how to coax a certain angel into his bed.

He had hoped a walk might cool his desire enough that he could get some sleep and, by a most ironic whimsy of fate, he'd collided with the very woman whose maidenhood he'd come to covet more than the crown.

He honestly had no idea which of them had initiated the kiss, but it hardly mattered. He desired her, she tempted him, and the pair promptly ducked into his chambers and cast sleepwear and propriety alike to the wind.

He remembered how she had nearly stopped his heart when she had surprised them both with her stroking him near to a frenzy, how her breasts had swelled and firmed under his caress, the flood of need welling up in both of them as his tongue probed the inside of her mouth. He remembered further how she had opened her body and heart to him, offered him her soul, and how his name had thundered between their melded lips as their lovemaking had reached the crest of passion and then erupted into uncontrollable ecstasy.

Belatedly, he realized that that night was not repeating itself.

In fact, the opposite was closer to the truth.

Though he eventually got one hand past the damnable web of threads and found the supple mounds, the gasping which parted his wife's lips sounded far removed from those she'd rasped out when they'd copulated in the past. What's more, Ovelia seemed to pull away from his furtive kisses too soon, sometimes even before his tongue could lance across the threshold of their melded lips. She did not purr at his touch, but instead flinched and started as if being probed with needles. Frustration threatening to supplant his desire, he drew her in to trace a line of kisses up and down her slender neck and collarbone, only for her to suddenly bring up one hand and shove him back, nearly sending him sprawling.

Delita let out a snarl, desire and anger alike flaring in his breast, but one look at his wife brought him up short.

Partially disrobed and breathing hard, harried and struggling to protect her modesty, he saw nothing he had not seen the first time they had made love in Zeltennia Castle.

What he did not see then, but which he saw now, was the fear in her eyes.

His desire cooling as if a pail of frigid water had been tipped over his head, he recoiled at the dread in her wide eyes, bewildered.

This was not the first time they'd made love. In fact, by the time they were married, their dalliance in Zeltennia Castle had been repeated several times. And, each time, he had gazed into those sky blue orbs and seen the seeds of trust and affection budding and then flowering as he, and he alone, saw past the trappings of her supposed lineage and saw the lonely vulnerable woman underneath and offered companionship rather than blind obeisance.

She had once feared him - after all, they'd met when he'd abducted her against her will - and Delita had made no secret that he could be deadly when provoked.

Yet, he'd only used his sword and skill to protect her and their shared dream. He had used both to beguile those who would threaten them into his traps and then pass sentence for their long misrule and the suffering they'd caused. He had schemed, plotted, lied, and killed for her.

And, before that thought had even been completed, he realized that he'd had his answer.

Ovelia knew what he had done.

And, in a moment of horrifying clarity, so did Delita.

After the flames of Zeikden had burned away the adopted son of Balbanes Beoulve, Delita's path towards revenge had, inevitably, led him to courses of action which, before his former life had vanished in that explosion, he would've abhorred. And, as he had watched Sir Avelyn Wells unwittingly sign his own death warrant with his loose tongue, and realized what was in the offing, Delita had coolly weighed the value of the man's life against what he sought to achieve by toppling the order of Ivalice which had caused Teta's death.

It had been no contest.

And, that had become a matter of course on the trail he'd blazed to the throne. What's more, Sir Avelyn had not been the first good man whose demise Delita had deemed a necessary sacrifice and allowed to happen.

There had been many. In fact, there had been so very many.

Striking Goltana outright, though tempting, would have been suicidal. So, he had allowed the delusional duke to raise taxes to ruinous heights and bleed his people dry, uprooting lives and ending others, so that the grave Goltana was unwittingly digging himself into would be deep enough.

And, sure enough, there'd not been one earnest tear after he'd run the duke through and toppled him into that chasm of ignominy he'd dug for himself.

At times, the knowledge that people were being bled dry of coin and starving in the interim had troubled him, but he had told himself time and again that such was for the greater good and that those who'd died would rest easier knowing their blood purchased a better future for those left behind. And, eventually, he had made himself believe it.

This belief had been the cornerstone of his success, and it had enabled him to bring down Duke Goltana and end his long misrule and, later, to set a better one in its place...

...but, it had also enabled him to betray Orlandu, a man he had respected and admired, by framing him for a crime he did not commit. It had enabled him to dangle Ramza, a man to whom he'd professed to be a friend, before the jaws of the church as well as White and Black Lion alike. It had enabled him to coerce service from Olan, a man whom Delita considered a man of honor as well as an advisor of priceless wisdom and inestimable worth. And, it had enabled him to turn a blind eye to the thousands of sons and daughters Goltana had sent to their deaths and the many others who'd starved under his heel while Delita had stood idly by and waited for his unknowing rival to dig himself a deep enough grave.

Delita found his vision swimming as the wall he'd built, separating his emotions from the gruesome reality of what he'd done, suddenly shuddered, buckled, and then came crashing down.

As if the barrier which had held in abeyance the infinite nightmares of the dark hours had crumbled with it, his vision began to blur as strange sights and sounds boiled forth from some previously unknown abscess in his heart. They came at him, stinging like dragonflies and then flitting away as more soared in to renew the assault.

There was a jumble of voices, some he knew and many he did not, echoing through his head as he vainly clapped his hands over his ears. Their words were barely intelligible, but their tones said more than enough.

There was accusation, condemnation, and mockeries directed at the greater good he had used to rationalize his actions.

Some phrases, which carried the voice of Algus, the Limberry noble he'd killed for shooting Teta dead so long ago, stood out from the rest. With all the derision he'd possessed in life, the disgraced Limberry noble had asked just what truly separated them.

And, Delita was left struggling for an answer.

Algus may have been a cold-blooded bastard, callous towards all he saw as his inferiors, but his many effronteries had been against strangers who would not have given a second thought to killing him.

Delita, by contrast, had visited some of his most egregious acts upon people he had known, even people he'd professed to care for. No less horrible, he had known that Goltana's people were starving under his misrule and had never used the duke's growing reliance upon him to curtail the madness.

Instead, he had allowed those thousands upon thousands of lives to be casually discarded like so many pawns on a chessboard...

...not unlike those he had conspired with and against as he ascended to the throne after leaving such carnage in his wake.

And, more than the killing was the harm to the living, which a phantasmal voice eerily like Zalbag's promptly lost no time enumerating.

Apart from framing Orlandu, he had time and again dangled Ramza before the jaws of the worst of church and state alike. And, though the pair had never been enemies, and had even done battle alongside one another during the war, the aid he'd offered had been scant. No less troubling, a hundred alternatives to how he'd dealt with his onetime friend suddenly flared to life before his mind's eye.

Would it have been the better course if he'd joined Ramza's cause outright, or convinced Ramza to join his? Could he have used the boot heel he had firmly pressed on Ryker's throat to grant Ovelia's wish and see Ramza exonerated after all? Could he have used his vast skills in trickery to create the illusion that Ramza was, in fact, dead, so that the 'Seymours' could have a bit more peace of mind?

Might he have done more for Ramza than allow the supposed heretic to soil his hands so that Delita's were kept clean?

As if in defiance of his musing, he spied his hands and saw them drenched in sticky crimson.

Delita was stunned. Stunned with horror, stunned with revulsion, stunned with disbelief.

It was supposed to be over and done with. The blood that was shed, the lies that had been uttered, the lives that had been upended, all of it was supposed to have brought into being Ovelia's kingdom. A kingdom she had wanted to build with him, one where their miseries would never be visited upon others, where the trampling of the poor would be reduced to yet another ugly chapter in long ago histories, where every life had value, and where birth or wealth no longer determined one's fate from cradle to grave.

A kingdom made all the richer by their love.

Everything was going according to plan!

Yet, as he recalled Ovelia's odd behavior and the cacophony of realization continued, he realized that even their love had not gone unsoiled.

She had seen the treachery and blood that he'd used as the stones and mortar with which to build their kingdom. She had heard him admit to Goltana's murder, even gloat about the deed. She had heard him admit that he would use aught and all to build his legend.

His legend.

Had she wondered if, like Goltana, she too would meet an untimely end once she was no longer useful to him?

Was she in the thick of the mass of the hungry and the poor because or her generous spirit, or so that he'd have all those bodies to wade through and all those witnesses to spy him if he did the bloody deed? Had this sudden obsession with filling their chamber with profligacy been her developing a taste for lavishness, or had she been planting a forest of sorts in which she could evade him once he discarded the pretenses in favor of the blade?

Had she been praying for those whose fortunes were yet meager, or for protection against him?

Part of him, the part that had come to view Ovelia as a kindred spirit in a cruel world, who had first lusted after her and then found himself unable to contemplate living without her, railed against the notion with terrific fervor...

...but, another part of him had very different sentiments.

It was the part of him that had turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to the defeated Algus's pleas for mercy and wrung his defenseless foe's neck. It was the part of him that had reveled in the expression on Goltana's face as the duke slid off of Delita's blade. It was the part of him that had dubbed all those nameless misfortunate people who'd died under Goltana's misrule as necessary casualties in his personal war and, eventually, grew numb to their plight.

It was the part of him that flagrantly admitted that he would not consider killing Ramza too high a price to pay in order to realize his ambitions.

That voice, that cold implacable voice that had spoken that same ominous warning to Ramza in Zeltennia, that had chided Olan and Ovelia when they lambasted his deeds, and which he'd used to tell himself that such a design as his, and the greater good it would accomplish, served amply to justify whatever means he deemed necessary.

That same voice now asked him if Ovelia's continued presence might become a threat to that greater good.

Unconfirmed it might be, but Vormav's claims that she was an unknowing fraud masquerading as a princess long dead were certainly plausible, and might even jeopardize his kingdom.

His kingdom.

Between the likelihood that she would not be able to still her tongue, and that his scattered and broken enemies might rise again if armed with even a drop of her knowledge of him, the cold voice suggested that it was time for yet another member of the royal family to meet with tragic misfortune.

And, with all this rubbish about, he had both a weapon and a plausible explanation near to hand. It was a story that very nearly wrote itself: the queen had been overzealous in amassing her menagerie of beauteous trifles and one of the heavier pieces had toppled over and caved in her skull.

A firm grip on one of the smaller sculptures, compact but built of marble solid enough to dent iron, and one solid swing would...

What am I saying?! he silently screamed, his lungs seizing up so violently that the world wavered and began to darken.

Blinded by horror at the end result of the tragedy he had wrought, at what he had become, how he had eclipsed the cruelties of Ruvelia, Larg, Goltana, and Marcel all, and how, in building his legend, he had instead authored a horror story, his vision turned inward and went dark.

He neither felt his feet give way beneath him, nor heard the clatter as he collided with some trifle or another on the way down.

He did not see Ovelia's still wringing hands draw forth the same dagger Agrias had given her, nor did he see her return it to the soft darkness of her sleeve after a moment's hesitation.

All he saw, all he heard, and all he knew was a question, implacable and unanswerable and yet inescapable, that thundered through his mind.

His war against the rule of the highborn which had cost Teta her life had been won...

...but, had he paid the price with his soul?

A/N: This chapter has turned out longer then I thought. Thank you for your patience. Once again, I'd like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for making this fic possible. :)